Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  Well, while the sergeant was working on the prisoner, he would see if he couldn’t find another more willing beauty to tempt the prince with. Once he had another outlet for his passion, he would forget about Miss Cunningham, the duke was sure of it.

  * * *

  On return to Newgate Beth was not reunited with her cellmates, but instead was led into a small, windowless cold room in the bowels of the prison, lit by tallow candles whose rancid fat smell warred with the odours of damp and effluent and which cast enough light to show that the walls were glistening with damp. Once there she was told that she was to stand, and was forbidden to sit or lie down. Then she was left with a young soldier to guard her, who was told not to touch or interact in any way with the prisoner.

  She stood for perhaps an hour and then she sat down, leaning against the wall.

  “You can’t sit down,” the soldier said to her.

  “Yes I can, as you can plainly see,” she said.

  “You have to stand up. You’re not allowed to sit.”

  “Well here I am, sitting, and to hell with what I’m allowed,” she replied. She stretched her legs out in front of her.

  He came to her, and putting his hands under her arms lifted her up. As soon as he let her go and returned to the corner of the room, she sat down again.

  He had been told not to interact with her in any way. He had already touched her, which strictly speaking was against orders. She could almost see his mind working, wondering what to do.

  After a couple of minutes he banged on the door, then waited. In due course the sergeant appeared. He eyed the prisoner, who looked to be very comfortable leaning against the wet stone wall.

  “You were told to keep her standing, Private,” the sergeant said.

  “Yes, but she won’t stand up, and you said I’m not allowed to touch her,” the soldier pointed out.

  The sergeant walked over to her.

  “Get up,” he ordered.

  She ignored him.

  He bent down and grabbing a fistful of her hair, dragged her to her feet. To his astonishment, although her face contorted with the pain, she made no sound.

  “Now you will do as you’re told, and bloody well stand!” he roared in her face. The private flinched. The sergeant let her go and walked to the door.

  Beth sat down. The sergeant turned back to her.

  “Let us both save some time,” Beth said conversationally. “I am not going to stand up because you tell me to. I am not going to stand up unless I wish to. I am not going to tell the Dukes of Newcastle or Cumberland anything at all, as I have made quite clear to them. So you can drag me up and down all day, if it makes you happy. I really don’t care.”

  His fist clenched and he took a step towards her. Inwardly she braced herself, waiting for the blow. Then to her surprise he beckoned to the private and they both left the room.

  She sat, shivering and feeling the damp from the walls soak through her cotton dress. She looked at the door, saw the grille was shut, and then put her hand gently on her stomach.

  “I am so, so, sorry,” she whispered to the tiny life growing inside her, “but I cannot save you without condemning your father, and others, and I can’t do that. Better we die together while you’re too small to suffer, than let you be born and die in a place like this or in an orphanage. Please forgive me.”

  She swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall. She must not show weakness now. No matter what. She remembered the girl who had been accused of theft, who she had watched hang, remembered her stamping her feet and standing so proudly on the scaffold, cursing her accuser.

  I can do this, she thought. They will not break me.

  Some time passed and then the sergeant returned, carrying some rope. He handed the rope to the private, who had followed him in, and then hauled Beth unceremoniously to her feet.

  “Tie her arms,” he ordered the young soldier. “Tightly, but not too tight. No, wait.” He drew his knife and cut a piece from the bottom of her quilted petticoat. “Put this between the rope and her wrists so it won’t take the skin off. She mustn’t be marked.”

  Her arms were pulled behind her and tied at the wrists. The sergeant let her go, and then threw the other end of the rope over a beam that ran across the middle of the room just below the ceiling. It had been set there for this express purpose, although normally people would be hung by the neck, their feet just touching the ground, or by the ankles, and then would be beaten until they divulged whatever information they had.

  But this woman could not be marked. And when he had looked her in the eyes, he had seen not only defiance, but despair. If he tied her by the neck as he’d intended, he would not put it past her refusing to stand anyway, and hanging herself. He could not have that. He pulled on the rope until her tied wrists were raised enough that, although her torso was bent over, she had to remain standing or cause herself excruciating pain, then he tied the end of the rope to a hook in the wall.

  Now she wasn’t going anywhere. He walked over to her, and gripping her by the hair, he pulled her head back so she had to look at him. He smiled.

  “Now sit down, you bitch,” he sneered.

  She looked at him for a moment, and then she spat with perfect accuracy straight into his left eye. His hand shot out automatically and grabbed her by the throat.

  “No marks,” she reminded him, her tone mocking.

  He let her go, and trailed one finger down her neck, over her throat and then along the edge of the fashionably low-cut bodice of her dress. Then he plunged his hand inside and pulled, liberating one plump, perfectly-formed breast. He weighed it in his hand and then, bending down, he sucked greedily at the nipple, circling it with his wet tongue. His prick swelled in his breeches. He lifted his gaze to hers, to see her looking at him with the utmost contempt, as though he were something nasty she’d just stepped in. He released the nipple and stood up, leaving her breast hanging out. Her expression didn’t change.

