The Secret Duke (38 page)

Part of her leapt eagerly toward an excuse to contact him—which meant the other part must slam that door and lock it.

How long, how long until this insanity passed?

“I’m sure the situation can’t be so bad,” she said to the anxious women. “It is simply necessary to keep a cool head.”

Elizabeth Shutton said, “I do believe my son and daughter-in-law would benefit from my wisdom.” She was a widow in her fifties who lived here almost as if it were a hotel, never attempting to do any work.

“But, Elizabeth,” Clara said, “you’ve always said you’d be unhappy as a charity case in your old home.”

“Nonsense,” Elizabeth said, and swept out.

Clara looked confused, but Bella had always suspected that Mistress Shutton wasn’t as short of money as she claimed. Perhaps others would find other homes more appealing than this one now. She hoped so.

She rose. “I must pay my respects to Lady Fowler.”

After a long absence such a visit would be natural, but Clara gasped, Mary grimaced, and Hortensia said, “She’s raving.”

Celia raised a lace- trimmed handkerchief to her nose. “And the smell.”

Bella braced herself and went upstairs.

Ellen Spencer was on guard, but her eyes were huge behind her spectacles. “Lady Fowler’s not receiving,” she said, but it came out faintly.

Bella summoned Bellona’s flinty points. “Out of my way,” she snapped, and swept forward.

With a gasped, “Oh, dear!” Ellen stumbled out of danger.

Bella opened the door, but stopped, hit by heat and, yes, stink. The fire burned high, and Lady Fowler was propped in a sitting position in her big bed. She was definitely close to death. Her breath rasped in and out, and her face had shrunk down almost to the bones, covered by yellowish skin.

“Who is it?” she asked in a breathy croak.

Was she blind?

“Bellona,” Bella said, her voice soft with pity despite everything. This was a sad end to a sad life.

Helena Drummond rose from a chair by the bed. “Get out of here. Can’t you see Lady Fowler is too ill for guests?”

“I’m no guest.” Bella closed the door and walked forward.

Helena barred her way. Bella shoved her. She must have put all her fury at this situation into it, for Helena stumbled back and thumped down on the carpet.

Bella went to the bedside, hand over her nose, hoping Lady Fowler was too blind to see. Hoping the lady couldn’t smell her own rot.

“Lady Fowler,” she said softly, already running with sweat. “I’m sorry to find you in this state.”

“Bellona? Where have you been? You did not have permission to go.”

Bella smiled slightly. The old arrogance was still there. “I told you I was leaving, madam. I had family business to attend to.”

“Your family cast you off.”

“Even so. What can I do for you?”

A clawlike hand reached out. Bella put hers into it. The skin was hot, dry, and flaky. It felt as if it might crack or rub away.

“Help with my great work,” Lady Fowler begged.

“What is it?”

“Say no more!” cried Helena, grabbing Bella and trying to pull her away from the bed. “She’s a spy, ma’am. That’s where she’s been. Conferring with your enemies. She’s only returned to prevent your great work.”

Bella grabbed the bed curtains and struggled to stay where she was. “That’s not true. What is this great work?”

But Lady Fowler was gasping for breath, wheezing in what air she could. Agnes Hoover, her personal maid, was at her side instantly, raising her and holding a glass to her lips. “Here, my love, my pet. Drink this.” She glared up. “Get away, all of you. Leave her to die in peace.”

“An excellent idea,” Bella said, turning to face Helena.

“We are her handmaidens in this work,” Helena said. “I never leave her side.”

Bella had to give her credit for fortitude. She couldn’t bear the room a moment longer and retreated to the door. She paused there. “Has a doctor been sent for?”

“There’s nothing anyone can do,” said Agnes, not looking away from her mistress. “I have medicines to soothe her.” She did look up then, directly at Bella. “It won’t be long.”

She was about sixty and Bella had never seen her face without a scowl, but Bella felt Agnes was begging her to provide calm for her mistress’s dying days. Another person looking to her. She left the room and inhaled a deep breath of relatively pure air. The corridor was deserted, so she took a moment to think.

