by Jo Beverley
“She is under arrest for treason.”
Thorn put down the pot. “How in God’s name did she manage that?”
“By association with Lady Fowler, sir, who acquired a printing press. A dangerous piece of equipment, as Wilkes demonstrated.”
“The Fowler letter’s a mere scandal sheet, providing amusement for the haute volée. What did they print? Some royal peccadillo?”
“Alas, no, sir.” Thorn could tell Carruthers was about to enjoy himself. “They printed and distributed a call to arms. A call for women everywhere to rise up to end the monarchy and create a new commonwealth.”
Thorn gave the man an appropriately dramatic reaction, putting a hand to his face and regarding Carruthers through his fingers. To laugh or to curse? The last commonwealth had involved the monarch losing his head, so this call to revolution must have caused George to froth at the mouth. Perhaps literally. With the colonies restive, any stirrings at home would have to be crushed.
It was not, in fact, the slightest bit amusing.
“Mad,” he said. “I warned that was the case.”
“I don’t believe Mistress Spencer took a leadership role, sir. That was two women called Drummond, already well-known to the authorities in Ireland.” Carruthers took a newspaper out of his pocket and passed it over. “On the surface the document is about the oppression of women, but underneath it deals with Ireland.”
“And thus is particularly treasonous,” Thorn said, scanning the crude printing, “with France always poised to use Ireland as a back door.”
“There are a number of women caught in this trap, almost certainly all dupes, but the law can chew indiscriminately once someone is in its jaws. Lord Rothgar hopes you will exert yourself to extricate Mistress Spencer.”
“Why?” Thorn asked bluntly, putting the rant aside.
“Primarily because she is innocent, sir, but also because the marquess had a part in establishing her at Lady Fowler’s house. In his mind at the time it seemed a safe location and a minor punishment for both ladies. As you doubtless know, Lady Fowler had made him and his daughter a subject in her letters.”
“Proof that she, at least, is insane.”
“Definitely, sir. However, the marquess believes that a person is responsible for the consequences of his actions, even inadvertent ones.”
“As do I.”
Carruthers inclined his head. “Which is why he’s approaching you.”
“Yes?” Thorn asked, feeling a trap closing.
“The matter of a thousand guineas, sir?”
Thorn poured tea to cover a shocked moment. “How the devil does he know about that? And don’t tell me omniscience.”
Carruthers smiled. “Any omniscience is the result of a policy of being well-informed, sir. As I said, Lady Fowler became of interest to Lord Rothgar by offending against his family. When he learned that the Fowler Fund had received such a magnificent donation, he naturally wished to know more.”
“Does he know I made the payment on behalf of Lord Huntersdown, and that it was only due because of his marriage to Rothgar’s daughter?”
“Most appreciated, I’m sure.”
And no admission of knowledge or ignorance. “What has that money to do with Mistress Spencer’s downfall?”
“Some of it was used to purchase the printing press.”
Thorn swore. Of course, he’d never imagined such a thing, but Robin had argued against keeping to their foolish vow on the grounds that it would be dangerous to give Lady Fowler so much money. It seemed he had played a part in this mess.
“Very well. I’ll extricate Mistress Spencer from the lion’s jaws. Where should I send her?”
“Alas, sir, that’s a quandary. Lord and Lady Rothgar begin a slow progress to Rothgar Abbey, for the doctors think the child may arrive a little early. There are also some important meetings en route. Lord and Lady Grandiston are in Devon.”
“I’ll send her to Lord and Lady Huntersdown, then. The donation was originally his.”
Carruthers shared his smile. “That does seem just, sir.”
Carruthers rose and Thorn escorted him to the door. “The address of the Fowler house?” he asked.
“At the Hen and Chicks, Grafton Street.”
“Does Lady Fowler have a sense of humor?”
“It would seem so, wouldn’t it? Once, at least. I gather she’s raving mad now and on her deathbed.”
Thorn handed him to a footman and summoned Overstone.
