by Jo Beverley
“Won’t your bride object?”
Robin pulled a face. “Petra’s more likely to insist on coming. No,” he corrected, “she’s being very sensible now that she’s carrying our child, but that would make her more cross at me if I went off adventuring.”
“I admit to the temptation,” Thorn said, leaning back. “Hunting illicit sheep in the Black Swan.”
With Lieutenant Sparrow and Pagan the Pirate. And even Buccaneer Bella?
Thorn came to his senses and straighened. “The sheep trade will have to succeed or fail without my intervention. I’m drowning in work. What brings you to Town?”
“Rothgar.”
“So he pulls your strings now, does he?”
Robin gave him a look. “I’ve never had the problem with him that you do.”
“You don’t outrank him.”
“I still outrank most of England and none has become an obsession. In truth, I admire him. Don’t always agree with him, but he’s devilish clever and disgustingly high-minded.”
“He always looks after his own interests first.”
“He doesn’t neglect his own interests. There’s a difference. He bears you no ill will.”
“Which I find rather galling.”
“What? You think he should shiver in his shoes at the thought of you? Stop being a blockhead over this.”
Thorn flinched under Robin’s rare anger. “Let’s talk about something more interesting. How’s Petra?”
“No, let’s not.”
Robin was lighthearted to a fault, but when he took that tone, a wise man paid attention.
“What do you want? Or should it be, what does he want?”
“A meeting,” Robin said.
“We met. We negotiated Christian’s affair. We even cooperated. We meet at court and in Parliament all the time.”
“You know what I mean.”
Thorn picked up a paperweight, then realized he was fiddling and put it down. “Why?”
“Britain has peace and it looks likely to stick, which is lulling people into thinking all is well, but there’s a deal of trouble stirring.”
“Is that your insight or your father-in-law’s?”
“You won’t irritate me with that gibe. The evidence is clear, but yes, he’s applied a lens that makes it clearer. The troubles in the colonies aren’t going away. That Otis seems able to stir emotions, and now others follow where he leads. Their arguments are absurd, but if Britain mishandles the situation, we could lose the entire Americas to the French.”
“But not if Rothgar and I man the barricades together?”
Robin rolled his eyes. “You and he are among the few powerful men not driven by self-interest. In his case, I believe it’s a moral choice. In yours, I see it as more because there’s nothing you want that you don’t have.”
Thorn worked very hard at keeping his face still, but he did say, “My freedom?”
“You have Captain Rose. Or, no, you’ve given it up. Is that what has you growling? Get back to sea now.”
“I thought I was needed to save the kingdom from disaster.”
Robin inhaled.
Thorn said, “I’ve given up Captain Rose for now because I should continue the line before endangering myself again. If you want to be useful, find me the perfect wife.”
“Marry one of Christian’s sisters.”
“He warned me off.”
“What?” Robin asked, astonished.
“Months ago. He wants me to marry for love.”
“So do I.”
“So might I, but love doesn’t come so easily to me. At least, not with the right women.”
Robin became more alert. “Who’s the wrong one?”
“Forget it.”
“Not if you’ve fallen in love. Only consider. Petra isn’t the ‘right woman’ for me, and most people would have thought Caro a bad match for the heir to an earldom.”
“Petra was raised an aristocrat,” Thorn said. “She navigates our world with ease, despite being a bastard Catholic foreigner. Being Rothgar’s bastard helps rather than hurts. Caro was raised as gentry, and that’s Christian’s background, despite the earldom. She’ll fit comfortably into Devon society, and with luck it’ll be decades before she has to be a countess. I don’t have that luxury. I need to marry a duchess.”
Robin didn’t immediately protest, which was telling, but then he said, “Unless your beloved’s a dairymaid, she’ll learn.”
“She’s a dairymaid,” Thorn agreed.
Robin swore at him, pleasantly.
“I’ll meet Rothgar,” Thorn said. “Anything to get you out of here. When and where?”
A hiss made them both turn.
They both acted.
Sable had escaped to play with a new friend, and Tabitha was about to rush to the rescue. Robin snatched his ridiculous dog out of danger, but Coquette came with a kitten clinging to her back, and Tabitha was ready for one of her mighty leaps.
Thorn grabbed the cat from the unarmed end, which meant hindquarters crushed to his chest. Robin was plucking off the kitten, which for some reason was trying to cling. Tabitha thrust with her back legs again. If Thorn hadn’t let go, she might have crushed his ribs. As it was, he tumbled backward onto the carpet, and had to scramble to his feet to try to save Robin.
But Robin had dodged the first leap. He put the kitten on the carpet, Coquette held high.
Tabitha glared, tail swishing, but then she spat at his boots. She grabbed Sable by the ruff and dumped him back in the basket.
“Whew!” Robin said. “Perhaps we should breed the things as warrior cats.”
Thorn rubbed his sore ribs. “Only if they can attack backward. My life,” he said, “is in constant disorder, and I am not pleased.”
“Tell me about it?” Robin asked hopefully.
“No. Tell me when and where I’m supposed to pay homage to Rothgar.”