  “One day,” he said, “they’ll get sick of your games. And when they do, I’ll be waiting.” He turned away. “Let me know when she decides to talk,” he told the other man. “Until then enjoy her dugs, but don’t fuck her or mark her.”

  He walked out and shut the door. The soldier waited until he heard the sergeant’s boots retreat down the corridor, then he walked over to Beth.

  “I’m sorry, Miss,” he said, blushing furiously. Very gently he lifted her exposed breast and tucked it back inside the bodice of her dress. Then he stepped away, his eyes lowered.

  She raised her head and stared at him, astonished.

  “What’s your name?” she asked softly.

  “Ned, Miss. Ned Miller.”

  “Thank you, Ned Miller. You’re a gentleman.”

  He looked up then, clearly expecting her to be looking at him with the same derision she’d just bestowed on his sergeant. But her beautiful eyes were warm, and a tear trembled on her lashes. She blinked it away impatiently.

  “He oughtn’t have done that, Miss. T’aint right, treating a lady like that.”

  She smiled at him and he wanted to release her on the spot, but he didn’t dare do that. So he did the only thing he could.

  “Would you like some water, Miss?” he said. “Or some ale? The water in here ain’t fit for a dog to drink.”

  “Will you get into trouble if you give me something to drink?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I can give you water, or ale, but that’s all. And if you want to…well…” he pointed at the bucket in the corner, his face crimson with embarrassment, “I’m supposed to hold it up, while you…er…but that ain’t right neither, so if you don’t tell, I’ll unhook the rope and turn away while you relieve yourself, Miss.”

  She smiled at him.

  “You’re very kind, Ned. Of course I won’t tell. I would love some ale. Thank you.”

  He fetched his flask of ale, and held it to her lips while she drank.

  “Now, I know you’ve been told not to ta
lk to me, and I don’t want your sergeant to be angry, so in case they decide to listen maybe you should keep quiet now. Just one thing, though.”

  “Yes?” he said.

  “My name is Beth. You’re a good man, Ned. Don’t let the army turn you into an animal.”

  “I won’t, Miss…Beth. I promise.”

  He moved back to his place, and she marshalled every ounce of her determination. This was not going to be pleasant. But people had suffered worse, much worse, she was sure. They would not break her. The more they tried, the more determined she was that they would not. Trust and loyalty. Well, she had both, and that would see her through. That and the knowledge that in death she would be reunited with Alex, forever.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  London

  The night Richard had found out that the dowry had disappeared, the child Ann who he’d thought was dead had reappeared, and that everything seemed to be going wrong for him, he’d returned to the Ring O’ Bells and had got thoroughly drunk, after which he’d picked a fight with some random oaf, had been prevented from killing him by the landlord and three of his cronies and had been thrown in the roundhouse for the night to cool down and sober up. The next day he had appeared before the magistrate, who had released him immediately on discovering that his drunken ramblings of the night before about meeting the Duke of Cumberland were actually backed up by a missive to that effect.

  Then he had gone back to the Ring O’ Bells, with numerous bells and hammers ringing inside his own head as the alcohol wore off and the hangover kicked in, to be told by the disgruntled landlord that he owed a goodly sum for the overnight stabling of his horse and the replacement of two chairs and a table which had been demolished in the brawl.

  Normally he would have balked at the ridiculous sum the landlord asked for, but he was very aware that if he did, he might end up either in the roundhouse again, or in a ditch somewhere, bleeding, and time was now of the essence if he was to arrive in London in time for his interview. So grudgingly he paid up, silently vowing vengeance at a later date.

  All this meant that he arrived in London with not even enough time to go home and bathe before his appointment. He had to make do with changing his travel-stained breeches and stockings in the back room of an inn, where he also brushed the worst of the mud off his coat and gave his boots a quick polish.

  This was all very unsatisfactory, and as a result the Richard Cunningham who was now sitting on a chair outside the Duke of Newcastle’s offices, awaiting the great man’s pleasure, was almost paralysed with anxiety, which was not helped by the long carpeted corridor he had had to walk down before reaching the double doors outside which he was now waiting, flanked on both sides by forbidding statues of Roman Emperors. He stared at them now, trying to compose himself. He wiped his sweating palms on his breeches and took a deep steadying breath.

  Although he knew these were Newcastle’s offices, he assumed that the Duke of Cumberland was using them due to the fact that St James’s Palace, where he normally resided, was permanently besieged with people wishing to congratulate the hero of Culloden on saving them from papist tyranny.

  So when he was finally shown in and saw not Prince William Augustus, but Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle waiting for him, his first reaction was one of acute disappointment. However he managed to cover it up well, and stood smartly to attention until invited to sit down, which he did, removing his hat and placing it on the floor at his side.

  The duke called for refreshments and then turned to the young man sitting opposite him.

  “Firstly, Captain Cunningham, I must convey Prince William’s apologies. He had intended to see you himself today, but as you will appreciate he is a very busy man, so has asked me to take his place. I hope you are not too disappointed?”

  Oh, God. Perhaps he hadn’t covered it up well after all.

  “No, of course not. I am deeply honoured that you would condescend to notice me at all, Your Grace,” he gushed. Was that too much?

