by Jo Beverley
“You met through your correspondence, my dear.” He ate a piece of ham, still looking unhappy, and then fixed her with a stern look. “If you are determined on your rash plan, I must warn you about men.” When Bella looked a question, he said, “Fortune hunters, my dear. There will be men—sometimes handsome, pleasing men—who will seek to marry you for your money.”
Bella laughed dryly. “I assure you, sir, I have learned my lesson about pleasing scoundrels.”
“You may not recognize the scoundrel in them.”
“I’ll be very wary, I promise. But are you saying I can never marry?” Bella was surprised to find some romantic yearnings still lurked deep inside.
“No, no, only that you must be careful. Do not marry in haste, and especially without trusts and settlements. Be wary of love, for it traps many a lady—and some gentlemen too—into folly. A clever rascal might claim that sensible precautions deny your love, and thus urge a hasty marriage, even an elopement. Pay attention, young lady.” He pointed his fork at her. “That is the absolute mark of a bad man. As is any attempt to seduce you into the sort of behavior that would trap you by its natural consequences.”
Bella blushed, but she nodded. “Yes, I see that, and I thank you. I will certainly follow your advice. But I am still set on my plan of establishing myself quietly in Town. Will you take me to London and set me up there in comfort and safety?”
He sighed. “You are very like Lady Raddall. Yes, Miss Flint, reluctantly, I will.”
Chapter 5
Rothgar Abbey, August 1764
“How we suffer for our friends,” said the Duke of Ithorne, gathered late at night with his cousin Robin, Earl of Huntersdown, and his foster brother, Christian, Major Lord Grandiston.
“I give you elegant surroundings,” said Robin, gesturing at his bedchamber. “Fine brandy”—he raised his glass—“and the very best company.”
“In the lair of the Dark Marquess,” Thorne replied.
“Rothgar hasn’t poisoned you yet. And your stiff-necked hostility must tempt him at times.”
“I’m sure the devil knows slow-acting poisons.”
Robin gave him a warning look, and Thorn raised an apologetic hand. It was the eve of his cousin Robin’s wedding to the lady he adored, and no time for rancor. Thorn would much rather the lady were not the Dark Marquess’s daughter, but if Robin wasn’t deterred by Petra’s being a bastard Italian Catholic, a cousin’s discomfort with her sire was hardly likely to weigh with him.
He was a disgusting example of love’s insanity.
“I hereby ban all talk of politics,” Christian declared from where he lounged like a panther, all blond, muscular elegance. He’d been as lithe as Robin when he’d sailed off with the army at sixteen, and even now Thorn was sometimes surprised by his physique. It had been a true shock to see him on his first return, five years older, strongly muscled and accustomed to command and killing.
Robin and Thorn were cousins and had known each other from the cradle. Christian and Thorn had been inseparable for six wonderful years.
Thorn had always been an orphan in effect. He was an only child born after his father’s death, and two years later his mother had wed a Frenchman and moved to that country. By his father’s will, she hadn’t been allowed to take him out of the country, so his upbringing had rested with guardians and trustees.
He’d been ten when they’d decided he should have a companion of his own station. At first, Thorn had been wary of the cheerfully energetic invader who cared not a scrap for higher learning, political geography, or the philosophy of princes. Instead even as a boy Christian had been a genius at anything physical, especially mischief.
Thorn had soon been swept along, farther than his guardians had ever intended. Riding had gone from exercise to daredevil contests. Christian had drawn him into inventive games that involved climbing trees and crossing streams on rickety makeshift bridges, not to mention bows and arrows and a cleverly devised ballista. His taste for warfare should have been obvious from the first.
Christian had no particular interest in sailing, but his sudden desire to play pirates on the Ithorne lake had led to the purchase of Thorn’s first small boat, and thus eventually to the Black Swan and all it had brought. Grand years, and when Robin came on one of his frequent visits, they’d been a triumvirate of trouble.