“Lady Fowler. Bring me the details of her recent activities, especially illegal, and discover the exact cause of the arrest of herself and her chicks last night.” Even Overstone showed mild surprise. “Who is the prime mover in the arrest, and who might best provide legal help. Also sources of irregular assistance. And anything else that occurs to you.”
“We are seeking to assist Lady Fowler?” Overstone asked in a carefully bland voice.
“We are seeking to assist a Mistress Spencer, onetime companion to Lady Grandiston.”
“Ah.” Overstone knew all about the affair of the poisoned cakes.
“I’ll have to go there.” Thorn wrote a quick note. “Send this to Fielding at Bow Street, asking him to authorize my entry and freedom to speak to the ladies.”
When the secretary had left, Thorn contemplated his situation with annoyance. This was going to be tedious and might require asking assistance from people to whom he did not want to be obliged. He also had a sense of being put to the test. He did, however, accept some responsibility, so in that spirit, he would do his best for Mistress Spencer.
He sent for Joseph and returned to his bedchamber. “Correct dress for a sober intervention in the affairs of distressed gentlewomen, Joseph.”
“Country wear, sir,” said the valet confidently.
“What a gem you are. I would probably have terrified with soberest black. And breeches and boots mean I can ride. Have a horse and groom waiting.”
By the time Thorn was ready, a letter had arrived from the chief magistrate to say his way was clear. It also mentioned that the Lord Chancellor was concerned with the matter.
Hell and damnation.
Thorn walked the gauntlet of the petitioners outside his front door, mounted, and rode off, accompanied by a groom who would know the way.
“Here we are, sir,” the groom said sometime later, as they entered a quiet street of narrow houses.
Thorn felt a puzzling familiarity, but then he realized he was very close to Bella’s home.
He could go there.
He wouldn’t.
Time had passed and his feelings hadn’t changed, but that made it even more impossible to drag Bella from her comfortable independence into his impossible life.
At first glance, Grafton Street seemed unaffected by drama, but then he spotted a man on guard outside one house. Discreetly dressed, but definitely on guard.
Thorn dismounted and approached. “Ithorne. I have admittance.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The man used the brass knocker and then stepped aside. When the door opened a few inches, he said, “His Grace, the Duke of Ithorne.”
The door opened fully and Thorn passed in.
Gads, foul as well as fowl, he thought at the smell.
The quietly dressed man who’d let him in said, “Lady Fowler died in the night, Your Grace.”
“And is putrefying already?”
“And was putrefying before, sir.”
The man was about forty, stout but stiff, looking as if he wished to be anywhere but here.
“The devil of a job,” Thorn said sympathetically. “Your name, sir?”
The man bowed. “Norman, Your Grace. Acting on behalf of Lord Northington.”
Thorn lost sympathy. He sensed a minion who enjoyed playing God, but as minion to the Lord Chancellor he had the powers of at least a demigod.
Thorn stripped off his gloves. “Why is Lord Northington involved?”
“This is being regarded as a matter of national s
ignificance, sir.”
“A bunch of women? And now only the chicks remain? Is it truly worth such weight?”
“That is not for me to say, sir.”
A Pontius Pilate, enjoying power, probably particularly power over women, but distancing himself from blame. Thorn had hoped to use ducal power to extract Mistress Spencer immediately and be done with this, but Norman would hold on to his victims like a miser hoarding guineas.
“The ladies are still here?”
“Under house arrest, Your Grace. For now.”
“Where are they? I have authority to talk to them.”
The man hesitated, but ducal power triumphed. “Two are still in their beds, sir, having suffered distress. We have locked their doors, but a man is up there to let them out if they request it. The others have breakfasted and are in the small drawing room to your left.”
“Names?”
“Mistress Abercrombie, Miss Sprott, Miss Flint, and Miss Evesham. She’s the steadiest, and possibly the ring-leader, though Miss Flint is very firm in her ways.”
“And the distressed two?” Thorn didn’t want to reveal his particular interest.
