Kate had lived a life of loneliness and unhappiness, punctuated by infrequent visits from her husband, and very little to do with her time. She’d been useless. Useless and powerless. And she intended to make up for it now. James Bancroft wanted a pamphlet from her? Well, she would use what little power she still possessed—her story—to get exactly what she wanted.
A loud knock sounded at the door to her cell. “Your grace, are you in need of anything?” the guard asked in a muffled voice that carried through the heavy oak.
Kate momentarily lifted her aching head. “No, I’m fine,” she called back.
She couldn’t help but smile at the question. Lord Medford had asked if they were treating her well. Her answer had been the truth. The guards at the Tower had all treated her with nothing but deference and respect. A wry smile touched her lips. If the people who held her captive believed she was a killer, they didn’t indicate it by either word or deed. But they all had to think it. What else were they to believe?
She may not ever have been loved by her husband, but she would never have killed him. And she regretted that he was dead. She was sad even. Sad for all the years they’d made each other unhappy and sad for the memory of the man she’d thought she’d once loved. Yes, it was true that when she’d discovered that George refused to even discuss a divorce, she’d been devastated. Devastated and then furious. She’d written to him, pleading her case, informing him that a divorce was obviously the best decision for both of them. It was true that a divorce was difficult to obtain and they would be forced to invent a suitable reason, but George had to agree that they were not happy together. In fact, if he didn’t get a divorce, he’d never have a legitimate heir. They both knew that.
The next thing she knew he’d stormed into the country estate, railing at her for even suggesting it. His mother would be disgraced. The Markingham name would be dirtied. Then he informed her that he intended to have her move to his property near the Scottish border. He was banishing her. She’d thought it was the last of the ignominies he’d heaped upon her throughout their marriage, including parading his string of mistresses to stay under the same roof as Kate. But now she supposed the final act of betrayal was seeing to it that she lost her life along with his. Ah yes, things were truly ironic sometimes.
And somewhere out there a murderer was still at large. At first, she’d briefly worried that whoever had killed George might come for her. But as the days passed and the investigators seemed intent upon blaming her for her husband’s death, she realized that whoever had killed George fully intended to allow her to be sentenced to death for it. No. The murderer wouldn’t harm her. She was his scapegoat.
She stood up, hugging herself, rubbing her arms briskly for warmth, and walked to the window. The cold seeped through the stone walls. The wind whistled through the ancient windows. She sighed and traced a fingertip along the freezing-cold pane. The lawn where Anne Boleyn had been put to death was brown and withered, a bit of lackluster snow lay in a dirty heap. The sky was gray and dark. Was it this dark and gray the day the former queen had died? And would the sky remain gray on the day she was put to death herself? Kate shivered. Yes, she and Anne were kindred spirits now. The guards had brought her books, and Kate had spent the last several weeks reading everything she could about the Protestant queen. They were alike. Falsely blamed. Betrayed by the men they’d sworn to love forever. And now here Kate was imprisoned in the same gaol where Anne had once been kept.
Kate made her way into the tiny adjoining chamber and retrieved the wool blanket that lay sprawled on the small bed in the corner. She wrapped the fabric tightly around her shoulders. It was so cold. December. Almost Christmastide. Where would she spend the holiday? If Viscount Medford didn’t accept her offer, she might spend it here, alone, in this sad place. If the viscount did agree to harbor her, she’d be in the home of a stranger. Either prospect was disheartening, but at least she’d be alive. This Christmas. She shuddered. Almost certainly her last such holiday on this earth.
