by Jo Beverley
It had taken courage to visit the very masculine world of a gunsmith’s and buy a pistol. Probably Bella Barstowe couldn’t have done it, but Bellona Flint could. She’d arranged for private lessons early in the morning at an establishment where men practiced their shooting. She returned every week to fire a few shots, and she kept her pistol in perfect order. She would never be so wantonly vulnerable again.
She doubted she could kill anyone, even Augustus, however, especially in cold blood.
She attacked the face paint anew, remembering what Coxy had said about Captain Rose. How astonishing that he’d done his best to protect her.
He’d affected her life in so many ways. First by rescuing a stranger, then by showing her the power of a gun. He’d worked with her as a partner in the stables, trusting her to do the right thing.
Perhaps without that time with him, she might not have found the resolution to refuse an intolerable marriage. Without the seeds sown then, she might not have had the strength to build a new life.
If only he were here now to strengthen her again . . .
She laughed at herself. As well wish for Oberon the Fairy King.
Kitty came in with the tea tray. “Why, miss, whatever’s the matter?”
Bella smoothed her expression. “Nothing, Kitty, except this paint. It won’t come off.”
“You need hot water and soap, miss. I’ll fetch it.”
Kitty left, and Bella stared blindly at her own reflection. . . .
Could Clatterford help her? She knew he’d be as outraged as she at the story, but was it something the law could address? Even if they could find Coxy again, they’d never get him to testify in court. Given that, she’d better not mention it at all, for she feared she’d have to break some laws before the deed was complete.
She wanted to ruin Augustus as he had ruined her. She sat up straighter. Could that be her revenge? Simply revealing that he was a gamester might be shriveling enough for a man such as him. It wouldn’t completely satisfy the ferocious anger inside her, but it would damage her brother’s reputation and save Charlotte Langham.
How to achieve even that, however?
Lady Fowler might include his shame in her letter if there was proof. If not, perhaps Bella could circulate her own account of his sins. But first she needed proof, and she had no idea how to get it.
Where did men play dice and cards away from the eyes of people who knew them? She wished she’d forced such details out of Coxy. How could someone like herself—a young, inexperienced woman—invade such a place and then expose what went on to public scorn?
She remembered Captain Rose. Now, there was a man who doubtless knew. He was probably a gamester himself and knew all about a gamester’s haunts, but she viewed her mind’s path with alarm. No, she couldn’t go to Dover in search of a man she’d met so briefly four years ago.
She saw no other plan, however, and she must do something or go mad.
As soon as she accepted the plan, an amazing calm settled around her. It brought a certainty she’d experienced only once before—when she’d decided she must escape from that room in Dover at all costs.
That had gone against her instinct to wait to be rescued and she’d had to overcome a powerful fear of climbing down so far, but she’d done it, and it had definitely been for the best.
Because of the help of Captain Rose.
She poured herself tea and drank it, making clear plans.
She must leave as soon as possible. Her purpose did not allow for delay.
She thought it took about twelve hours to travel to Dover, but it was a good road with frequent coaches, some of which traveled through the night. She would do that and be there tomorrow.
She suddenly remembered the Goat and the goatherd who might return tomorrow, full of lascivious hopes. All the more reason to leave Town, though he and his tempting ways had shrunk to a speck of importance beside her need to ruin Augustus.
Was her brother also a seducer of innocents? A drunkard? Now that she knew of one vice, she suspected there were many others.
Kitty came in with the hot water.
“Pack for me, Kitty. I’m going to Dover.”
Kitty almost dropped the jug. “Dover, miss?”
“Yes, Dover, and as soon as may be. Have Annie purchase me an inside seat on the earliest possible fly.”
“Just you, miss?”
Bella was caught off guard. A lady would take her maid on such a journey, but she didn’t want Kitty with her. The girl would worry, and Bella would worry about her. This enterprise could be dangerous.
