by Jo Beverley
“As with us?”
“Not quite so innocent . . .”
“Your Grace?”
They both froze at Norman’s voice out in the other room.
Bella stared at him, begging him.
With only a second to decide, Thorn thrust the sheets down the back of his breeches under his coat. He’d only just finished when Norman came in, frowning suspiciously. “What is this place?”
“I’ve just learned of it myself,” Thorn said, having trouble regaining his ducal hauteur. “Merely a storeroom, but Miss Flint was good enough to inform me that it contains originals of all Lady Fowler’s letters. I assume they should be taken away in case they are evidence.”
“Most certainly,” said Norman, seizing the box from Thorn. “I think it would be best if you left the investigation of this room to my people, sir.”
“You are quite correct. But I do feel thanks are due to Miss Flint. Without her voluntary assistance, it might have been some time before this room was found.”
Norman’s lips tightened, and he looked at Bella with a sneer that, as far as Thorn was concerned, put his life in danger, but he did say, “Your assistance will be noted, ma’am.”
Bella was extremely flinty. “So it should be. I have told you, Mr. Norman, that if you would regard myself and the other ladies as your allies, this could all progress more smoothly.”
“Kindly return to the parlor, Miss Flint,” Norman snapped.
Bella, the naughty wench, looked at Thorn. “Does that accord with your wishes, Your Grace?”
He wanted to say no, partly to annoy Norman and partly to simply spend more time in her presence, but wisdom triumphed. “It does, Miss Flint.” He accompanied it with a bow.
She dropped a curtsy that was both elegant and saucy, and swept away, back straight. He remembered that back. . . .
“A tricky one, that,” Norman muttered. “There’s more to her than it seems.”
“More intelligence, you mean.”
“Females are never intelligent.”
“Sir, I fear you are in danger of a great many shocks in life, but for now I’m interested in the two women hiding away in their rooms.”
“They were both very distressed, Your Grace.”
“And you trust a distressed woman more than a clever one?”
Thorn saw Norman wanted to protest the word “clever” but decided against it. “It is only natural for a woman to collapse in a situation like this.”
“All the same, I strongly recommend that they be told to join the others in the parlor.”
Resentfully, the man said, “As you will, Your Grace.”
Thorn nodded. “I must return to my house to put some measures in hand. I trust you to prevent all the ladies from discussing recent events.”
He stalked away, hoping the slight rustle from his back wasn’t audible a few feet away.
Bella returned to the parlor tempted to throw a fit so as to be allowed privacy in a bedchamber, but then the others would assume Thorn had treated her horribly. Assume the Duke of Ithorne had treated her horribly, which didn’t concern her except that it might make one of them do something foolish, or even dangerous.
Her head was whirling with the extraordinary events, but beneath it hummed happiness. He’d come to help her. He cared. She’d seen him again. . . .
“Bellona, dear. What on earth has happened?”
Bella blinked at Mary Evesham, who seemed very worried. “Oh, nothing really. I mean . . . I think the duke does intend to help us.”
“Never trust a man like him,” snapped Hortensia.
“We need help from someone,” Bella snapped back.
“Oh, don’t,” bleated Betsy. “Please don’t argue. I feel a megrim coming on.”
Bella was saved from exploding by Ellen and Clara coming into the parlor. Clara merely looked worn down by worry, but Ellen Spencer was shaking, and her eyes darted around as if fearing danger in every corner.
“You too assisted the Drummonds!” Betsy declared, pointing directly at her. “If they hang me, they must hang you too!”
Ellen Spencer fainted.
Chapter 30
Thorn spread the crumpled but neatly written address lists on his desk. They were arranged alphabetically, though some of the less common letters were grouped together, with the lower entries in fresher ink, and the top ones faded. As he scanned the names, he recognized many fashionable ladies. He wasn’t surprised. The Fowler letter had become a source of amusement.
Robin’s mother’s name was there, and Psyche Jessingham’s. He saw Lady Arradale and raised his brows. Had Rothgar’s wife been his conduit, or had she requested the letter on her own behalf? She was known to feel strongly on many matters to do with women.
He couldn’t destroy them because they could be important. A few of the people on these lists could be dangerous, true advocates for revolution. He was pleased to have removed them from the house, however. He locked them away in his desk.
Another service done for his extraordinary lady. He felt uneasily sure he’d do even more dubious things if she asked them of him. He certainly had to remove her from her current danger. . . .
And then what?
Tabitha leapt onto his desk. “Ai-o.”
“A sigh of resignation? I think so. I cannot possibly attempt to ignore her existence. I’d go gray overnight. But when am I to tell her the truth?”
