Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  He refused to leave the Manor until he was taken to his friend’s bedside. Then he kicked the rest of them out of the ducal bedchamber and sat beside his emaciated friend. “Your Grace,” Sir Reginald said with deep concern, “What is going on? What are they doing to you?”

  The Duke could barely speak, but he managed to say, “Help Joanna. Gaol.”

  “Joanna? Who is Joanna?” For a moment he thought his old friend must be raving.

  But little by little, the Duke made himself understood. Joanna Bagley was the woman he loved. Joanna was a gypsy, and apparently she was in gaol on the capital charge of poisoning or hexing him. It was she, not the Duke, who was in immediate danger for her life.

  And there was a child, named Hannah. She, too, must be protected and aided.

  As best as Sir Reginald could piece it all together, the accusations against this Joanna came from the Duchess and her father, who hated the Duke. Sir Reginald should watch his own back—these people would stop at nothing to seize power over everything the Duke owned, and to hurt anyone who stood in their way.

  And Sir Reginald should write to New South Wales. There was a distant cousin there named Rowland Albertson. He would be the next Duke. He would need Sir Reginald’s help, or otherwise all the Dukedom’s assets would be robbed before that young man could take ship from Australia to claim his rights.

  “Your Grace, how about Lady Daphne and the Princess ? They are your sisters, your next of kin. They should know about your situation.”

  The Duke struggled to speak. “No, not them—I don’t trust them. The Duchess has won them both over. They’re closer to her than to me. Just—just do what I’ve asked.”

  With his work cut out for him, and only half understanding what was going on, Sir Reginald swore to his friend he would do everything in his power to set matters right.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, at the other side of the globe, a gentleman with the surname of Albertson was going about his business as a sheep rancher.

  Rowland—or “Rowley,” as his many friends affectionately called him—rarely thought of his family connections back “home” in England. Indeed, he had left there as a baby, and he had no recollections of the place, other than what he read in books.

  Back in England, his father had been a second son of a second son of the great ducal family of Gresham. With the Dukedom entailed, like most great estates, there was little left for anyone but the principal male heir to live upon. Other offspring had to shift for themselves.

  Albertson’s father, a man of much intelligence and energy but little wealth, had set out for Australia soon after it first opened up for colonization. He had brought his wife and son along on the long, treacherous ship voyage.

  The elder Albertson died a wealthy man. His sheep ranches covered countless acres of fertile grassland, and his enterprises employed many hundreds of people. Aristocratic roots counted for nothing here in this new world, but hard work and a good brain would get a man far.

  His son, Rowley, a young man of eighteen, took over his father’s legacy. He had had little formal education—this was Australia, after all, not Oxford or Cambridge! But he, like his father, was highly intelligent and widely read.

  With England and the Dukedom of Gresham far from his thoughts, it was a surprise to Rowley to receive, by mail boat, a curious letter from one Sir Reginald Smyth, K.C., written nearly three months before.

  It seemed Sir Reginald was a good friend of Rowley’s distant kinsman, the 10th Duke. He wrote to inform young Mr. Albertson that he was writing at the Duke’s own instructions.

  The Duke, although barely thirty himself, appeared to be gravely ill, from some inexplicable cause. It was only fair, the sick Duke believed, that Mr. Albertson should be informed that the Duke himself had no sons, and no other senior branches of the family had produced a male sprig.

  In the unfortunate event of the Duke’s death, the title and all the Dukedom’s vast holdings would pass to Mr. Albertson.

  In the florid manner of letter-writing still apparently popular back in England, Sir Reginald stated himself to be Mr. Albertson’s faithful servant. He promised that on behalf of his lifelong friend the Duke, he would ensure that Mr. Albertson’s inheritance passed to him well protected, in no way harmed or diminished by third parties.

  To Rowley’s eye, it was a queer sort of letter. So he was the 10th Duke’s heir. That was all well and good. He had never expected it—to own and manage his late father’s vast ranches and businesses was already, in Rowley’s opinion, to have entered into the Kingdom of Heaven.

