The Secret Duke

by Jo Beverley

  With high regard, Mary Evesham

  The letters troubled Bella deeply, but why had all these women written to her? She was the youngest among them and had no power to change anything.

  Thorn had said she was a leader. She’d disagreed, but perhaps he’d been right in saying that people saw her that way. Was a leader simply someone who chose to act rather than wring their hands? And did sheep in distress look for anyone to lead them out of trouble?

  She was uncomfortable with thinking of the letter writers as sheep, but even Mary, with her good sense, and Hortensia, so fierce and sharp, were penniless and dependent. That was enough to drain the courage from anyone. It had trapped her at Carscourt for four years.

  All the same, Bella wanted to toss the letters in the fire and proceed with her plan to leave London. She had no duty to these women.

  She buttered more bread and spread plum jam on it thickly. This situation was nothing to do with her, and the more disastrous it was likely to be, the less she should have to do with it.

  She couldn’t even put the food in her mouth.

  She groaned, but accepted that she’d have to at least visit Lady Fowler’s once or suffer the guilt of it all her life. Perhaps it was simply wild speculation and panic. She’d seen alarms over nothing go through the house like a fire.

  In addition, she owed something to Lady Fowler herself. She had provided a refuge when Bella had needed one, and she probably was dying.

  Kitty returned with the blue dress and Bella’s prettier underwear.

  “Ah. I’m afraid I need one of Bellona’s gowns after all. I need to make one last visit.”

  Kitty’s face fell and Bella braced for a long argument against the action. But her dismayed comment was, “No stays then, miss.”

  Bella burst out laughing. “No stays. But tomorrow, I promise.”

  Bella had been Bellona for six months. It hadn’t felt strange to her, even at first. Perhaps Bellona had been a natural fit for the frozen person who had escaped Carscourt. Now it felt a more uncomfortable disguise than Kelano or her other recent personas. As she walked to Lady Fowler’s house, she feared everyone must know she wasn’t who she appeared to be.

  At the door she thought of knocking, because she felt she no longer belonged, but she walked in. Ellen Spencer came out of the scriptorium—the room where the flock transcribed the Fowler letter. Ellen stared, squeaked, and ran upstairs.

  Bella watched her, astonished.

  Then others were around her, fussing, explaining, and talking over one another so she couldn’t understand a thing.

  “Silence!” she commanded, and was obeyed.

  Ah, yes. Bellona was back and the sheep knew their grim shepherd. She again wanted to turn and run, but she couldn’t abandon them.

  “The parlor,” she said, and led the way. Once there, she demanded, “What’s the fuss?” A dozen mouths opened. “Just one of you.”

  “Oh, Bellona,” said Clara, dabbing at tears, “I’m so happy you’re back. You’ll know what to do.”

  She attempted an explanation, but it wandered and was often interrupted by others. Some things were clear: Lady Fowler was confined to her bed and said to be raving, but no one was permitted in her room but the Drummond sisters and Ellen Spencer.

  “Why Ellen?” Bella asked. “She’s not been here long.”

  “We don’t know,” said Mary Evesham, “but there was something odd about her coming here, and she seems devoted to the Drummonds. She does anything Helena or Olivia tells her.”

  “And now they’re planning a news sheet!” Clara wailed.

  “The Drummonds? They haven’t used the press before?” Bella asked, surprised.

  “Olivia printed copies of Lady Fowler’s most recent letter,” Hortensia said. “It worked very well. Some of us took copies out and paid female street urchins to give them to ladies in the better parts of town. So as not to leave a trail back to here, you see.”

  Bella wrinkled her brow. “But if it was the Fowler letter, wouldn’t everyone know where it came from?”

  “Of course we left off the name and address,” Hortensia said, sharp as a blade.

  “But even so . . .” Bella abandoned any attempt to point out logic, aware of so many anxious eyes. “I gather the forces of the law have not descended, so all must be well.”

  Mary Evesham agreed. “We appear to be safe. But I think Lady Fowler was disappointed. I fear she actually wants to be dragged into court.”