“Just me,” she said firmly. “I’ll be perfectly safe on a public coach, and there’ll be inn servants to assist me as necessary. Many women travel alone that way.”
“Not ladies of your status, miss.”
“My status is not so very high.”
As she’d hoped, Kitty didn’t feel sure enough of her ground to argue.
“I’ll clean my face while you pack, and I’m going as Bella, not Bellona. I’ll travel in one of Bellona’s gowns because they’re practical, but pack the ones we bought from Mistress Moray.”
“And the stays, miss?” Kitty asked hopefully.
“And the stays,” Bella conceded, pretending a sigh.
She had to wear stays and more fashionable gowns, because Captain Rose would expect someone similar to the young lady he’d rescued, but she couldn’t regret it. A few short months ago she’d scurried into hiding as Bellona Flint, fearing casual recognition, but also wanting to look plain and older so as to fit in with Lady Fowler’s set. As Kelano she’d had a taste of being herself, and it had changed everything. Bellona felt like a prison, but Bella felt like a pair of comfortable shoes after a time in ones that pinched.
She realized something else.
Bella, not Bellona, should wreak havoc on Sir Augustus Barstowe.
Augustus.
The cause of all her troubles, and with not a scrap of shame or compassion in him.
Bella Barstowe would see him in hell—she swore it—even if she had to join him there.
Thorn had taken off his mask as soon as the mysterious Kelano left, and put it in a valise, which he was now carrying home, simply another footman on an errand. In the livery of dark blue with silver braid, and wearing a powdered wig, he was virtually invisible in fashionable London, and being invisible was a luxury.
He sometimes played the footman simply to escape for an hour or so from being the damned Duke of Ithorne. Captain Rose was a better escape, but he hadn’t put on that disguise in months now. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold out.
He had gone out on the Black Swan, but as the owner, the duke, he’d had to be rather distant with men he drank and rollicked with as Rose. It wasn’t the same.
Thorn watched a flock of grubby lads race by, involved in some game that made sense to them alone. He didn’t envy them, but he wished he’d had a time when he hadn’t been a duke.
Even George, king of England, had known childhood and youth without the ultimate burden, but there’d been no such mercy for Thorn. His earliest memories involved people saying, “Come along to bed, Your Grace,” Or “Drink your milk, Your Grace.”
He shrugged. As with the king, there was no escape save death. He only prayed there were no titles and ranks in heaven.
A wench with dark hair made him pause, but of course it wasn’t Kelano.
Who knew why one woman sparked desire in a man whilst another—as pretty, as charming, as alluring—did not? He knew only that it happened, and he hadn’t been able to get Kelano out of his mind. He wasn’t sure if he’d hoped this encounter would end in bed, or cure him of a passing folly, but it had done neither. Her clever resistance only made the chase more interesting.
He should have set people to watch and follow, but he’d assumed they’d either come to good terms and she’d reveal her true self, or he’d find her charms vanished by daylight. Now she was tangling his mind, and would do so until he’d solved the myster
y.
A foolish young woman aware of walking into a trap, but with wit and steel beyond her years. Would she return tomorrow? Would he? She could be setting a very clever marriage trap. Nearly everyone at the revels had either instantly known his identity or been told.
Wiser to let her slip away.
He entered his mansion by the back door, as a footman should, and snatched a jam tart from the kitchen table as he passed by. His pastry cook shouted and waved a fist, but then recognized him. The man still shook his head.
Thorn went up the back stairs and through the plain door to the luxurious ducal realm. In his rooms he stripped off the wig and livery and Joseph took charge of it.
“It went well, sir?” Joseph asked.
“Neither well nor not well,” Thorn said carelessly, running his comb through his hair.
Joseph passed him a fresh shirt. He was not a chatterer, but was a very good listener.
“She was less light and flighty than at the revels,” Thorn said as he fastened the five buttons. “I admit to disappointment.”