  In fact, Rowley reflected, it might prove a bit of an inconvenience to have to go to England at some point and take on these unexpected family responsibilities. But he would do his duty, of course.

  But what were all these hints about the Dukedom facing harm or diminution? England, in Rowley’s imagination, was a peaceful, sleepy place, and ducal inheritances there were not usually the subject of high drama—not since the War of the Roses, at least.

  It was with these thoughts on his mind that Rowley rode into town, at the head of a convoy of wagons bringing his ranch’s prize sheep to market. Botany Bay was bustling, due to the arrival the prior day of the English mail boat. The taverns were full.

  His pockets full of gold guineas from successful livestock sales, Rowley paid off his ranch hands generously, then strolled to find refreshment at whichever tavern could find him a seat.

  It was by the merest chance that he found himself knocking back a tankard of ale at The Rollicking Maid. At a table a few feet from him, men were talking loudly, laughing and clapping each other on the back. Amazingly, he thought he overheard the word “Gresham.” Then, he heard it again. There could be no mistake.

  A brash, loudly dressed fellow, typical of the confidence men and petty criminals who made money here in this lawless new colony, was waving a letter and reading bits from it to an enthralled audience of fellow drinkers.

  It seemed clear the letter was newly received, perhaps off the same English mail boat that had brought Rowley’s own letter.

  “But, Brown, how does he say he’ll manage it? Cuckolding a Duke, leaving a cuckoo in the nest with the Duchess of Gresham—surely he’ll be caught and horsewhipped, at the least.”

  “He’s doing it already!” said Brown. “Every night in milady’s room, regular as clockwork! At the urging of the Duchess’s own father! You see, there’s an entail, and the Duchess can’t let some distant kin inherit, or she’ll be out the door. And if my brother can plant a son in her, to inherit the Dukedom after the Duke dies, why, there’s a fortune in it for my brother. Which he plans to bring here, I’ll have you know.”

  “Maybe something in the scheme for all of us, then,” said one character shrewdly.

  “Ah, no,” said another man, less hardbitten than his friends. “This is a dirty business, too dirty even for the likes of us, mates! And who’s to say the Duke will die? Is yer brother God Almighty, then, Brown, to know such a thing?”

  “Nay. But that’s another part of the plan he writes about,” Brown said gleefully. “My brother has it on good information that the Duchess and the father-in-law are trying to kill the Duke slowly, and they’ll blame some gypsy wench for it. Which is why they’ll have to pay my brother a king’s ransom to keep his gob shut. He’ll be like a pig in clover, he will.”

  Rowley had heard enough. Suddenly the barrister’s misgivings about the state of the Dukedom made perfect sense. But the lawyer didn’t have the facts Rowley now had. Rowley rapidly slipped out of the tavern and into a nearby inn. “The use of a room for a few hours,” he ordered. “And paper, quill, and ink. On the double.”

  The mail boat leaves for England at the dawn tide tomorrow. I may be too late. But I have to get a detailed letter to my cousin the Duke, telling him what I just heard.

  * * *

  Back in England, Sir Reginald had his hands full. He had learned with very little effort who Joanna Bagley was. The love between the b
eautiful gypsy and the Duke was well known. It seemed it must have begun years ago, for there was an eight-year-old child in the picture. That must be Hannah, Sir Reginald surmised.

  Bagley, Bagley…. Sir Reginald’s sharp legal mind rarely forgot a key fact in a case. Hadn’t there been a Traveller named Bagley years ago whom the current Duke had rescued from hanging—defying his noble father to fight the man’s cause? Was that this Joanna’s father? Did they know each other even then? The matter certainly seemed quite personal to him back then….

  For his friend the Duke’s sake, Sir Reginald researched every defense he could bring to Joanna’s aid. But the case was bleak against her.

  The strange herbs found twisted into an amulet in her room at the Manor…the mysterious runes in her possession…the eyewitness testimony of the Duchess’s maid…the fact that the Duke had become sick while spending almost all his time with her—so much circumstantial evidence would seem compelling to a jury.

