The Secret Duke (37 page)

She would find a way to be truly free.

Resolved, she put on her nightgown, extinguished the candles, and went to bed.

 

As Thorn drove toward his house he resumed his ducal status as if putting on the ermine-trimmed robes and coronet. The more time he allowed himself away from his responsibilities, the greater the weight of them when he returned.

Having a wife to return to would make a difference.

Having Bella to return to.

But he was imagining returning to a cozy parlor, to sitting by the fireside, he reading, she sewing, sharing comfortable smiles.

His duchess would have her own suite of rooms, just as he had his. Their “parlors” would be drawing rooms, usually shared with dependents and guests. She would have a boudoir, and she would entertain her more intimate guests there. He had his study, where he did the same.

There could be days when they never met, even if under the same roof.

In Upstone he’d intended to attempt to woo Bella as the duke, perhaps simply by turning up on her doorstep and trying to explain the whole sorry mess. Now, in London, as he drew ever closer to his ducal state, the gulf between them widened.

The carriage was passing St. James’s Palace, where the Duchess of Ithorne would be expected to take her turn as lady- in-waiting to the queen. Not only could he not envision Bella in that role, but the stiff-rumped little queen would never accept someone so scandalous.

Yes, Robin’s and Christian’s wives would accept Bella, and perhaps some others, but many wouldn’t. She’d be uncomfortable and unhappy, which would infuriate him. He’d soon become a terrifying despot who took out his ill humor on innocents.

He must at least give this time before he did something that could make them both miserable for the rest of their lives.

On arrival, he put himself straight in Overstone’s hands. He wanted to be drowned in work.

 

 

 

 

T
here was something to be said for waking up in one’s own bed in one’s own house, Bella thought when she opened her eyes the next morning. A great deal to be said. Even if it would be more pleasant to wake up with someone . . .

She slammed that door.

She savored the simple pleasures of familiar sounds from the street and the way the slit of daylight drew a line on the opposite wall, and began to grieve.

She liked this house. It was just large enough for her small household, and the neighbors seemed pleasant. Bellona Flint had probably seemed too stern for friendship, but they had always exchanged a good-day and bland comments about the weather. She couldn’t stay, however, because how could she explain to anyone the transformation from Bellona to Bella? How could she make a complete break from the Fowler flock when living a street away?

That reminded her of the pile of letters. She’d like to ignore them, but in the end it would be better to deal with them quickly. She rang the bell that stood at hand. Kitty soon arrived.

“You’re up bright and early, miss!” she said, putting down her coal scuttle and kneeling to make up the fire. “And looking all the better for a good night’s sleep. I hope you did sleep well, miss?”

“Yes,” Bella said, somewhat surprised. She’d expected to lie awake, tormented by memories. “I must have been more tired than I thought.”

“All that traveling, miss. Shall I bring your breakfast once this is going?”

“Yes, please. And the waiting letters.”

Kitty lit the fire and watched it a moment. When she was satisfied, she rose, wiping her hands on her apron. “Very well, miss. And what gown will you want?”

Bella made a firm decision. “None of Bellona’s. Bellona Flint is going to disappear.”

“Very good, miss!” Kitty said fervently.

Bella chuckled. “I’ve been a sad trial to you, haven’t I? And yes, I’ll wear stays.”

Kitty was grinning as she hurried away.

Bella did her best to keep her mind on simple things as she waited. For her new life she would need new gowns. Should she patronize Mistress Moray again, or visit a mantua maker? Here or elsewhere?

Perhaps she should leave London entirely. An idea crept into her mind. . . . But no, she would not move to Dover! Nor to any other port on the south coast where she might happen to encounter Captain Rose. She’d avoid the coast entirely. But apart from that, she might as well stick a pin in a map.

Breakfast was a welcome distraction. She took her first sip of chocolate and then considered the letters. All were from Lady Fowler’s house but not, in fact, from the lady herself. Two were from Mary Evesham and the rest from various ladies there.

She drank more chocolate and took a bite of warm buttered bread and then broke the seal on the first letter to arrive, one of the ones from Mary Evesham. She was a curate’s sister and both intelligent and wryly humorous.

Bella blew out a breath. Alarming, but what exactly did it mean? Mary’s term “atremble” would be her humor, but she was clearly alarmed.

She fortified herself with more chocolate and opened the next to arrive. This was from Clara Ormond, an elderly lady who was both plump and nervous, living in dread of being forced out onto the street. She was one of the ones Bella desperately wanted to help, because she was clearly unable to help herself. She’d loved a loving husband, but had no children. Her husband had suffered business losses, and when he’d died, she’d found herself penniless. She had no true interest in Lady Fowler’s causes, but had simply thrown herself on the lady’s mercy.

The letter was a desperate plea for Bellona to return before disaster—underlined three times—befell them all.

The next was from Celia Pottersby along the same lines but with mention of the Drummond sisters playing on Lady Fowler’s degenerating mind.

Hortensia Sprott, thin and sharp, stated bluntly, “She’s mad but don’t know it. The sooner she dies the better. Pray it happens before she ruins us all.”

The final letter was the second from Mary.

The letters troubled Bella deeply, but why had all these women written to her? She was the youngest among them and had no power to change anything.

Thorn had said she was a leader. She’d disagreed, but perhaps he’d been right in saying that people saw her that way. Was a leader simply someone who chose to act rather than wring their hands? And did sheep in distress look for anyone to lead them out of trouble?

She was uncomfortable with thinking of the letter writers as sheep, but even Mary, with her good sense, and Hortensia, so fierce and sharp, were penniless and dependent. That was enough to drain the courage from anyone. It had trapped her at Carscourt for four years.