She shook off the unwelcome thoughts and turned her attention to the viscount. She didn’t relish having to trust another man with her freedom or her secrets. And the money he’d offered meant little to her. But his other offer, the one to widely publish the pamphlet, to allow her to tell her side of the story, was tempting, even if it would redouble Society’s censure. Even if no one believed her, if the pamphlet were printed, her story would be there, published for all eternity, and that would count for something.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Would Lord Medford accept her offer? According to Lady Mary, he was known as a gentleman of honor and integrity, but he also seemed intent upon his trade. Despite his fine clothing, at first she’d had to wonder if he was poor. Why else would a peer engage in trade? But Lady Mary had quickly disabused her of that notion. “They say his fortune rivals the king’s,” she’d said. And it must be true. Obviously the viscount was rich, or he couldn’t have offered Kate a sum of money that had nearly made her choke. Either that or he was extremely confident that her pamphlet would sell very well.
The viscount was an eccentric, she’d decided. For some reason, printing scandals amused him, and he’d set his sights on the most scandalous of them all. Even sequestered in the country, Kate had managed to read his other famous works, Secrets of a Wedding Night and Secrets of a Runaway Bride. Though she hadn’t known they were his at the time. They’d amused her, made her laugh. But the story he was asking her for, there was nothing amusing about it. It seemed the viscount had turned his sights to a much more serious topic. Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage, he’d said. She hated that title. But she supposed it would help to sell the thing, and that’s why she wouldn’t object. The more copies that made it into circulation, the better, regardless of the salacious label.
Lord Medford had explained it all to her in intricate detail. His plan to publish and sell the pamphlet. His strategy to ensure it received the most notice and the widest distribution. He was obviously a skilled tradesman. He’d leaned over the table, smelling like a mixture of leather and soap, and looking like a statue of some Greek god come to life. Eccentric Lord Medford might be, but the man was also ridiculously handsome. Lady Mary was quite right about that. It surprised Kate, to be sure, to find herself attracted to the man. Any man, actually. She’d thought that part of her had died along with her freedom. Her own husband, who hadn’t touched her in years, might be dead, but she was still a woman who could recognize and appreciate a handsome man when she saw one. James Bancroft, with his long, lean build, sharp hazel eyes, and short, cropped dark hair was quite handsome indeed.
She curled up into a ball on her mattress, still hugging the shawl around her shoulders. Yes, she would write the pamphlet for Lord Medford, as long as he agreed to her bargain. She wanted to be freed from the Tower of London, as soon as possible. There was a degree of risk involved for the viscount, of course. After the riot that had taken place upon her arrest, the Tower was probably the safest place for her. Anyone found harboring her would certainly be placing himself in danger. But Kate refused to spend her last days in a prison. She wanted to live in a house and pretend to be as normal as possible. The truth was, she’d prefer to spend the days on her father’s farm. What she wouldn’t give to go back to a simple life for one month, one week, one day. Pretend she’d never met the Duke of Markingham, never agreed to be his wife. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for another chance at her past.
Kate closed her eyes. Viscount Medford had told her he’d be back today to give her his answer. What was her story really worth to him? Would he be able to convince the lord chancellor to allow her to stay under his protection? Would Lord Medford take the risk?
CHAPTER 5
“How exactly do you plan to carry this one off, Lord Perfect?”
Devon Morgan’s voice snapped James from his thoughts. He was sitting in a wide leather chair at his club and the Marquis of Colton had just arrived.
“Yes, I for one cannot wait to hear this.” The
re was also no mistaking the voice of Jordan Holloway, the Earl of Ashbourne.
James glanced up at the pair. The two men were the husbands of Lily and Annie, and as such, James had developed something of an unspoken truce with them for the sake of his friends. In fact, Colton and Ashbourne were two of the only peers who knew for certain that James owned a printing press. Otherwise, he kept that fact a secret. He’d had to tell Kate, of course. He could only hope she didn’t disclose it as she’d promised.
He eyed the two other men again. Regardless of their more recent common bonds, the truth remained that the three had been classmates at Eton and Cambridge and they had long been rivals. Prior to their marriages, Colton and Ashbourne were known for their rakishness and serious drinking bouts while Medford had earned the nickname Lord Perfect for his love of order, his stellar reputation, his history of excellent marks, and his inherent tendency to always do the right thing. Today, James needed their assistance. So he’d summoned the marquis and the earl to Brooks’s for an afternoon drink. The perfect invitation with which to lure those two particular chaps from their warm studies on such a blustery day.