“Perhaps she simply wanted her trinket back, sir.” Joseph held out brown breeches.
“It’s a nothing and she treated it as such. On reflection, however, I don’t dislike her restraint. It makes the game much more interesting.”
“Always, sir,” said the valet, reflecting Thorn’s slight smile, but adding, “As long as it’s not a dangerous game.”
“The dangerous ones are the best sort,” Thorn protested with a grin, “but I’m trying to be good.”
He was soon dressed for a time of working, in plain waistcoat and jacket.
As he slid on the ducal signet ring, Thorn decided that yes, he was pleased Kelano hadn’t proved to be a strumpet. Lovers were easy to find. Intriguing, quick-witted challenges were scarce. He would return tomorrow.
Joseph produced a soft, lace-edged cravat. “You haven’t discovered who she was, sir?”
“No.” Thorn tied it and fixed it with a plain gold pin. “She wasn’t any lady on the list, but people bring friends who happen to be in Town, as long as they’re of high enough station.”
He tied his hair back with a simple ribbon, remembering his exchange with Kelano about face paint. He was glad no looming court visit required him to use any now.
“Some men bring lowborn ladies, of course, but they keep close to them. I wondered at the time if she was one of the theater group, but they have no knowledge of her.”
He surveyed himself in the mirror to be sure nothing was out of place, and approved.
“She’s a mystery, Joseph, and I intend to enjoy her, but the work is doubtless piling up and I must return to harness.”
Chapter 11
The long journey on a full coach gave Bella time to think.
Tangling with Captain Rose was rash, but she knew no one else who might help her. And yes, she admitted, he had lived in her memory as a rescuing hero. If he proved to be a villain, she had her pistol in the small valise tucked by her feet.
No one on the coach was talkative, but they did exchange occasional comments, especially at the short, hurried breaks at inns. Bella was surprised to find that she felt odd as herself—as a soberly dressed young lady—and sometimes slipped into being Bellona, offending others.
As darkness fell, she accepted that she hated living a lie, and she particularly hated being Bellona Flint. Poor Bellona. She’d created her, and now she was going to kill her. She’d cut her connection with Lady Fowler and leave the rented house, and she and Peg would find a new home, honestly.
Sleepless darkness brought doubts, however, and she began to toy with a new identity. Someone more true to herself, but free of danger of scandal.
No. It was as if she became a little fainter, a little more smudged, with each deception. See, she no longer knew who Bella Barstowe was.
Was she the confident, flirtatious girl who’d been snatched from Carscourt so long ago?
Was she the locked- in person she’d become to survive her incarceration?
Had she become sour Bellona Flint?
No, never that.
Was she Kelano of the revels, the foolish woman who’d gone to an assignation with a man she knew to be intent on seduction? Or was that the old Bella revived, as flighty as they’d all accused her of being?
Perhaps she dozed a little, squashed in the middle between a heavyset man and a plump woman, for she woke with a start, prompted by a memory.
The stable lad at the Crown and Anchor!
She was so jolted that she was surprised no one else jerked with alarm. All was quiet, however, so she settled back. Remembering.
When they’d arrived in Dover, her captors had callously told her their plan—to take her to Paris and sell her to a brothel. She’d fainted, and when she’d come to her senses, she’d been locked in a bedchamber at an inn. Finally, she’d accepted that no one was going to come to her aid.
The only blessing was that her passivity on the journey had blunted her captors’ watchfulness. They’d locked her in, but the room had a window. It was on an upper floor, but Bella had been ready to attempt the climb, reasoning that a broken leg would bring her help, and death might truly be preferable to her fate.
She was saved from both by a passing boy. He came along the alley below, whistling and carrying a bucket, so she attracted his attention. When he gaped up at her, she softly asked if he could find a ladder. When he continued to gape, she took off her silver cross and chain and dangled it, promising it would be his if he helped her.
He stared up and said, “Are you a princess?”