“Mistress Ormond and Mistress Spencer.”
Thorn nodded. “Just six?”
“The numbers dwindled, Your Grace, when Lady Fowler fell ill. But there were two more—Miss Helena Drummond and Miss Olivia Drummond. Irish, and likely the ones to write the treasonous piece. They slipped away as soon as the item was distributed.”
“Leaving the chickens for the hawks. I assume the hunt is on for them?”
“Of course, Your Grace. They won’t get far.”
Thorn wondered. They’d probably planned their escape, with new identities and disguises. The simplest solution for this would be their arrest. With a little encouragement, the law would content itself with them.
Thorn nodded his thanks, opened the door, and went in.
Anxious eyes fixed on him—as if, he thought, he were an executioner. Four ladies, and a general impression of middle years and dullness.
Someone gasped. One buried her face in her handkerchief, weeping. He applied a mildly charming smile as he bowed. “Ladies, you have my sympathy for your predicament. I am the Duke of Ithorne, and at the request of some well-wishers, I will do what I can for you.”
“Oh!” declared one ruddy-faced woman, rising to her feet, her hands clasped to her ample bosom. “We’re saved!”
A sensible- looking middle-aged woman said, “Thank God.”
An angular one demanded, “May we leave, then. Immediately?”
The other still wept.
“I make no promises. You are involved in very serious charges, ladies. May I be seated?”
The angular woman snapped, “Sit down, Betsy. Don’t you see His Grace can’t sit while you’re standing there?” That must be Miss Flint—all sharp edges.
“Betsy” collapsed back into her chair, babbling apologies. She must be Miss Abercrombie, as she was neither middle-aged nor determined. The middle-aged one must be Miss Evesham, especially as she took the role of spokeswoman.
“May we offer you tea, Your Grace?” she said. “I believe we are still free to do that.”
“Thank you, but no. Perhaps one of you can give me your account of events here?”
They all looked to one person, the one still dabbing her eyes. Miss Abercrombie whispered, “Bellona!”
The goddess of war, and presumably the lady named Sprott. He realized his guessing game was foolish. “May I have your names, ladies?”
Again the middle-aged one attended to the courtesies. “I’m Miss Evesham, Your Grace; this is Mistress Abercrombie”—she indicated the plump emotional one—“Miss Sprott”—she gestured to her right, and then opposite—“Miss Flint.”
Interesting.
At least the soggy Flint lowered her handkerchief a little to acknowledge the introduction. Sallow skin, half-moon spectacles, and eyebrows that almost met in the middle. Her hair seemed scraped back off her face, but in any case it was concealed beneath the sort of nunnish cap that tied beneath the chin.
He didn’t know why the others had so instinctively turned to her, for she looked dumbstruck. “Ah,” she said, in almost a whisper. “I really don’t think . . . After all, I wasn’t here when things happened. Mary?”
She’d addressed Miss Evesham, so perhaps Norman had been correct about her being the leader.
Miss Evesham said, “Mistress Abercrombie and Miss Sprott have been with Lady Fowler for much longer than I, Your Grace, but I can speak to recent events. We are victims, I believe, of two snakes called Helena and Olivia Drummond.”
“Why do you describe them as snakes, Miss Evesham?”
“Because they threw themselves on Lady Fowler’s charity, and then used her shamefully. In parting, they did their best to destroy us all.”
Succinct and probably accurate.
The Abercrombie woman began to sob, and Flint’s handkerchief rose again. Thorn concentrated on the admirably calm Miss Evesham. “Why would they do that?”
“Spite. They were—are—nasty, spiteful young women.”
She went on to tell the tale. The donation of a thousand guineas had caused great excitement, and Lady Fowler had seen it as a sign of secret support among important people. It had raised her ambitions. There had been much discussion, but it was the Drummond sisters who’d put forward the idea of a printing press. They’d suggested it purely to assist with the production of the letter, claiming that Olivia Drummond knew how to operate it, which turned out to be true.