  And the presiding magistrate, Sir William Dobbie—Sir Reginald’s own old mentor—was known to be a man of the deepest Christian piety. The merest hint of heresy, much less paganistic practices, would prejudice him completely against the accused.

  The weeks passed. March became April, and April became May. The Gresham Assizes were duly scheduled, and “Joanna Bagley, Accused” was likely to be the main attraction.

  Sir Reginald was rapidly losing hope. He saw no legal ploy by which he could save Joanna.

  * * *

  The night before the trial began, The Shield and Crown was buzzing with speculation about the hearing. Would they hang the gypsy woman, or burn her at the stake as a witch? Some called it a pity. Others said it was no more than she deserved.

  Cormac had only just arrived in Gresham with the rest of the Travellers, in time to camp there for the coming summer. The Duke’s illness and the charges against Joanna were all news to him. Horrified, he tried to understand what people were saying.

  After a while, it became clear to the crowd at the public house that there was no fiddle music. They had seen the musician tossing back his ale. They knew he was in the house. They began to call for Cormac by name. He had been playing here for years, whenever the Travellers were in the vicinity, and he was a popular figure.

  “Cormac! Cormac! Some music for us!”

  Mac stood up and mounted the little dais where musicians played. He stayed silent till the crowd settled down. He raised his hand.

  “Friends, I’ve been coming here among ye for years.”

  “Cormac! Cormac!” the crowd cheered encouragingly.

  He raised his hand again for silence. “Friends, I come back to this town after many months on the road, and what do I hear? That a lovely young woman, one of me own people, is falsely on trial for trying to murder His Grace the Duke.”

  “Filthy murderess!” someone yelled.

  “Witch! Satan worshipper!” cried others.

  “She’s no witch, me friends. She’s a kind, good young lady, a young mother, in fact. I’ve known her since the lass was a bairn.”

  “Mother to a bastard, you mean!” another heckler called out. “Mother to the Duke’s own bastard!”

  “Well, now,” Cormac said levelly, “as to that, I can’t rightly say. But even if ‘twere true, would they ha’ been the first lad and lass to lie in the grass together of a summer evening, and find themselves with a baby nine months later? But even if what ye say is true, she’d care more for yon Duke as a result. She’d have no wish to kill him. Be fair, now.”

  “She seduced him! She used witchcraft on him! Ye gypsies are all alike, ye thieving, scheming pagans!”

  “I can tell ye this, friends. The Travellers in these parts know the Duke for a fine, good man, and one we’re proud to serve. Not one of us would willingly see harm come to him. Why, he saved the life of Joanna’s father years back—saved him from hanging. Think ye she’d harm the man who did her that favor?”

  Cormac moved as if to step off the dais. “There will be no music from me tonight, friends. Me heart is just not in it.”

  As he turned away, the first bottle came flying at him. “Filthy gypsy! Get out of our town, ye pagan animal!” A hail of bottles followed. Cormac had to fight his way to the door, clutching his fiddle to him as he was pelted with everything the mob could lay its hands on.

  He awoke hours later, alone in the alley behind the public house. His face and his clothes were soaked in his own blood.

  Chapter 34

  And A Child Shall Lead Them

  They were two hours into the trial, and Sir Reginald could tell things were not going well.

  He had volunteered to present the accused’s legal defense. It now seemed an impossible case to win.

  The Duke, the victim of the prisoner’s alleged attacks, was far too sick to attend. In fact, immediately after he had stated to the Duchess his intention of attending the trial a week before, he suffered one of his worst relapses yet.

  His absence only emphasized to the magistrate and jury the severity of the poisons Joanna must have used on him.

  The Duchess was present in Court. She was dressed somberly, as if preparing for the mourning that might soon be required of her. Although her eyes were quite dry, she clutched a handkerchief, which she used to good effect.

  The Duchess’s personal maid accompanied her. The maid carried, among other things, a small Bible, which Her Grace read piously to herself during breaks in the trial.

