The Secret Duke

by Jo Beverley

  Bella’s face went hot. She hoped it was taken for embarrassment or anger. “Peg heard gossip from Cars Green. Hard to believe.”

  “But true, my dear. I have that from most reliable sources. Quite shocking. Sir Augustus has always seemed so . . . otherwise.” He shook his head. “Of course, such a salacious story, and involving three magistrates, has spread.”

  Bella had hoped it would be confined to one area, but as soon as Peg had received the gossip, she’d known that could not be. “I don’t suppose it makes much difference.” She sighed. “Dust on dirt.”

  He put down his cup. “I have been giving your situation considerable thought, my dear. Considerable thought. Your father made much of your sin, but he was known for his stern and unforgiving nature. Given how impeccable your behavior has been since, many may doubt that old story, given encouragement.”

  “My behavior was impeccable under duress, sir. And now there’s my time as Bellona.”

  “We will forget Bellona Flint. You have simply lived very quietly for the past six months, recovering your health and constitution.”

  “Will that be believed?”

  “If there’s no reason to doubt it. Consider, you never committed a sin or caused a scandal under the noses of those who matter.”

  Bella thought of the Olympian Revels, and of the Hart and Hare. But no one knew that had been Bella Barstowe.

  “Most of the people who matter,” he continued, “have never heard of you.”

  “They’ve probably heard of Augustus,” she pointed out.

  “But can be persuaded to pity you the connection rather than apply his dirt to you.”

  Bella wrinkled her brow. “Do you really think so?”

  “I would not deceive you, my dear. Especially on such a matter. Lady Raddall would come back to haunt me. I do believe that if you present yourself to society again, and under the cloak of the right lady, you could be accepted.”

  “Could be?” Bella queried, wary of hoping.

  “It will take courage, and some of the bold spirit that put you in peril all those years ago, but also the same spirit that rescued you then.”

  “Peg Gussage refers to that as my March- hare madness.”

  “Does she indeed? But I would like to see you frolic.” He took more cake. “Delicious. Mistress Gussage is a treasure.”

  “Yes,” Bella agreed. “But what lady would give her support to someone like me? Are you thinking of Athena? Her husband will never permit it.”

  “Even if your sister were willing, Miss Barstowe, she does not have the stature. I have already broached the matter discreetly to some ladies I know.”

  “Oh. Who?”

  Perhaps he smirked. “The Trayce sisters. They were acquainted with your great-grandmother in Tunbridge Wells.” Yes, he was very satisfied with himself for some reason.

  “Trayce. I believe Lady Raddall did mention them, but they seemed somewhat odd. One wears a huge red wig and another is dotty?”

  “Your great-grandmother was odd in the eyes of many,” Mr. Clatterford pointed out. “The Trayce ladies are eccentric, to be sure, but not to be discounted. The very opposite. They are aunts of both the Marquess of Ashart and the Marquess of Rothgar, and though they rarely travel, or even gad about the Wells, they are copious letter writers and wield great influence.”

  “But if they don’t go into society, what can they do for me?”

  “Their mere smile would work miracles.”

  “Really?” This was all sounding very unlikely to Bella, though something about the name was familiar. Then it came to her. “Trayce! They’re on the subscription list for Lady Fowler’s letter. Are they of her type?”

  Mr. Clatterford chuckled. “Absolutely not, but I’m not surprised they receive the letter. They enjoy a juicy scandal sheet. You do realize that many of the subscribers to that letter do so for the enjoyment of the stories she shares?”

  “I have come to, poor lady.”

  “She has no idea?”

  “By now, I doubt she has any idea about anything, but she used to see the letter’s growing popularity as proof that she was changing the world.”

  He shook his head. “A sad case, but I believe your situation can be improved. Are you willing to move to Tunbridge Wells? To live with the Trayce ladies for a while? You can act as a companion to them, but you would be treated as a guest.”

  Bella’s instinct was to refuse. She’d determined to cope on her own, but another sanctuary was very tempting. Just for a little while. Especially if it might restore her reputation.

  Hopes stirred.

  She quashed them before she sank back into sorrow.