“It’s simple,” James replied, offering them both a seat. “I intend to speak with the lord chancellor.”
Colton and Ashbourne took their seats next to him in the large leather chairs near the windows. A fire crackled in the hearth across from them, and the smell of fine cheroots being smoked by a pair of gentlemen on the other side of the room filled the air. The club was nearly deserted this afternoon. It seemed many of London’s finest had decided not to brave the elements in search of their usual afternoon amusements.
Colton settled into his chair. “And you expect the chancellor to just turn her over into your care?”
“Yes. I’m a peer, aren’t I? That’s the law. As long as she’s in my personal care, she can be released from the Tower.”
Colton replied with a skeptical look. “And you want a murderess living under your roof?”
“There’s no proof that she’s a murderess,” James replied simply. “Yet.”
Ashbourne snorted. “And there’s no proof she isn’t.”
James shrugged. “I’m willing to take that chance. All anyone is talking about is this trial. If I have the story straight from the duchess, it will sell thousands of copies.”
“No doubt about it,” Colton replied. “I might even read it myself.”
“I won’t,” Jordan replied. “But something tells me Annie will and she’ll apprise me of every detail.”
Colton laughed. “You’re absolutely right there.”
Somehow Ashbourne had already managed to procure a drink and he tossed it back. “Sure you don’t want one?” he asked, holding his brandy glass in the air toward James.
James rolled his eyes. “No, thank you.”
“Are you certain, Medford? Not even some blue ruin?” Ashbourne replied with a smirk. The two had had an unfortunate incident involving gin at a house party the previous autumn and there was hardly an encounter in which Ashbourne let him forget it.
“What does the duchess’s barrister say?” Colton asked, signaling to a passing footman to bring him a drink.
“She hasn’t got a barrister,” James answered.
Ashbourne nearly spat out his drink. He sat forward in his chair and braced his elbows on both knees. “The devil you say. Hasn’t got a barrister?”
James shook his head. “Not yet at least. I will provide the honorarium for one with the money I’m giving her. She’s requested the best in town.”
“The lady is soon to be on trial for her life.” Ashbourne replied. “She’d best get a barrister and quickly, I’d say. Montgomery or Cartwright—”
“Abernathy. Abernathy is the best,” James interjected.
Ashbourne arched a brow. “Looked into it already, have you?”
“Really, Ashbourne, you should know better. Am I ever unprepared?” James countered.
Colton took the drink from the returning footman and crossed his booted feet at the ankles, waiting for the servant to leave so he wouldn’t overhear their conversation. “Seems to me, the real problem with harboring the duchess will be keeping the public from finding out she’s with you. If anyone breathes a word…”
Ashbourne whistled. “You’d be a dead man yourself. There is a great deal of public condemnation of her already. She’s persona non grata to be sure.”
James nodded. Once. “True. But regardless of their feelings for her, everyone wants to read her story.”
“They might want to read her story, but they won’t take kindly to it if they find out you’re harboring her in one of your properties.” Colton took another sip.
“I understand the dangers,” James replied.
Colton narrowed his eyes on James. He lowered his voice. “What is it, Medford, that makes you care so much about your bloody printing press? It can’t be money, we all know you’re richer than the king.”
“Madder than the king too, I’d say, if you intend to take in a murderess,” Ashbourne added. “I don’t see how you would even get her out of the Tower without a mob following you home.”
James steepled his fingers and eyed the other two men coolly. “Leave that to me. I just need the two of you to back me if the lord chancellor requires additional peers to convince him to allow me to keep her in house arrest.”
Ashbourne gave him a long-suffering stare. “As if the lord chancellor would tell you no. You’re thick as thieves with him and everyone else in Parliament, not to mention more than half of London. You’re Lord Perfect, for Christ’s sake. Need I remind you that’s why we’ve never liked you?” He laughed.