  Joanna looked very young, very beautiful, and very frightened. Her vulnerability only seemed to whet the crowd’s appetite for her blood. A number of times, Sir William Dobbie had to pound his gavel and demand silence from the mob.

  Worst of all, as far as Sir Reginald could see, the old magistrate appeared to have pre-judged the case. Sir William could be seen staring from time to time at Joanna, in the way one would stare at a particularly loathsome, dangerous insect.

  A pagan, a witch, an adulteress—it was not likely Sir William would see anything redeeming in the character of the prisoner before him.

  The morning dragged on. Mr. Coleman was one of the first to give testimony. When he was finished, he respectfully asked the magistrate to permit him to leave. “With His Grace so sick, and my daughter the Duchess weighed down with worry, many responsibilities fall on my shoulders now, I fear.”

  Sir William bade him farewell. He expressed the sincere thanks of the Court and the Crown for Mr. Coleman’s admirable sense of civic duty in appearing before them all that morning.

  * * *

  Hannah was mostly left to her own devices that day. Many of the household staff were missing, giving testimony in Court as commanded by the Duchess. Hannah knew that Cook had refused to go, but with so many of her workers absent, Cook clearly had her hands full.

  Cook told Hannah to help out Tilly, a sweet but rather simpleminded girl who worked as a junior parlormaid. Hannah did not mind being left with Tilly. The maid was usually lost in her own little world, humming tunes and mumbling to herself. As a result, Hannah could wander and explore the house quite freely.

  They were in the library, a masculine sort of room. Tilly was wiping the leather seats with an oiled cloth, concentrating on coaxing the lustre from the old upholstery.

  Hannah slipped silently among the aisles of old books. Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted Mr. Coleman. He seemed unaware of the servants’ unobtrusive presence. Not unlike Simple Tilly, he was muttering audibly to himself.

  Hannah watched, fascinated, as Mr. Coleman pressed a spot on one wooden wall panel. A case of books creaked as it moved outward. Behind it was an opening into a secret room.

  Mr. Coleman entered the room.

  Hannah followed him.

  “Almost there, now,” she heard the portly old gentleman chortle to himself. “Today, the witch will be condemned to die. And then, we just step up the dosage, and soon that fool of a Duke will go to join his fools of aristocratic ancestors.”

  Hannah was almost nine, an
d she had a sharp mind. When she heard the word “witch,” she knew Mr. Coleman was speaking of her mother.

  Mama is no witch! But that terrible man thinks she is, and he is trying to kill her.

  “The Duke will then be dead within a week, once I increase the dose of the poison. I am safe—people will blame the gypsy witch. Of course, there’s an antidote, but that idiot of a country physician won’t think of it unless someone tells him what the poison is. And who is going to do that? Medicine knows little about the effects of….”

  He said a word. Hannah fiercely committed that word to memory.

  Because the Duke was her Papa. At least, some of the gossips said he was. Hannah did not understand how that could be true—His Grace already had a wife, and it was not Mama.

  But Hannah did not care about the details. His Grace was kind to her—he laughed with happiness whenever he met her—he swung her up in his big arms and called her his little darling. The Duke could call himself her Papa anytime he wished, as far as she was concerned.

  This man is trying to kill my Papa. By next week. He said so.

  Hannah heard a slight rustle nearby. Tilly was standing beside her. Tilly had followed her into the secret chamber, and she, too, had heard everything.

  Mr. Coleman puttered around the room, gathering implements: a mortar and pestle, some ground powders, some jars of liquid, and other things.

  “I’ll have to step up the dose drastically,” Mr. Coleman said to himself. “He has to die soon. Why, the slightest recovery…last week he was threatening he’d be in Court today, to testify on behalf of the witch. We need an end to this.”

  Hannah and Tilly looked at each other. Tilly put a warning finger to her lips. Maybe she’s not as simple as they say?

  Tilly wordlessly pulled at the little girl’s arm and gestured with her chin toward the opening leading back to the library. Very, very silently, she led, and Hannah followed.