Robin stroked the agitated dog. “You and I are invited to sup at Malloren House tonight. If convenient. If not, some other time at your convenience. But soon. There is some urgency.”
“The Wilkes affair?”
“Ongoing to the point of tedium. No.” Robin glanced at the door to be sure it was still closed. “The king may not be well.”
That caught all Thorn’s attention. “I’ve heard nothing.”
“It’s being hushed up, but he had a strange turn. News from the colonies had him nearly frothing at the mouth.”
“So he lost his temper. He no longer has the power to order people beheaded on a whim.”
“It wasn’t temper. Or not just temper.” Even though they were alone, Robin lowered his voice. “He seemed, for a very brief while, mad. There have been other signs.”
Thorn paced to the window and back, thinking through the implications. “He has sons.”
“Babes.”
“What happens if the king goes mad? Forced abdication?”
“A regency, more like. But who? The queen? She’s very young and doesn’t speak good English. The next obvious person would be the king’s mother.”
“Who is under the influence of Bute.”
“And perhaps under him in other ways. Then there’s his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland.”
“No.”
“No,” Robin agreed. “There’s no good obvious choice, which means that factions at court and in Parliament will war over it.”
“Meaning the king could go stark, staring mad and no regent appointed?”
“It’s possible. Or completely the wrong regent. Rothgar believes a group of trustworthy men should stand ready to act in concert if necessary.”
“With him the obvious choice for regent?”
“You won’t believe me, but no.”
“Does a leopard change its spots?”
“A leopard can have a mate and cubs. I know how that changes everything. Rothgar’s already shifted most of his attention from statecraft to domestic concerns. Now he awaits the birth of his first legitimate child
in December. He truly does not want to run the country. Accept my word on this, Thorn.”
“I can’t stop being wary, Robin, but in this situation, I’ll try. Very well, tonight.”
Robin considered him. “In friendship?”
“I can’t go that far, but I hope I’m rational.”
“And you have a spare corner here for me?”
“A cupboard, perhaps.” Thorn rang for a footman. “What of your nursery matters? Petra is well, I assume.”
“Robust to a fault, but she wants to spend Christmas at Rothgar Abbey.”
“Shouldn’t you be at your own place for the season?”
“Mother can rule over the festivities. It will be Petra’s first English Christmas, and she wants to spend it with her father and new family. And also greet her half brother or sister.”
“How typical that Rothgar arrange for his child to be due at Christmas.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
Thorn laughed. “That was meant to be amusing. Traveling will do Petra no harm if you take it slowly.”
“I know, but I worry. I suppose any man does.”
“Unfortunately no, but any loving husband must.” He turned to the footman and asked for the housekeeper.
When the man had left, Robin said, “If you’re in love, cousin, try very hard to make her your wife.”
“Even if I know she’ll be miserable?”
“With the man she loves? That must be the case or you wouldn’t even consider it. She’ll learn to be a duchess. If you’ve fallen in love with her, she has to be extraordinary.”
“Leave it be, Robin. You above all people know love is not always eternal. You tumbled in and out of it. In a few weeks I’ll have forgotten her name, especially if serious matters are in hand.”
“What is her name?”
“Bella.” Damnation. He’d not meant to say that.
The housekeeper came in.
“A room for Lord Huntersdown, if you please.” To Robin he said, “Off you go. If I’m to fritter away the night, I need to work even harder.”
Robin went, but in his room he immediately sat to write a letter to Christian in Devon.
Whom do we know called Bella? Thorn is smitten, but thinks her unsuitable. We need to act. He took a trip to Dover recently. Anyone come to mind?
He signed it, folded it, sealed it, and sent it off.
Bella returned to Lady Fowler’s house that evening. Some of the ladies were in the parlor taking tea, but she found a few in the basement helping to print the sheets. Olivia glared at her, but had no excuse to order her away.
Bella was intrigued by the machine itself, which seemed quite simple. The typesetter had put all the letters into a kind of box in the middle of the wooden frame. Plump Betsy Abercrombie, who was always indiscriminately willing, was pressing ink onto the letters with a stuffed ball of cloth. Ellen Spencer, looking anxious as always, placed a sheet of paper in the frame, and Olivia heaved on a lever twice to squeeze a large flat surface down onto the paper. Then she raised the press and Ellen took the paper off, the text in place.
A page in a moment.
“How wonderful!” Bella exclaimed, and in a way it was. She went over as if to admire, but in fact to read.
Olivia stepped in her way. “Don’t touch anything, Bellona. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Bella had caught a glimpse, however, and even though the sheet was upside down, she’d seen the words “Tyranny” and “Oppression,” notable for the capital letters.
She let herself be turned back toward the press and watched the process again. After a little while, she said, “I see I’m not needed, so I’ll return upstairs.”
The press must definitely be disabled, but sheets were already being printed. She wished she’d tried harder to tamper with it earlier. Now she’d have to attempt to destroy the sheets as well.
Some ladies still sat in the parlor, worrying over tea. Above, she heard nothing but could sense the hot, malodorous room of death. Should she attempt to see Lady Fowler again? She knew she’d make no impression on the woman, and Helena Drummond would be there on guard.