  “Ah,” Bella breathed. “To go down in history like John Wilkes. To be a martyr.”

  “I don’t want to be a martyr,” Clara protested. “Save us, Bellona!”

  How? But Bella didn’t speak the word. A leader’s task, she thought, was to give at least the illusion that someone was certain and unafraid.

  “You say a news sheet is planned. What will it say?”

  “We don’t know,” said Mary. “Some of us managed to do the typesetting of the letter, but it’s slow, difficult work. It all has to be done backward. But now there’s a typesetter. Mr. Smith is so very swift and accurate, but we don’t know what the sheets say. They print only one to test the plate, and Olivia Drummond takes it straight to Lady Fowler.”

  “I fear it will be as you said, Bellona,” said Celia Pottersby, a thin, pale widow who always predicted the worst. “A publication like the issue of the North Briton that put John Wilkes in the Tower. If he hadn’t been a member of Parliament, they would have hanged him for saying such terrible things against the king. Lady Fowler is planning treason, and we’ll all hang with her. . . .”

  “No!” Clara gasped. “They can’t! We have nothing to do with it.”

  “They arrested the printers of the North Briton,” said Hortensia, who never found a fact too harsh to be faced. “And any others connected.”

  “They can’t arrest nearly twenty respectable women,” Bella said, hoping that was true. Some looked reassured, but others didn’t.

  “What of the typesetter?” she asked. “Surely he can tell what words he’s setting.”

  “With the name Smith?” asked Mary dryly. “He’ll pocket his money and disappear. This is all a consequence of that thousand guineas.”

  “It was a curse on us,” agreed Celia. “A viper planted among us by a wicked man.”

  Perhaps by the Duke of Ithorne, Bella thought. Her investigations had led to a legal firm that did much work for him, and he might have motive to wish Lady Fowler harm. Lady Fowler had turned viciously against the Marquess of Rothgar over the matter of his bastard daughter, and that daughter had married the Earl of Huntersdown, who was Ithorne’s cousin, and apparently a friend. Huntersdown was married to that bastard daughter, so the attacks might seem doubly offensive to the duke.

  Ithorne probably was angry, but how could he have dreamed up such a complex revenge? He couldn’t have been able to predict the disastrous results of the grand donation.

  If Ithorne had been the cause of these problems, however, Bella might have reason to appeal to Thorn. She could ask him to speak to his brother on their behalf. To appeal to his sense of justice.

  Part of her leapt eagerly toward an excuse to contact him—which meant the other part must slam that door and lock it.

  How long, how long until this insanity passed?

  “I’m sure the situation can’t be so bad,” she said to the anxious women. “It is simply necessary to keep a cool head.”

  Elizabeth Shutton said, “I do believe my son and daughter-in-law would benefit from my wisdom.” She was a widow in her fifties who lived here almost as if it were a hotel, never attempting to do any work.

  “But, Elizabeth,” Clara said, “you’ve always said you’d be unhappy as a charity case in your old home.”

  “Nonsense,” Elizabeth said, and swept out.

  Clara looked confused, but Bella had always suspected that Mistress Shutton wasn’t as short of money as she claimed. Perhaps others would find other homes more appealing than this one now. She hoped so.


  She rose. “I must pay my respects to Lady Fowler.”

  After a long absence such a visit would be natural, but Clara gasped, Mary grimaced, and Hortensia said, “She’s raving.”

  Celia raised a lace- trimmed handkerchief to her nose. “And the smell.”

  Bella braced herself and went upstairs.

  Ellen Spencer was on guard, but her eyes were huge behind her spectacles. “Lady Fowler’s not receiving,” she said, but it came out faintly.

  Bella summoned Bellona’s flinty points. “Out of my way,” she snapped, and swept forward.

  With a gasped, “Oh, dear!” Ellen stumbled out of danger.

  Bella opened the door, but stopped, hit by heat and, yes, stink. The fire burned high, and Lady Fowler was propped in a sitting position in her big bed. She was definitely close to death. Her breath rasped in and out, and her face had shrunk down almost to the bones, covered by yellowish skin.

