The Secret Duke (42 page)

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. I’ll give her the message.”

As soon as the door shut, Bella went downstairs. “What am I to do?”

“Ignore it,” Peg said. “You’ve done all you can there, and tomorrow the ladies you want to help will be here and safe.”

“She did sound distressed.”

“You leave them be, Miss Bella. You’ve your own life to live.”

Bella sighed. “You know I can’t and have an easy conscience. I’ll resume Bellona and go there one last time.”

Peg sighed, shaking her head. “You’ll do as you want. You always do.”

“I’ll simply see what the commotion is this time.”

“You’ll be dragged into staying and try to help.”

“No, I promise. I vow. Tomorrow I leave for Tunbridge Wells and a respectable future.”

 

Bella had no difficulty in looking flinty as she approached Lady Fowler’s door. If this was a storm in a teacup, she’d give them all a piece of her mind.

She turned the knob, but the door was locked, so she rapped.

The door was opened so slightly she could see only anxious eyes, and then it was flung open. “Oh, Bellona! Thank heavens you’re here.”

It was Betsy Abercrombie, one of the Drummond faction, pink nose pinker, as if she’d been crying.

Bella went in, and women seeped out of nearby rooms. “What’s happening?”

“Oh, Bellona!” Betsy started to cry again.

Clara and Ellen Spencer joined in. Bella saw no sign of the Drummonds. She was strongly tempted to turn around and leave, but instead reached for the universal panacea. “Tea!” she commanded. “Let us take tea and discuss matters.”

The story began before she’d even sat down. Lady Fowler was at death’s door and was attended solely by Agnes Hoover. Various ladies protested that they’d like to help, but the heat, the smell . . .

“What does the doctor say?” Bella asked.

“She won’t have one anymore,” said Mary. “Screams if a man touches her. Agnes provides laudanum.”

“That’s probably as much as can be done.” Bella was sorry for the woman, but she’d lasted longer than seemed possible.

The tea arrived and the business of serving it distracted and calmed everyone. When each had her cup and was sipping, Bella asked, “Where are the Drummond sisters?”

Cups rattled.

“Gone!” Betsy declared.

“Fled!” exclaimed Hortensia.

“Stole the silver!”

“Left us in the lurch!”

“Why?” Bella demanded.

Silence answered. That and shifty eyes.

Then Mary said, “We think they distributed the news sheet.”

“And it contained other things,” said Hortensia.

“What other things?” But Bella thought she knew.

“Irish things.”

Bella took a deep drink of tea, glad she’d put plenty of sugar in it. “Their main interest was always Ireland. Did any of you see what they printed?” She looked directly at Betsy.

“Mere mentions,” Betsy said, but her eyes shifted. “Additions to the lists of the tyrannies and oppressions of men.”

Bella kept on looking at her.

“Lately there have been more.”

Bella looked at the six women. “Why didn’t anyone stop them from distributing such material?”

“How?” bleated Ellen Spencer, who looked as if she expected the hangman at the door.

It was a fair question. A good part of the reason Bella had avoided the house was to avoid a confrontation with the Drummonds, and she’d been more capable of it than anyone.

“If they’re gone,” she said, “the worst is over.”

Shifty eyes again.

“Tell me,” Bella said with a sigh.

Mary produced a folded sheet of paper. “We received this only an hour ago.”

Bella unfolded it and read.

There was no signature.

She swallowed. “This could be mere scaremongering. Or even a trick. It could even be from the Drummonds. I’d not put it past them.”

“Oh,” said Betsy, and looked brighter.

“That could be,” said Mary, not quite reassured.

The others seemed to be. They drank tea and ate cake with more enthusiasm, as if the crisis were over.

Bella, however, was considering new problems. With the addition of Betsy and Ellen, and possibly even Agnes Hoover, the flock was now too large for her house. Would it be possible for them to continue to live here? If only she knew what was in Lady Fowler’s will.

“Ladies,” Bella said.

Eyes turned to her, some impatient at the interruption, some worried again.