  “What of Peg?” she asked. “And there’s the boy, Ed Grange.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I doubt it would be suitable to take them to your new home, my dear, but I would be loath to let Mistress Gussage go. She does have a wonderful way with cakes.”

  Bella smiled. “I’m sure she’ll bake some for you whenever you visit, sir.” Bella was thinking. “I could afford to keep up this house, could I not?”

  “If you wish.”

  Bella didn’t tell him about the other ladies, but that meant she could give them the use of this house and escape with an easy conscience.

  “Then Peg and Ed can stay here for now, and if the Trayce ladies will befriend me, I will go.”

  “Excellent. Once you have spent some time with them, you will have entrée anywhere. Anyone of importance who visits the Wells pays homage at their house, and Lady Thalia and Lady Urania do go about the town a little. Once people have accepted your acquaintance there, they must accept it elsewhere, and, of course, they will soon see what an estimable young lady you are.”

  Bella raised her brows.

  “None of that. You are most estimable, my dear. There are also many eligible young men who visit the Wells,” he added with a twinkle. “It is time you thought of marriage.”

  Bella blushed again. “I do,” she replied honestly. “But I will marry only for love.”

  “Love joined with wisdom,” he advised, “so please don’t play the March hare in such matters. Consult me, Miss Barstowe, before commitment. There are many charming rascals about, and you do have a modest fortune.”

  “A comfortable annuity.”

  “But that ends at thirty, at which time you receive the complete inheritance.”

  “Do I?” Bella asked, startled. “Perhaps you told me at the first, but my head was spinning. How much will it be, do you think?”

  “Still in the region of fifteen thousand, for the interest is paying your income. Enough to tempt a patient rascal, however, so you must have settlements to protect you.”

  Fifteen thousand, in her own hands, under her own control. It was alarming. “I promise you, Mr. Clatterford, I will only marry wisely.”

  That was easy to say, for at the moment Bella couldn’t imagine marrying anyone other than Thorn.

  “I return to the Wells in three days. Will you be able to travel with me?”

  Bella would need to explain it all to Peg and arrange for the money to maintain the house. Then help the women to move here. “I have arrangements to make.”

  “I find myself impatient to see you a fashionable young lady in Tunbridge Wells, accepted by society, dancing at balls. Attending masquerades . . .”

  Bella almost jumped in her chair, but she managed a smile. “It sounds delightful.”

  “You will come?”

  Impulsively, Bella said, “Yes. In three days I will come.”

  Mr. Clatterford assisted Bella with the practical arrangements, and she made the house ready for the women to move into after she left. Because there’d be more room then, she found two foundling maids to serve them. The girls weren’t as quick and clever as Kitty and Annie, but they were steady workers.

  She claimed illness as reason for not visiting Lady Fowler’s house, for there was nothing she could do there. She stayed inside, readying the house and also making small improvement
s to her gowns, being Bella, not Bellona, every delightful day.

  It was seven o’clock at night and she was packing the last few items for the next day’s journey when she heard the door knocker. She peered out of her window and saw a woman below. She knew the hat. It was Mary Evesham’s.

  She ran to the head of the stairs and caught Peg on her way across the hall. “Say I’m not home!” she hissed.

  Peg opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Miss Flint. I need to speak to her.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. She’s not at home.”

  “Not at home? I thought she was unwell.”

  “She’s at the doctor’s,” Peg said.

  “At this hour?”

  Bella thought Peg might get flustered, but she should have known better.

  “I can take a message, ma’am, and give it to her when she returns.”

  After a moment, Mary said, “Very well. Please tell her it’s urgent. She’s needed. If she’s at all capable of it, will she please come to Lady Fowler’s? Matters are so very, very grave.”

  “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.

  Be warned. Your work has come to the notice of the authorities. Flee while there is yet time.

  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.”

  Chapter 28

  Thorn 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.

  My apologies, Ithorne,

  But I fear I must impose on you, as I am committed to leaving Town today by matters that cannot be put off. I am sending my secretary, Carruthers, to explain a situation of some delicacy, in which I seek your assistance.

  Rothgar

  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?”