  “Who is it?” she asked in a breathy croak.

  Was she blind?

  “Bellona,” Bella said, her voice soft with pity despite everything. This was a sad end to a sad life.

  Helena Drummond rose from a chair by the bed. “Get out of here. Can’t you see Lady Fowler is too ill for guests?”

  “I’m no guest.” Bella closed the door and walked forward.

  Helena barred her way. Bella shoved her. She must have put all her fury at this situation into it, for Helena stumbled back and thumped down on the carpet.

  Bella went to the bedside, hand over her nose, hoping Lady Fowler was too blind to see. Hoping the lady couldn’t smell her own rot.

  “Lady Fowler,” she said softly, already running with sweat. “I’m sorry to find you in this state.”

  “Bellona? Where have you been? You did not have permission to go.”

  Bella smiled slightly. The old arrogance was still there. “I told you I was leaving, madam. I had family business to attend to.”

  “Your family cast you off.”

  “Even so. What can I do for you?”

  A clawlike hand reached out. Bella put hers into it. The skin was hot, dry, and flaky. It felt as if it might crack or rub away.

  “Help with my great work,” Lady Fowler begged.

  “What is it?”

  “Say no more!” cried Helena, grabbing Bella and trying to pull her away from the bed. “She’s a spy, ma’am. That’s where she’s been. Conferring with your enemies. She’s only returned to prevent your great work.”

  Bella grabbed the bed curtains and struggled to stay where she was. “That’s not true. What is this great work?”

  But Lady Fowler was gasping for breath, wheezing in what air she could. Agnes Hoover, her personal maid, was at her side instantly, raising her and holding a glass to her lips. “Here, my love, my pet. Drink this.” She glared up. “Get away, all of you. Leave her to die in peace.”

  “An excellent idea,” Bella said, turning to face Helena.

  “We are her handmaidens in this work,” Helena said. “I never leave her side.”

  Bella had to give her credit for fortitude. She couldn’t bear the room a moment longer and retreated to the door. She paused there. “Has a doctor been sent for?”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do,” said Agnes, not looking away from her mistress. “I have medicines to soothe her.” She did look up then, directly at Bella. “It won’t be long.”

  She was about sixty and Bella had never seen her face without a scowl, but Bella felt Agnes was begging her to provide calm for her mistress’s dying days. Another person looking to her. She left the room and inhaled a deep breath of relatively pure air. The corridor was deserted, so she took a moment to think.

  She wanted nothing to do with any of this, but she couldn’t abandon all these women. She might be the youngest, but unlike all of them except the Drummonds she hadn’t been beaten down by life. She also had her independent income. That was like owning a pistol when the rest of them were completely defenseless.

  What to do?

  Clearly Lady Fowler was beyond help, but she must also be beyond doing more harm. The Drummond sisters were the danger, but Helena, the most dangerous, had pinned herself up here. Bella wondered about that. What purpose did it serve?

  Olivia had always been the one most involved with the printing press. She was probably down there now. The simplest action would be to disable the press.

  Bella went down the servants’ staircase. It took her first to the kitchen, where the three servants looked at her with anxious and pleading expressions. Them too?

  She gave them a vague smile and continued to the room where the press had been set up. When she opened the door, a man turned. Then he stared, looking very wary.

  Yes. “Mr. Smith” had no intention of being connected to this enterprise. She wondered how much he was being paid to take the risk. He was a short, thin man of about forty with brown hair. He was in shirtsleeves and wearing a leather apron.

  “I’m Bellona Flint,” Bella said, “one of Lady Fowler’s closest confidantes. I’ve been away. I wanted to be sure you had everything you require.”

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

  Bella nodded. “And the press is in good order?”

  “Not my job. I’m the typesetter.”

  “Ah. I assume the type is in good order, then. I gather some of the ladies used it, and I fear they may have disordered things.”