Then Christian had developed that feverish desire to join the army and fight Britain’s enemies. Robin had been the one to protest most fiercely, but Thorn had been the one most hurt. He hadn’t tried to stop the plan, but he might have if he’d realized that war would take Christian to Canada, and they’d be together again only twice in ten years. It probably hadn’t truly mattered. Soon Thorn had been obliged to devote most of his time to ducal matters.
“You really are feeling grim, aren’t you?” Robin said.
“He’s too mired in duties,” Christian said.
“Believe it or not, I find my responsibilities satisfying, and just as worthwhile as battles.”
Damn the sharp tone of that.
“Then why the Black Swan?” Christian asked.
“He’s simply odd,” Robin said, refilling glasses, and trying to lighten the tone. “Hence the name.”
“A black swan’s more than odd—it’s impossible,” Thorn said, following his lead. “Like a masquerading duke. Did I ever tell you about the time I rescued a damsel in distress and she stole my horse?” He knew he hadn’t, so it served to pass over the awkward moment.
The other two laughed, but Christian said, “Lucky escape. Look what happened to Robin when he gave in to knight-errantry.”
“All that is good,” said Robin, with that sickening lover’s smile.
“Except the matter of a thousand guineas to the Fowl Fund,” Thorn reminded him.
“Don’t remind me,” Robin groaned.
“Payment due on marriage.”
Robin looked at them both. “You wouldn’t simply forget about that vow, would you?”
“My Lord Huntersdown,” Thorn said with extreme astonishment, “you cannot possibly be suggesting anything so dishonorable. I have my copy with me.” He produced it from his pocket.
“You devil!”
Thorn slowly unfolded his copy of the paper that they’d all signed four years ago. It had been one of Christian’s rare visits to England, and they’d celebrated by going out on the Black Swan, enjoying their alter egos. He’d been Captain Rose, of course. Playing off their own names, Robin had been Lieutenant Sparrow, and Christian, Pagan the Pirate.
They’d devised those personas as lads on the lake, but not used them when they’d taken to the sea. That had been in a gaff- rigged lugger under the real command of an old salt called Harry Jenkins. Thorn had instantly been snared by the sea, however, and commissioned a swift, carvel-built cutter, and learned the skills necessary to be her master. By the time she was ready to launch, she’d seemed such a miraculous escape he’d named her the Black Swan.
He’d sailed her for pleasure and for trade, but hadn’t been able to escape often, so it had pained him to know she lay idle so much of the time. The discovery of Caleb, almost his twin and with some seafaring skills, had been the final key. Thorn’s foster brother, Christian, had encountered Caleb working as mate of a coastal boat out of a port in Massachusetts, and been struck by his almost twinlike resemblance.
He’d soon discovered that Caleb Rose and his mother had arrived in America when Caleb was just a lad, and had claimed their origins as Kent. Knowing the reputation of the late Duke of Ithorne, and considering the name Rose in relation to Thorn, Christian had come to a conclusion, and written to Thorn about the situation.
Thorn had soon been able to find out the rest, for the story of Mary Fukes and her child was well-known in Stowting. His father had provided a modest income for the two of them, but when the boy had proved to have such a strong likeness to the young duke, Thorn’s trustees had threatened to stop the allowance if Mary did not take the boy to America.
In simple fairness, Thorn had sent a letter, care of Christian, telling Caleb he was free to return home without risk to his allowance, and had even increased it. It was only in meeting Caleb that the idea of a shared identity had occurred to him.
Despite the differences in their rank and education, they understood each other well, and Caleb was clearly clever and ambitious. It hadn’t taken long for him to learn the additional skills to be the master of the Black Swan, but he’d also learned the changes in manner and ways of speech that made it possible for Thorn to step into his shoes.
For nearly a year, the Duke of Ithorne had sailed alongside Captain Rose, making it clear that they were two different people, but then they’d begun the substitutions. They would meet at the Black Swan Inn in Stowting. After a while, both would leave, but they would have switched identities. Caleb did not attempt to play the duke beyond that. He would journey away from the coast, where the presence of two Captain Roses wouldn’t be marked.