  “Quite. So I will come straight to the matter at hand. You will of course be aware that your brother-in-law, Sir Anthony Peters, has turned out to be a traitor of the most perfidious kind.”

  Richard reddened.

  “Yes, I am aware of that. Although I believe that means that the marriage between him and Be…Elizabeth was invalid, and so he is not actually related to me in any way, Your Grace.”

  The duke had been perusing a paper on his desk, but at these words he looked up.

  “You are correct, Captain. I have taken the time to read over your file. It seems that in the past four years you have advanced considerably, rising from Sergeant to Captain. Quite remarkable.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I have worked –”

  “However,” the duke interrupted, “I also note that your promotions were all financed by the spy known as Sir Anthony Peters. I am sure you will understand that this casts an interesting light over your career so far, which may preclude any future promotions.”

  Richard felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead, although the room was not overly warm. If anyone else had said this to him, he would have called them out for the insinuation that he was a party to Sir Anthony’s treachery.

  But this was the Duke of Newcastle.

  You did not challenge the Duke of Newcastle to a duel, no matter how he impugned your character.

  “Your Grace, I assure you that when I accepted his help I had absolutely no idea what manner of man he was. Nobody did. Even the king himself had no idea –”

  The duke raised his hand imperiously, and Richard fell silent.

  “I am not saying that I believe you to have been in collusion with this traitor, Captain. I acknowledge that your dedication to duty in pacifying the Highlands has been most…impressive. Your colonel has remarked upon it to me himself.”

  Richard brightened a little.

  “Nevertheless, I’m sure you can see how this might look to others. If you wish to be promoted to Major in the future, with all the trust and responsibility that entails, your reputation must be impeccable in every way. Do you agree, Captain?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” What was the duke up to? One minute he was suggesting that he would never rise any higher, and the next he was talking about promotion to Major. Richard was thoroughly confused. The refreshments arrived and Richard accepted a cup of coffee and a honey pastry. He took a bite of the pastry.

  “Good,” the duke continued, once the servant had vacated the room. “Now, you are almost certainly not aware that your sister was taken prisoner at Culloden and is at the moment in Newgate Gaol.”

  Richard had been about to take a sip of his coffee, but on hearing this totally unexpected news he froze in shock and the cup tilted, spilling the hot liquid onto his lap. It took all of his presence of mind not to swear and leap up. He put the cup down on the table and drew out his handkerchief, mopping at the spreading brown stain ineffectually while the duke regarded him impassively.

  “I see that has come as something of a surprise to you, Captain,” Newcastle said with spectacular understatement once Richard had given up on the stain and replaced his handkerchief in his pocket.

  “It has,” he agreed, his mind racing. Culloden? What the hell was she doing at Culloden? He knew she was a hellion, but not even in his worst nightmares could he imagine her charging over the moor, broadsword in hand. “Um…Culloden, Your Grace?”

  “You were also at Culloden, were you not?”

  “Yes,” Richard said, “but I had no idea…I didn’t see her there. Why was she there?”

  “We can only surmise. She refuses to tell us anything. We must assume that she was accompanying this Anthony fellow. She was hiding in a hut with some other rebel women and when the soldiers discovered them, she stabbed one of them, killing him.”

  Richard tried to imagine Sir Anthony mincing across the battlefield dressed in silk and lace, and failed. Then he tried to imagine his sister stabbing a soldier, and succeeded. He closed
his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again the duke was staring intently at him.

  “We have no time to lose, Captain. She was wounded at Culloden and rescued by the Duke of Cumberland himself. It was nearly a month before she was out of danger. Since then she has been treated exceptionally well, due to the duke’s…former friendship with her. But she has repaid us with insolence and a blank refusal to divulge anything whatsoever about the real identity of Sir Anthony. She is now being held in more insalubrious conditions, but still persists in her ridiculous loyalty to the traitor. She is bringing your whole family into disrepute by her attitude, sir. And that is why the duke and myself saw fit to call you to London. You are her closest family member and therefore stand to lose or gain the most by her cooperation, or lack of it.”

  “I…er…we are not really close, Your Grace. I left home while she was still a child, and we did not see each other again until after father died.”

  “But then you were reconciled, clearly. That is the reason Sir Anthony volunteered to pay for your commission, is it not? Or is there another reason I should know about?”

  Richard coloured. Shit. He could not tell the duke the real reason why Sir Anthony had paid for his commission. To do so he would have to betray that he had suspected Beth to be a papist. And that she had threatened to stab the king and declare for the Pretender, which unstable behaviour had led to him intensifying the search for a suitable match. No. That would incriminate him beyond redemption.

  “No, there is no other reason,” he said hurriedly. “I would be only too pleased to help you in any way I can. What do you wish me to do, Your Grace?”

  “I was hoping that you might be able to persuade her to see sense, Captain. You probably know her better than anyone, having shared a childhood, or part of one, and will no doubt be able to draw on family memories and obligations perhaps, to bring her round. And of course you will be aware that there is a large reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the traitor. But I am sure, having married into wealth, you will not be concerned with this. If you succeed however, you will have the gratitude of both myself and Prince William. Do you think you are up to the task?”