  He let out a snort. “Made a pig’s dinner of it and damaged some, but that’ll have to be as it is. You’ll have to tell the others that they need to print the first two pages now, so I can reuse the type for the next ones.”

  He turned back to his work. Bella watched for a moment, appreciating the lifetime of practice that enabled him to reach without looking to the correct box for each letter. Pick up the square of lead, place, and tap into place. Pick up, place, tap into place.

  She went to the press, but looking at it told her nothing, and she couldn’t tamper with it while the typesetter was there. She wondered what hours he worked.

  She left and went up to the parlor and asked.

  “He works late,” Mary said.

  “And arrives early,” Bella guessed. “Eager to finish the work and be gone. He says someone needs to print the first two pages. Where’s Olivia?”

  Uneasy glances flittered around. “Out somewhere,” Hortensia said. “Comes and goes as she pleases!”

  No reason for any of them not to do the same, Bella thought. Did they feel imprisoned? Or as if they were in a convent, needing permission from the mother superior?

  She remembered Thorn’s comments about convents.

  No. She wouldn’t think of everything in reference to him.

  “In any case,” said Mary with wry meaning, “Mr. Smith insists that any printing happen at night when he’s not here. Disturbs him, he says.”

  “I see. Then it will have to be tonight. I will return to assist.” Bella needed to read what was being created here before she made any other decisions. She pulled on her gloves. “After being away, I have a number of matters to attend to, so I’ll leave for a while.”

  “How is Lady Fowler?” asked Clara anxiously.

  Bella wished she could soften it. “Close to death, I think.”

  The ladies gasped and moaned, and Bella thought that perhaps someone would truly mourn Lady Fowler. But then Clara asked, “What will become of us?”

  “Perhaps she’ll have made provision in her will?” Celia suggested anxiously.

  Bella hoped so. If the flock could continue to live here, she wouldn’t have to worry about them.

  “She had her lawyer here about it,” Mary said.

  “That could be good news,” Bella said.

  “It could. Of course, Helena was the only one with her. . . .”

  Their eyes met. Mary, like Bella, didn’t trust any will made under Drummond influence. Another thing to do: write to Mr. Clatterford and seek his advice on wills made under influence.

  Ch
apter 25

  Thorn found it damnably difficult to concentrate, and there was much that he should focus on. Food prices had soared since the end of the war and it was causing unrest. Possible solutions were subject to intense debate, including the troublesome corn laws. The American colonies were objecting to the taxes imposed to pay for their defense against the French. The pestilential issue of John Wilkes and his treasonous edition of the North Briton dragged on and on. The man’s flight to France hadn’t ended the matter.

  Overstone had prepared lengthy reports on every issue that might conceivably have importance. Provisions for the navy. Pay for the army. Agricultural improvements in Norfolk. Thorn was reading over all this when his cousin Robin walked in.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Thorn demanded.

  Robin’s brows went up. “Business. I did write. Hoping to stay here rather than a club, the house being unprepared.” He flicked through the pile of unopened letters and pulled out one. He turned it to show that it was from him. “Been away?”

  Thorn frowned at him, but really at himself. Overstone didn’t open letters from friends. All the more reason for Thorn to attend to them first.

  “Dover,” he said.

  “Playing Captain Rose again? Good.” Robin took a small dog out of his pocket. It could only be described as a ball of fluff.

  “ ’Struth, not that,” Thorn complained, but it was a joke.

  Robin had acquired the papillon dog in France, and the creature considered itself an essential accessory. Robin indulged it, and took Coquette nearly everywhere, even to court.

  “Tabitha,” Thorn said, “don’t eat the butterfly.”

  Tabitha looked up and closed the basket. Coquette pranced over to sniff. Robin laughed.

  “I don’t play when I’m Captain Rose,” Thorn said. “In fact, I rarely get to play at all.”

  “That could change. Did you know people are smuggling sheep to France?”

  “Sheep? To France?”

  Robin’s smile was pure mischief. “English sheep being superior to French ones. Don’t you think we should stop the trade? I’m due for a time as Lieutenant Sparrow.”