All the same, Bella wanted to toss the letters in the fire and proceed with her plan to leave London. She had no duty to these women.

She buttered more bread and spread plum jam on it thickly. This situation was
nothing
to do with her, and the more disastrous it was likely to be, the less she should have to do with it.

She couldn’t even put the food in her mouth.

She groaned, but accepted that she’d have to at least visit Lady Fowler’s once or suffer the guilt of it all her life. Perhaps it was simply wild speculation and panic. She’d seen alarms over nothing go through the house like a fire.

In addition, she owed something to Lady Fowler herself. She had provided a refuge when Bella had needed one, and she probably was dying.

Kitty returned with the blue dress and Bella’s prettier underwear.

“Ah. I’m afraid I need one of Bellona’s gowns after all. I need to make one last visit.”

Kitty’s face fell and Bella braced for a long argument against the action. But her dismayed comment was, “No stays then, miss.”

Bella burst out laughing. “No stays. But tomorrow, I promise.”

 

Bella had been Bellona for six months. It hadn’t felt strange to her, even at first. Perhaps Bellona had been a natural fit for the frozen person who had escaped Carscourt. Now it felt a more uncomfortable disguise than Kelano or her other recent personas. As she walked to Lady Fowler’s house, she feared everyone must know she wasn’t who she appeared to be.

At the door she thought of knocking, because she felt she no longer belonged, but she walked in. Ellen Spencer came out of the scriptorium—the room where the flock transcribed the Fowler letter. Ellen stared, squeaked, and ran upstairs.

Bella watched her, astonished.

Then others were around her, fussing, explaining, and talking over one another so she couldn’t understand a thing.

“Silence!” she commanded, and was obeyed.

Ah, yes. Bellona was back and the sheep knew their grim shepherd. She again wanted to turn and run, but she couldn’t abandon them.

“The parlor,” she said, and led the way. Once there, she demanded, “What’s the fuss?” A dozen mouths opened. “Just one of you.”

“Oh, Bellona,” said Clara, dabbing at tears, “I’m so happy you’re back. You’ll know what to do.”

She attempted an explanation, but it wandered and was often interrupted by others. Some things were clear: Lady Fowler was confined to her bed and said to be raving, but no one was permitted in her room but the Drummond sisters and Ellen Spencer.

“Why Ellen?” Bella asked. “She’s not been here long.”

“We don’t know,” said Mary Evesham, “but there was something odd about her coming here, and she seems devoted to the Drummonds. She does anything Helena or Olivia tells her.”

“And now they’re planning a news sheet!” Clara wailed.

“The Drummonds? They haven’t used the press before?” Bella asked, surprised.

“Olivia printed copies of Lady Fowler’s most recent letter,” Hortensia said. “It worked very well. Some of us took copies out and paid female street urchins to give them to ladies in the better parts of town. So as not to leave a trail back to here, you see.”

Bella wrinkled her brow. “But if it was the Fowler letter, wouldn’t everyone know where it came from?”

“Of course we left off the name and address,” Hortensia said, sharp as a blade.

“But even so . . .” Bella abandoned any attempt to point out logic, aware of so many anxious eyes. “I gather the forces of the law have not descended, so all must be well.”

Mary Evesham agreed. “We appear to be safe. But I think Lady Fowler was disappointed. I fear she actually wants to be dragged into court.”

“Ah,” Bella breathed. “To go down in history like John Wilkes. To be a martyr.”

“I don’t want to be a martyr,” Clara protested. “Save us, Bellona!”

How?
But Bella didn’t speak the word. A leader’s task, she thought, was to give at least the illusion that someone was certain and unafraid.

“You say a news sheet is planned. What will it say?”

“We don’t know,” said Mary. “Some of us managed to do the typesetting of the letter, but it’s slow, difficult work. It all has to be done backward. But now there’s a typesetter. Mr. Smith is so very swift and accurate, but we don’t know what the sheets say. They print only one to test the plate, and Olivia Drummond takes it straight to Lady Fowler.”

“I fear it will be as you said, Bellona,” said Celia Pottersby, a thin, pale widow who always predicted the worst. “A publication like the issue of the
North Briton
that put John Wilkes in the Tower. If he hadn’t been a member of Parliament, they would have hanged him for saying such terrible things against the king. Lady Fowler is planning treason, and we’ll all hang with her. . . .”

“No!” Clara gasped. “They can’t! We have nothing to do with it.”

“They arrested the printers of the
North Briton
,” said Hortensia, who never found a fact too harsh to be faced. “And any others connected.”

“They can’t arrest nearly twenty respectable women,” Bella said, hoping that was true. Some looked reassured, but others didn’t.

“What of the typesetter?” she asked. “Surely he can tell what words he’s setting.”

“With the name Smith?” asked Mary dryly. “He’ll pocket his money and disappear. This is all a consequence of that thousand guineas.”

“It was a curse on us,” agreed Celia. “A viper planted among us by a wicked man.”

Perhaps by the Duke of Ithorne, Bella thought. Her investigations had led to a legal firm that did much work for him, and he might have motive to wish Lady Fowler harm. Lady Fowler had turned viciously against the Marquess of Rothgar over the matter of his bastard daughter, and that daughter had married the Earl of Huntersdown, who was Ithorne’s cousin, and apparently a friend. Huntersdown was married to that bastard daughter, so the attacks might seem doubly offensive to the duke.

Ithorne probably was angry, but how could he have dreamed up such a complex revenge? He couldn’t have been able to predict the disastrous results of the grand donation.

If Ithorne had been the cause of these problems, however, Bella might have reason to appeal to Thorn. She could ask him to speak to his brother on their behalf. To appeal to his sense of justice.