She wanted nothing to do with any of this, but she couldn’t abandon all these women. She might be the youngest, but unlike all of them except the Drummonds she hadn’t been beaten down by life. She also had her independent income. That was like owning a pistol when the rest of them were completely defenseless.

What to do?

Clearly Lady Fowler was beyond help, but she must also be beyond doing more harm. The Drummond sisters were the danger, but Helena, the most dangerous, had pinned herself up here. Bella wondered about that. What purpose did it serve?

Olivia had always been the one most involved with the printing press. She was probably down there now. The simplest action would be to disable the press.

Bella went down the servants’ staircase. It took her first to the kitchen, where the three servants looked at her with anxious and pleading expressions. Them too?

She gave them a vague smile and continued to the room where the press had been set up. When she opened the door, a man turned. Then he stared, looking very wary.

Yes. “Mr. Smith” had no intention of being connected to this enterprise. She wondered how much he was being paid to take the risk. He was a short, thin man of about forty with brown hair. He was in shirtsleeves and wearing a leather apron.

“I’m Bellona Flint,” Bella said, “one of Lady Fowler’s closest confidantes. I’ve been away. I wanted to be sure you had everything you require.”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

Bella nodded. “And the press is in good order?”

“Not my job. I’m the typesetter.”

“Ah. I assume the type is in good order, then. I gather some of the ladies used it, and I fear they may have disordered things.”

He let out a snort. “Made a pig’s dinner of it and damaged some, but that’ll have to be as it is. You’ll have to tell the others that they need to print the first two pages now, so I can reuse the type for the next ones.”

He turned back to his work. Bella watched for a moment, appreciating the lifetime of practice that enabled him to reach without looking to the correct box for each letter. Pick up the square of lead, place, and tap into place. Pick up, place, tap into place.

She went to the press, but looking at it told her nothing, and she couldn’t tamper with it while the typesetter was there. She wondered what hours he worked.

She left and went up to the parlor and asked.

“He works late,” Mary said.

“And arrives early,” Bella guessed. “Eager to finish the work and be gone. He says someone needs to print the first two pages. Where’s Olivia?”

Uneasy glances flittered around. “Out somewhere,” Hortensia said. “Comes and goes as she pleases!”

No reason for any of them not to do the same, Bella thought. Did they feel imprisoned? Or as if they were in a convent, needing permission from the mother superior?

She remembered Thorn’s comments about convents.

“In any case,” said Mary with wry meaning, “Mr. Smith insists that any printing happen at night when he’s not here. Disturbs him, he says.”

“I see. Then it will have to be tonight. I will return to assist.” Bella needed to read what was being created here before she made any other decisions. She pulled on her gloves. “After being away, I have a number of matters to attend to, so I’ll leave for a while.”

“How is Lady Fowler?” asked Clara anxiously.

Bella wished she could soften it. “Close to death, I think.”

The ladies gasped and moaned, and Bella thought that perhaps someone would truly mourn Lady Fowler. But then Clara asked, “What will become of us?”

“Perhaps she’ll have made provision in her will?” Celia suggested anxiously.

Bella hoped so. If the flock could continue to live here, she wouldn’t have to worry about them.

“She had her lawyer here about it,” Mary said.

“That could be good news,” Bella said.

“It could. Of course, Helena was the only one with her. . . .”

Their eyes met. Mary, like Bella, didn’t trust any will made under Drummond influence. Another thing to do: write to Mr. Clatterford and seek his advice on wills made under influence.

 

 

 

 

T
horn found it damnably difficult to concentrate, and there was much that he should focus on. Food prices had soared since the end of the war and it was causing unrest. Possible solutions were subject to intense debate, including the troublesome corn laws. The American colonies were objecting to the taxes imposed to pay for their defense against the French. The pestilential issue of John Wilkes and his treasonous edition of the
North Briton
dragged on and on. The man’s flight to France hadn’t ended the matter.