“Tell me more about them, if you please,” Thorn said. “Where did they come from?”
“If what they told us was true, they are daughters of an Irish gentleman. When he died, the estate went to a cousin, leaving them only with small dowries. They decided to use their funds to fight for fairer laws for women rather than to buy themselves into the eternal slavery of marriage.”
Thorn must have raised his brows, for Miss Evesham looked directly at him. “It is often the case, Your Grace, for what power of independence does a married woman have?”
“And yet most women choose marriage if they can,” Thorn replied mildly.
“For lack of alternative. However, the Drummond girls knew of Lady Fowler and came to join us here.”
“Did Lady Fowler welcome everyone?” he asked.
“Every supporter. There were natural limits to how many she could shelter in her house. The Drummonds, having their small income, took lodgings nearby, as did Miss Flint.”
Thorn glanced at Miss Flint. If she had some income, why not buy a decent gown? And why such a watering pot? She’d never stopped dabbing at her eyes—and without taking off her spectacles. Odd. And that handkerchief had a dangling thread. Why didn’t she mend it?
Miss Evesham cleared her throat and he dragged his attention back to her. There was, however, something about the watery Flint.
“Helena and Olivia Drummond arrived full of enthusiasm and praise,” Miss Evesham said, “and offering some of their small dowries as contribution for the cause.”
“Did Lady Fowler need the money? Had her generosity stretched her income?”
“I don’t believe so, Your Grace, but I am not privy to such information.”
“Perhaps Miss Flint is,” he said, turning back to her.
Some instinct told him she was the most important person here, though why, he couldn’t imagine. Then he noticed a spot of blood on the handkerchief. He hadn’t heard her cough, but was she consumptive?
She blinked at him over those spectacles, but even if she were dying of the disease, he wouldn’t allow her to escape that way.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I know nothing of Lady Fowler’s income and expenses,” she mumbled.
She was a strange creature, but he was allowing irrelevancies to distract him. He was here to secure Ellen Spencer’s release.
He addressed all four women. “Can you prove that the offensive publicat
ion was the work of the Drummonds alone?”
Miss Evesham answered. “Will anyone believe us, Your Grace?”
An excellent point. He considered options.
“Have you discussed this among yourselves?”
“Of course, Your Grace. We’ve spoken of little else.”
“I mean, specifically of who printed and sent out this last edition.”
He saw only anxious uncertainty and wanted to shake every one of them.
Miss Flint lowered her hands and handkerchief to her lap and spoke calmly. “I don’t think so, Your Grace. I was asked to come here last night, when it was clear that Lady Fowler was dying and the Drummond sisters had left. No one was sure what to do.”
“And they turned to you?”
She was almost a different woman now, calm and clear. And he felt a powerful sense of recognition. Surely he’d remember her. The poor woman even had a wart on her nose.
“They did, though I’m not sure why.”
“But, Bellona,” Miss Abercrombie said, “you have always had such a steady head, and are so confident. It comes from having an income, I’m sure,” she said with a sigh. “And from never having been subject to the tyranny of a man. You stood up to the Drummonds when none of us would. You saw through them, in fact.”
“No. I simply didn’t like them.”
“Another form of sound instinct,” Thorn said, but he was struggling to maintain control.
For as she spoke, he’d realized the truth: Miss Bellona Flint was Bella Barstowe.
As she spoke again, he looked away, testing his outrageous idea by concentrating on her voice.
“Be that as it may, Your Grace,” she said, “I was here for only an hour before the officials arrived to put us under arrest, and I have been here ever since. Though there has been much general discussion, I myself know nothing of the finer details.”
Without sight to distract him, he had no doubt. He looked at her again, asking her some vague question as he put together the pieces.
Liberated from the cruelty of her family, she’d joined a woman who fought, however foolishly, to prevent such things. The disguise? Perhaps she simply hadn’t wanted to be Bella Barstowe any longer. Having some income, she’d taken a house nearby.
His rather rudimentary interest in this matter had suddenly become saber-sharp.