“Is the press still in the house?”

“Yes, of course,” Mary said.

“It would be wise to get rid of it. Tomorrow if possible.”

“But it is very useful for printing copies of the newsletter,” Hortensia said.

“If Lady Fowler dies, so does the letter.”

Hortensia raised her chin. “I was thinking of continuing the work. The real work, reminding women of the vileness of men, and also proposing improvements in the laws.”

On those matters, Hortensia’s heart was in the right place, but anything written by her would be a rant.

“That’s very kind of you, Hortensia, but it would be wrong to use Lady Fowler’s name, don’t you think?”

“Lady Fowler would wish her work to live on. I’m sure she’s made provision in her will.”

Clara brightened. “You think we’ll be able to continue to live here?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Hortensia, who was clearly envisioning herself as both scribe and leader of the flock.

“If it would be inappropriate to call it the Fowler letter, we must find a new name.”

That caused excited chatter among some of them—mainly Hortensia, Clara, and Betsy. Bella wanted to hold her head and scream. Had they forgotten the warning note? She’d tried to ease their anxieties, but not to wipe them away entirely.

The chatter was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Whoever can that be?” Mary asked, but she rose to answer it.

She returned a moment later, ashen, followed by a stern gentleman. Behind him were other men, some solemn, but some leering.

In a thin, shaking voice, Mary said, “I . . . I think we’re all under arrest.”

 

 

 

 

T
horn was taking breakfast when a footman brought a note. “A gentleman is below, sir, requesting urgent word with you. He asked me to present this letter.”

Thorn took it, surprised. Petitioners didn’t receive such care. Then he saw the seal.

But, no, his people wouldn’t leave Rothgar in a reception room.

He opened the letter.

Rothgar seeking his assistance? Was this a sign of victory, or a subtle plot?

“Bring Mr. Carruthers up,” Thorn said.

The man who entered and bowed was a well-dressed fifty or so, and could probably move comfortably at court in his own right. Thorn recognized another Overstone—brilliant, efficient, and knowledgeable. He waved Carruthers to a seat and offered refreshments, which were refused.

“Very well, sir,” Thorn said. “Present your case.”

Carruthers’s lips twitched. “It is a matter of a Mistress Spencer, sir, Ellen Spencer, currently residing with Lady Fowler. I believe you may know of both, sir.”

Thorn tried not to show surprise, and it was the name Ellen Spencer that startled him. After the scandal at the Olympian Revels between Christian and the lady who proved to be his wife, Caro, there’d been an attempt on Christian’s life.

Caro’s longtime governess companion—the said Ellen Spencer—had resolved to free Caro from what she saw as an oppressive marriage. It perhaps wasn’t surprising that Mistress Spencer had also been an ardent admirer of the ridiculous Lady Fowler, but that connection had inspired her to attempt to kill Christian with foxglove baked in cakes.

A farcical attempt all around, but Thorn would have liked to see the Spencer woman in an institution for the insane. Tenderhearted Caro had instead arranged for her companion to live with Lady Fowler. Perhaps that was punishment enough, but Rothgar had added to it by giving the Fowler woman responsibility for Ellen Spencer’s future good behavior.

How had all that led to this?

“I am aware of both ladies,” said Thorn, picking up his teapot, “though I’m surprised to have them served up with breakfast. What has the Spencer woman done now?”

“She is under arrest for treason.”

Thorn put down the pot. “How in God’s name did she manage that?”

“By association with Lady Fowler, sir, who acquired a printing press. A dangerous piece of equipment, as Wilkes demonstrated.”

“The Fowler letter’s a mere scandal sheet, providing amusement for the
haute volée
. What did they print? Some royal peccadillo?”

“Alas, no, sir.” Thorn could tell Carruthers was about to enjoy himself. “They printed and distributed a call to arms. A call for women everywhere to rise up to end the monarchy and create a new commonwealth.”