Overstone had prepared lengthy reports on every issue that might conceivably have importance. Provisions for the navy. Pay for the army. Agricultural improvements in Norfolk. Thorn was reading over all this when his cousin Robin walked in.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Thorn demanded.

Robin’s brows went up. “Business. I did write. Hoping to stay here rather than a club, the house being unprepared.” He flicked through the pile of unopened letters and pulled out one. He turned it to show that it was from him. “Been away?”

Thorn frowned at him, but really at himself. Overstone didn’t open letters from friends. All the more reason for Thorn to attend to them first.

“Dover,” he said.

“Playing Captain Rose again? Good.” Robin took a small dog out of his pocket. It could only be described as a ball of fluff.

“ ’Struth, not that,” Thorn complained, but it was a joke.

Robin had acquired the papillon dog in France, and the creature considered itself an essential accessory. Robin indulged it, and took Coquette nearly everywhere, even to court.

“Tabitha,” Thorn said, “don’t eat the butterfly.”

Tabitha looked up and closed the basket. Coquette pranced over to sniff. Robin laughed.

“I don’t play when I’m Captain Rose,” Thorn said. “In fact, I rarely get to play at all.”

“That could change. Did you know people are smuggling sheep to France?”

“Sheep? To France?”

Robin’s smile was pure mischief. “English sheep being superior to French ones. Don’t you think we should stop the trade? I’m due for a time as Lieutenant Sparrow.”

“Won’t your bride object?”

Robin pulled a face. “Petra’s more likely to insist on coming. No,” he corrected, “she’s being very sensible now that she’s carrying our child, but that would make her more cross at me if I went off adventuring.”

“I admit to the temptation,” Thorn said, leaning back. “Hunting illicit sheep in the
Black Swan
.”

With Lieutenant Sparrow and Pagan the Pirate. And even Buccaneer Bella?

Thorn came to his senses and straighened. “The sheep trade will have to succeed or fail without my intervention. I’m drowning in work. What brings you to Town?”

“Rothgar.”

“So he pulls your strings now, does he?”

Robin gave him a look. “I’ve never had the problem with him that you do.”

“You don’t outrank him.”

“I still outrank most of England and none has become an obsession. In truth, I admire him. Don’t always agree with him, but he’s devilish clever and disgustingly high-minded.”

“He always looks after his own interests first.”

“He doesn’t neglect his own interests. There’s a difference. He bears you no ill will.”

“Which I find rather galling.”

“What? You think he should shiver in his shoes at the thought of you? Stop being a blockhead over this.”

Thorn flinched under Robin’s rare anger. “Let’s talk about something more interesting. How’s Petra?”

“No, let’s not.”

Robin was lighthearted to a fault, but when he took that tone, a wise man paid attention.

“What do you want? Or should it be, what does
he
want?”

“A meeting,” Robin said.

“We met. We negotiated Christian’s affair. We even cooperated. We meet at court and in Parliament all the time.”

“You know what I mean.”

Thorn picked up a paperweight, then realized he was fiddling and put it down. “Why?”

“Britain has peace and it looks likely to stick, which is lulling people into thinking all is well, but there’s a deal of trouble stirring.”

“Is that your insight or your father-in-law’s?”

“You won’t irritate me with that gibe. The evidence is clear, but yes, he’s applied a lens that makes it clearer. The troubles in the colonies aren’t going away. That Otis seems able to stir emotions, and now others follow where he leads. Their arguments are absurd, but if Britain mishandles the situation, we could lose the entire Americas to the French.”

“But not if Rothgar and I man the barricades together?”

Robin rolled his eyes. “You and he are among the few powerful men not driven by self-interest. In his case, I believe it’s a moral choice. In yours, I see it as more because there’s nothing you want that you don’t have.”

Thorn worked very hard at keeping his face still, but he did say, “My freedom?”

“You have Captain Rose. Or, no, you’ve given it up. Is that what has you growling? Get back to sea now.”

“I thought I was needed to save the kingdom from disaster.”