“Oh, was that why?” James replied with a grin. “And here I thought all this time it was because the two of you were total arse—”
“Let’s not start with all that,” Colton said, downing his drink. “Suffice it to say we have faith in you, old chap.” He leaned over and patted James’s shoulder.
Ashbourne snapped his fingers. “Yes. Care to make a wager on whether Lord P here has his wish granted?” He gave Colton a devilish grin.
“Ha,” Colton replied. “I wouldn’t take that bet in a hundred years.”
“Smart man,” Ashbourne replied.
“Yes, well, I’m honored by your belief in me,” James replied, clearing his throat. “And, of course, you must keep all of this silent.”
“No one said we weren’t willing, Medford.” Ashbourne grinned from ear to ear. “Personally, I would love to see you involved in the scandal of the century. And of course you may count upon my discretion.” He flourished his hand in the semblance of a bow.
James fought the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he nodded. “Thank you.”
“Absolutely, count me in, Medford,” Colton replied. “I want a view from a box seat for this particular escapade.”
CHAPTER 6
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Kate’s eyes snapped open. It was the middle of the night and someone was knocking loudly upon the wooden door to her cell. She bolted up, her heart pounding. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the freezing night air. She clutched the blankets to her throat and swallowed hard. “Who is it?”
“Yer grace, please get dressed an’ pack yer things.” In addition to its usual gruffness, the guard’s voice sounded a bit sleepy.
“Yes. Yes. Just a minute.” Kate scrambled out of bed. She quickly pulled off her night rail and fumbled around in the cold darkness for her gown. She’d only brought a few items of clothing with her when she’d been arrested. She promptly stuffed them all into her only bag. Smoothing a brush through her hair once, twice, she piled it atop her head as best she could. She stuck a few pins into the coiffure to hold it precariously in place. Then she quickly made her way to the door.
She cleared her throat and pushed up her chin. “I’m ready.”
The door swung open, and her guard stood there, a candle in his hand, a sleeping cap on his head, and a robe wrapped around his massive frame.
“He’s come ta take ye out o’ here, yer grace.”
Kate shuddered and closed her eyes. “Oh, thank heavens,” she murmured. She didn’t need to ask who. Viscount Medford had come for her.
She pulled on her pelisse, grabbed up her bag, and hurried after the guard who was already rapidly making his way down the winding dank staircase. The stairs ended abruptly in a small dark antechamber, and Kate skidded to a halt in the middle of the scuffed, wood-planked floor. She hadn’t had time to put on her stockings, and the cold wind that blew in from the partially open door wrapped its icy fingers around her ankles. Kate’s teeth chattered, but she didn’t care. She’d walk out of there naked if she must. She glanced about. Only darkness. Where was he?
Just then, a dark-cloaked figure in the corner spun around, and Kate caught her breath. She hadn’t seen him standing there before. He emerged from the shadows.
Lord Medford looked every bit as handsome as he did the first day she met him. His face was made of stone. Handsome stone. He nodded toward her bag. “Is that all you have?”
“Ye—yes,” she stuttered, shivering this time for an entirely different reason.
He stalked over to her, leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You said you wanted to live. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she whispered, nodding.
He grabbed her bag with one arm, and hefted it over his shoulder. He stopped and tossed what looked to be a guinea at the guard. “Thank you for arranging this,” he said. Without another word, he pulled Kate by the hand out the wooden door and into the freezing dark night.
She did her best to keep up with his long strides. When they reached his mount, she watched in awe as he fastened her bag onto the saddle then hoisted her up onto the large brown gelding, all without saying a word. He swung up behind her moments later, and Kate tried to ignore the feel of his hard body against her backside as they took off at a gallop through the Tower yard. She was riding astride. That was a scandal in itself. But it felt like … freedom.
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