Thorn gave the man an appropriately dramatic reaction, putting a hand to his face and regarding Carruthers through his fingers. To laugh or to curse? The last commonwealth had involved the monarch losing his head, so this call to revolution must have caused George to froth at the mouth. Perhaps literally. With the colonies restive, any stirrings at home would have to be crushed.

It was not, in fact, the slightest bit amusing.

“Mad,” he said. “I warned that was the case.”

“I don’t believe Mistress Spencer took a leadership role, sir. That was two women called Drummond, already well-known to the authorities in Ireland.” Carruthers took a newspaper out of his pocket and passed it over. “On the surface the document is about the oppression of women, but underneath it deals with Ireland.”

“And thus is particularly treasonous,” Thorn said, scanning the crude printing, “with France always poised to use Ireland as a back door.”

“There are a number of women caught in this trap, almost certainly all dupes, but the law can chew indiscriminately once someone is in its jaws. Lord Rothgar hopes you will exert yourself to extricate Mistress Spencer.”

“Why?” Thorn asked bluntly, putting the rant aside.

“Primarily because she is innocent, sir, but also because the marquess had a part in establishing her at Lady Fowler’s house. In his mind at the time it seemed a safe location and a minor punishment for both ladies. As you doubtless know, Lady Fowler had made him and his daughter a subject in her letters.”

“Proof that she, at least, is insane.”

“Definitely, sir. However, the marquess believes that a person is responsible for the consequences of his actions, even inadvertent ones.”

“As do I.”

Carruthers inclined his head. “Which is why he’s approaching you.”

“Yes?” Thorn asked, feeling a trap closing.

“The matter of a thousand guineas, sir?”

Thorn poured tea to cover a shocked moment. “How the devil does he know about that? And don’t tell me omniscience.”

Carruthers smiled. “Any omniscience is the result of a policy of being well-informed, sir. As I said, Lady Fowler became of interest to Lord Rothgar by offending against his family. When he learned that the Fowler Fund had received such a magnificent donation, he naturally wished to know more.”

“Does he know I made the payment on behalf of Lord Huntersdown, and that it was only due because of his marriage to Rothgar’s daughter?”

“Most appreciated, I’m sure.”

And no admission of knowledge or ignorance. “What has that money to do with Mistress Spencer’s downfall?”

“Some of it was used to purchase the printing press.”

Thorn swore. Of course, he’d never imagined such a thing, but Robin had argued against keeping to their foolish vow on the grounds that it would be dangerous to give Lady Fowler so much money. It seemed he had played a part in this mess.

“Very well. I’ll extricate Mistress Spencer from the lion’s jaws. Where should I send her?”

“Alas, sir, that’s a quandary. Lord and Lady Rothgar begin a slow progress to Rothgar Abbey, for the doctors think the child may arrive a little early. There are also some important meetings en route. Lord and Lady Grandiston are in Devon.”

“I’ll send her to Lord and Lady Huntersdown, then. The donation was originally his.”

Carruthers shared his smile. “That does seem just, sir.”

Carruthers rose and Thorn escorted him to the door. “The address of the Fowler house?” he asked.

“At the Hen and Chicks, Grafton Street.”

“Does Lady Fowler have a sense of humor?”

“It would seem so, wouldn’t it? Once, at least. I gather she’s raving mad now and on her deathbed.”

Thorn handed him to a footman and summoned Overstone.

“Lady Fowler. Bring me the details of her recent activities, especially illegal, and discover the exact cause of the arrest of herself and her chicks last night.” Even Overstone showed mild surprise. “Who is the prime mover in the arrest, and who might best provide legal help. Also sources of irregular assistance. And anything else that occurs to you.”

“We are seeking to assist Lady Fowler?” Overstone asked in a carefully bland voice.

“We are seeking to assist a Mistress Spencer, onetime companion to Lady Grandiston.”

“Ah.” Overstone knew all about the affair of the poisoned cakes.

“I’ll have to go there.” Thorn wrote a quick note. “Send this to Fielding at Bow Street, asking him to authorize my entry and freedom to speak to the ladies.”