Bella almost told the truth, but a fable might work better with a youth. “Yes. And I’ve been captured by a wicked monster who’s disguised himself as a man. He could return at any moment. Please help me!”
The lad dropped his bucket and raced off, to return struggling with a long ladder. It wasn’t at all what she’d hoped for. It was a very crude affair—only cross sticks fixed to a pole. She was desperate enough to ignore that, and in any case, what did it matter? She’d never attempted to climb up or down a ladder of any kind.
It was even more frightening than she’d expected. She wouldn’t have done it if the alternative hadn’t been far, far worse. She wriggled her legs out over the sill, feeling for a rung and clutching to the wooden frame for dear life. Her skirts snagged on the rough wood. She was going to be a ragged mess to add to her troubles.
Finally she had a foot on a rung, but it still took every scrap of her courage to let go of the sill and trust to the wobbly pole. It creaked and swayed as she fumbled her way down, fragile rung by fragile rung.
Once on the ground she’d had to lean against the wall to recover, but she’d pulled herself together. She’d escaped, but she must get far away from the Crown and Anchor.
She’d given the lad the silver cross and chain, and it was that memory that had shocked her so. She’d worried that he’d be accused of stealing it, so she’d promised that if he kept it safe she’d return and give him the price of it. And she’d forgotten.
Everything that had happened afterward had wiped him from her mind, but he could have been transported, even hanged, in the past four years!
What a wretch she was. With all her troubles, she could have asked Lady Raddall to attend to the matter. It was a kind of debt, left unpaid, making her almost as bad as Augustus.
One thing was sure: her first act in Dover, before making the slightest inquiry about Captain Rose, must be to try to find that lad. Had he given her a name?
Her mind was blank, but then she remembered—she thought she remembered—Billy. It was a start, and she would find him, or she deserved no good fortune at all.
She dozed off again, but only fitfully, and dawn found her fully awake if weary, and ready for more plans. A young, unaccompanied lady needed a story to tell, especially if she were going to dally in an inn for days.
This wasn’t the same as being someone else. It was merely a device.
She wou
ld use her own name, but be a governess waiting for a party due to arrive from France. Her dull Bellona gowns would support that role, as would the plainer rag-shop one. Alas, there’d be no wearing of the pretty sprigged print for a while, but it had been complete folly to bring it.
By the time the coach drew up at the Ship Inn, she was ready for her part, but she hadn’t forgotten her duty to the boy who’d helped her.
She waited for her valise to be taken out of the boot, intending to ask for a room at the Ship, but when she heard another passenger ask about the Compass, she revised her plans.
The Compass was where Captain Rose had taken her, and he’d clearly been a familiar guest. As a guest there, she’d be ideally situated to learn more about him. She didn’t expect Captain Rose to be at the Compass now, for he had a ship to sail, but that would suit her perfectly. She intended to find out all she could about him and make a sensible decision about whether to ask his help, and the Compass was the place for that.
A man loaded her small trunk into a cart and set off. Following behind, Bella felt almost light- headed with lack of sleep, but the sea air, made crisp by a slight September chill, woke her up. She began to enjoy being Bella Barstowe, independent and purposeful.
As she drew close to the Compass, however, her new confidence began to fail her. She’d never gone into an inn alone before. Well, she’d entered the Goat—and been taken for a whore!
Clocks struck and she realized it was noon. Was Orion Hunt waiting at the Goat? How would he react when Kelano didn’t arrive? She must hope he’d lose interest. There’d be no more folly like that.
“Ma’am?”
She realized the man with her luggage was looking at her oddly, as if he feared her wits were awry. She squared her shoulders and walked on. No one could think her a whore this time, in her Bellona gown and with her hair drawn back tightly beneath cap and hat.
So it proved. She was given a room without quibble. It was a small room that looked out into a narrow alley, but what else could a governess expect? At least the maid promptly brought a jug of hot water and seemed eager to be of service.