As far as the local people were concerned, the Duke of Ithorne had generously given mastery of the Swan to his bastard half brother, Caleb Rose.
Thorn had known Caleb occasionally engaged in the smuggling trade—nearly every ship on the Kentish coast did—but he’d kept clear of it until the war.
Then Thorn had seized the sanctioned opportunity for adventure. His swift nighttime journeys across the Channel had been presented as smuggling, but he’d been carrying spies and messages for the government. As soon as Christian heard about that, he’d insisted on joining in the fun despite his healing wound, and so Robin had gone along too.
Good times.
Dangerous times, but still memorably good. Danger did add spice to life.
Back on land, safe and mellow on fine French cognac, Thorn had complained of the pressure on him to marry. The other two had fully sympathized, and Robin had come up with the idea of their all taking a vow not to marry before they turned thirty, with the penalty for failure completely intolerable.
It had taken a drunken hour or two to come up with the most intolerable penalty of all—giving money to a cause they detested.
Thorn cleared his throat for effect. “Dated the third day of January, the year of the Lord 1760. ‘Be it resolved that young men should never marry. Therefore, we stalwart bachelors do hereby decree a penalty to be paid by any of us who succumb to that unholy state from this day forth until he achieve the age of thirty. The penalty for failure shall be one thousand guineas donated to Lady Fowler’s Fund for the Moral Reform of London Society.’ ”
Robin looked at him, completely serious. “I can’t. Truly, I can’t. The woman’s insane! It’s a mere trifle that she wants to ban all drinking, dancing, and card playing, but now she has her claws into Petra. I suppose it’s a mild scandal for Rothgar to have sired a daughter when he was sixteen, but the way the Fowler woman slides around the subject you’d think incest is involved. Then there’s his cruelty to his wife.”
“What?”
“Rothgar showed me Fowler’s latest screed. He’s vile for forcing his wife to accept such a scandal beneath her roof. As if Diana cared for that.”
“Rothgar subscribes to the Fowler letter?” Thorn asked, surprised.
“Of course he does. Or someone does on his behalf. Knowing everything is one of his skills.”
Thorn wished he’d thought of doing the same thing. “If the woman’s after the Dark Marquess’s wife and daughter, her days are numbered. And I will applaud.”
“I’d like to call her out. Pity she’s a woman, and an old one at that.”
“Only in her forties, I think,” Christian said.
“But unwell,” said Robin. “It’s said her husband gave her the pox. Enough to make any woman bitter.”
Thorn shook his head. “Softhearted as always.”
“Not softhearted enough to give her a thousand guineas. On top of the rest, she’s now spewing some dangerous political rants. Think what she could do with so much money. Of your kindness, dear souls, may I not give the money to some other cause? A foundling home. A hundred almshouses. Anything!”
“She is dangerous,” Christian agreed, clearly not as drunk as he’d seemed. “Her letters used to be merely a source of amusement, but as Robin says, now she preaches violent action. She and her followers have become a matter of concern.”
“Ah.”
Major Lord Grandiston was now in the Horse Guards, who provided escort for the monarch and were generally involved in matters of his safety.
Remembering that turned Thorn’s mind in another direction. “Do you know the king’s stand on masquerades? I’ve heard him denounce them, but he attended that one Rothgar held last year.”
“And almost fell to an assassin,” Robin said.
Christian grimaced. “Embarrassing for all concerned, I gather.”
“Not for Rothgar. He had the opportunity to nobly put his body between assassin and king.”
“If you’re suggesting he staged it,” said Robin, “don’t. The assassin died.”
“What’s one death here or there?”
Robin rolled his eyes and poured more brandy.
“I have an interest in such matters,” Thorn said to Christian, cradling his glass. “I’m the host of the Olympian Revels this year, and it would suit me for the king to attend.”
Christian raised a hand. “I’m not the man for subtle courtly machinations. I can suggest only that if he does attend, he’ll have guards in costumes.”