If she was the leader here, she felt herself a weak and useless one. She needed to not just pretend she knew what to do; she needed a plan.
Chapter 26
Thorn knew it was unbalanced to feel wary as he and Robin climbed out of his coach in the front court-yard of Malloren House, but he couldn’t believe that Rothgar’s purposes were completely benign.
He was out of sorts anyway after having to run the gauntlet of petitioners at his door. He’d been tempted to slip out of his house quietly, as he often did to avoid notice, but after having shirked his duties for so long he hadn’t permitted himself that luxury. In any case, when heading off to face Rothgar, it had seemed important to do so with due pomp, by the front door.
He knew some high aristocrats who enjoyed being the recipient of this kind of groveling, seeing it as proof of their importance. He disliked it, perhaps because he wasn’t able to brush haughtily past them as such men did.
He made it his practice not just to take the letters they thrust at him, but to listen for a moment or two. He was often tempted to give money then and there, but that would only encourage a horde of beggars to camp out on his doorstep. He passed the letters to Overstone, who would review them. Many would be cases of genuine hardship, for times were difficult. Some would want his help with matters before the courts, and it was true that influence could turn the direction of a case. He never did that, however, unless he saw grave injustice. He wanted to help every desperate one of them, but in truth it was in the hope that eventually there’d be no more. He might as well try to drain the Thames.
As he’d dealt with the petitioners, he’d even resented Robin, passing along untroubled in his wake. On his own doorstep, Robin would encounter similar, but not so many. An earl was not a duke.
Now, as he and Robin entered Malloren House, he felt wary and out of sorts. They passed over their hats and gloves, and were led to a room of modest size. It reminded him in some odd way of the inn parlor in Upstone. The walls were painted an ivory shade rather than being whitewashed, and the paintings were far finer, but the overall cozy look was the same. The fire burned merrily in a hearth enclosed in a marble mantelpiece, but a fire gave the same heat for king or peasant.
A settee and two chairs sat before the fire. On the other side of the room a modest table was laid for four.
Four?
Rothgar greeted them dressed in comfortable style, his only ornament his signet ring and a rather excessive diamond that Thorn gathered had been a gift from his wife. He seemed to wear it like a wedding ring. Thorn had thought that ridiculous, but now, with Bella haunting his mind, he wondered if he might be tempted to do the same.
Bella, however, would not be able to afford such a splendid sign of ownership. Rothgar’s wife was Countess of Arradale in her own right, and rich enough to afford diamonds. She was exactly the right wife for the great marquess, and the Duke of Ithorne should marry a similar lady.
He gathered his wits and greeted his host, glad to have guessed correctly and dressed in the same plain style. Talk was instantly casual—of racehorses and artists, inventions and mechanicals. Thorn had wondered if Rothgar’s enthusiasm for clocks was to forge a connection to the king, but it was clearly genuine. He’d taken a close interest in Mr. Harrison’s chronometer.
So had Thorn, but because of the implications for navigation. He was unlikely to ever sail a ship far from a coastline, but being able to navigate accurately across oceans was a grand thing. He found himself truly enjoying the discussion and decided not to fight that.
A new arrival was announced.
The Duke of Bridgwater.
As everyone bowed, Thorn was intrigued. For one thing, Bridgwater was one of the young dukes, close in age to himself. A few years ago, he’d been a member of lively circles, but after a disappointment in love he’d retreated to his northern estates
and turned his devotion to canals. That marked him as eccentric to the point of insanity, especially as he was known as the Poor Duke and had to scrimp and save to fund the work. His waterways, however, were now carrying his coal cheaply to market and beginning to revolutionize transport, and people viewed Bridgwater differently.
He was still an unprepossessing figure, slender, pale, and always looking sickly. He also had a diffident manner, but Thorn knew he’d never been as unsure of himself as he seemed, and his wits were keen on matters that interested him.
They sat to their meal, served by one presumably very discreet footman, and talked of politics, statecraft, and engineering. Thorn continued to enjoy himself and eventually realized it was because he was truly among equals.
Had Bridgwater been invited solely for that reason? It wasn’t a matter only of high rank, though that formed a common perspective, but a similarity of mind, despite the men’s striking differences.
They were all knowledgeable, and if they lacked knowledge on any subject, they felt no need to pretend otherwise. On politics, they all understood how the complex machines of Parliament, influence, money, trade, and international connections operated. They all seemed to agree on what was important or unimportant.
Rothgar, however, was the clear leader here. He was a decade older, and that decade had been spent steeped in such matters under two kings.
“There are pivot points in history,” he said as they sipped brandy, the footman having departed. “Europe’s move into the eastern Mediterranean with the Crusades. The Renaissance. The Reformation. I believe we are on the brink of another such time, and though the consequences of these pivots were eventually good and necessary, none were pure pleasure for those who lived through them.”
“The Renaissance?” Thorn questioned.
“Was mostly benign, but change destroys. It must. Many found that their traditional ways were no longer necessary. And thus it always is. Consider the spinning wheel.”
Thorn hoped he hadn’t shown that he missed the relevance of spinning wheels to the discussion.
It was Robin who said, “The spinning jenny. Soon there’ll be no need for the cottage spinners.”