“That won’t be difficult. Traditionally the men dress according to their position—members of Parliament in senatorial togas and military gentlemen in armor of roughly classical design.”
“Real weapons?” Christian asked.
“No. But if some are on official duty…”
“Satisfactory.”
But Robin said, “I doubt he’ll attend. The revels are somewhat notorious, and I’m not aware of him attending any thus far. The previous king, of course, delighted in them.”
“Mine will be suitable for the most delicate sensibilities,” Thorn said.
The other two stared at him.
He smiled. “I merely mean no costumes that expose truly unsuitable parts, and no open orgy.”
His friends still stared.
“You fear I will be unforgivably dull? There will be some additions. Theater people to play guests of the livelier sort.”
“Ingenious,” said Robin. “What would the revels be if bored ladies and gentlemen had no one to flirt with, and perhaps do more? But your hirelings will keep it out of sight. Pity I won’t be there to witness the attempt.”
“I will,” said Christian. “Even if the king doesn’t attend, I won’t miss this modern miracle.”
“Why won’t you attend?” Thorn asked Robin.
“Petra’s with child. We’ll be living quietly for a while.”
From what he knew of the imminent Countess of Huntersdown, Thorn wondered about that, but he didn’t raise doubts.
Christian asked, “Why a tame revel? Hardly in your style.”
“Perhaps I’m adjusting my style.” Thorn didn’t want even Christian and Robin probing his plans, however, so he waved the paper still in his hand. “Lady Fowler? I agree it’s regrettable, but a vow is a vow, especially when it requires us to pay not just for the folly of marriage, but for the folly of framing such a vow in the first place.”
Robin rose to snatch the paper from Thorn’s hand to reread it. “There’s nothing in here about how I pay.”
“True. What do you have in mind?”
“Anonymity. It’s one thing to give her the money, but another for her to know it comes from me. She’d probably blast it around the world in her plaguey letter. Perhaps even claim it as proof that her accusations were correct.”
“She would, wouldn’t she? Very well, I’ll funnel it. I have so many lawyers and bankers concerned with my affairs, Lady Fowler will never know where the money comes from.”
“Thank you, thank you, th
ank you, beloved cousin.” Robin took a stiff drink of brandy. Then he smiled. “Good practice for when you fall. Odds on you’re next.”
Christian laughed, but Thorn said, “You might be right.”
“What?” Christian exploded. “Thorn, Thorn, think of another thousand guineas to the Fowl Fund.”
But Robin asked, “You’re in love?” with all the bright excitement of the new convert.
“No. And having watched you over the past little while, it seems a contagion much to be avoided.” He sipped his brandy. “There was an incident on the Swan a month ago. Simple mischance in a storm, but it could have been the end of me. I am the last of my line.”
“But it’s the only pleasure you have,” Christian protested.
“Not true, but yes, being master of the Black Swan is an important part of me. I’ve given it up for now. One or, better, two boys in the nursery and I’d be free again.”
“Do you know how long that could take?” Christian asked.
“I believe I’m tolerably competent at arithmetic.”
“Three or more years away from the Black Swan? You can’t do it.”
“I can do anything I set my mind to.”
“You should marry,” Robin said. “No, I’m not speaking as the besotted lover. You need a family, and the only way to truly have one is to make your own. Anyway, it’ll shake up your orderly life beyond reformation.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my orderly life,” Thorn said, keeping tight rein on his temper. “And I’ll be cast into turmoil only if I fall in love. I intend to make a rational marriage to someone perfectly suited to the burden of being a duchess.”
“You’re not serious, are you?” Christian asked.
“I doubt I have the temperament for mad passion.”
“Yes, you do. I’ve seen you on the Swan.”
“A ship might be female, but she’s not a woman.”
“But the fire’s in you. It’ll flare one day.”
“What about you?” Thorn demanded. “You’re a veritable inferno.”
“And can burn freely. With a clutch of brothers, I carry no responsibility at all.”