“Tell who the truth?” Christian asked, walking in.
“Most people knock,” Thorn said coldly.
Christian raised his brows, but he was singularly unimpressed. “I’ve been walking in on you most of our lives. Still talking to Tabby? And is she still talking back?”
“In the manner of an oracle. Thus, what is truth?”
Thorn watched in amusement as Tabitha disappeared under the desk. Clearly her dislike of Christian had not been forgotten. The kittens, now months old, romped out to scramble around Christian’s boots.
“Are you staying?” Thorn asked.
“If it’s convenient,” Christian said, almost sar castically.
Thorn shook his head. “I’m sorry. Of course, this is your home. I’ve had the devil of a morning.”
“Tell me,” Christian said, so Thorn did.
“The Spencer woman!” Christian exploded. “I’m not having her under my roof.”
“I thought of dumping her on Robin.”
“Won’t work for any length of time. What we need is convents for women like that. Enclose them, but treat ’em decently.”
Thorn remembered discussing that with Bella.
“Why are you smiling?” Christian asked.
“Insanity.”
“Can you get Ellen Spencer out of the mess?”
“I have to,” Thorn said, suddenly able to tell his foster brother all about Bella.
When that tale was told, Christian was grinning. “She sounds just the woman for you.”
“She has no more idea how to be a duchess than this cat has sense,” Thorn said, rescuing Sable from the curtains.
“He has sense. Just isn’t interested in behaving the way you expect. We said you needed a wife like that.”
“The eccentric Duchess of Ithorne? I don’t want her to be unhappy, Christian. You know how cruel our world can be, especially in the higher reaches.”
“Yes, but she sounds as if she has the mettle. And as you say, you have no choice.”
“No, I don’t, do I? Whatever the strange force that compels people together despite logic or all the precepts of society, it has me in its toils, and it’s ruled me far too long to believe it’s a whim. Have you a purpose in Town other than advising me?”
“A few errands, and we thought we should relieve you of the cats.”
Thorn looked at Tabitha and felt an unexpected pang. “But whom will I consult?”
“If you want to keep ’em all . . .”
“Caro might object.”
“Dozens of cats at home, and she’s busy as the b
ees she’s learning to manage.” Christian smiled, dotingly. “She was made to be a country lady. She’s also swelling with the next generation, Lord save England.”
“Congratulations.”
“Get to work on such matters yourself,” Christian said cheerfully. “Keep the cats for now. When we have opportunity for you and Caro to be together, we’ll put it to the test.”
“Very well. I wish I could stay, but I must return to the foul den.” He opened the door to come face-to-face with a footman, who stepped back, startled.
“Yes?”
“A gentleman to see you, sir. A Mr. Clatterford, in connection to the Fowler matter.”
“Where is he?”
“The third reception room, sir.”
Thorn went down and encountered a gentleman both stocky and plump, but at first glance, honest.
Thorn nodded. “Mr. Clatterford.”
Mr. Clatterford bowed. “Your Grace.”
Thorn waved him to a seat. “How may I assist you?”
“I apologize for intruding, sir, but I understand you have become involved in the unfortunate events at Lady Fowler’s house. I have come to beg your assistance in helping one of the ladies there.”
Thorn controlled impatience and disappointment. A petitioner, no more than that. “Which lady?”
“A Miss Flint.”
Ah, now this was different. “What is your connection to Miss Flint, sir?”
“I am her solicitor, Your Grace. I was honored to handle the affairs of her great- grandmother, Lady Raddall, and when Lady Raddall left . . . Miss Flint a bequest, I was given charge of the matter.”
So the lawyer knew the name was false.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Clatterford?”
“I hope you will assist me to remove her from the house. She had cut the acquaintance some weeks before the unpleasant events.”
Had she? “Why?”
“Because, as you suspect, sir, she became uncomfortable with some of what was happening.”
“Then why return?”
The man grimaced in agitation. “That I have only from her housekeeper, sir. Mistress Gussage sent to me in distress last night. When her mistress didn’t return she walked to Lady Fowler’s house and found it under guard. She was not allowed to speak to Miss Flint. She immediately sought me out, but it took some time for her and her son to find me, it being late. At the earliest possible time today I went to Lady Fowler’s house. The people there are most officious, but one directed me to you. I assure you, sir, Miss Flint is incapable of any crime.”
Then you don’t know her as well as I do. Bella Barstowe would do whatever she felt necessary in a just cause. Thorn could only hope that she never felt it necessary to truly overthrow the monarchy. However, here was a sober, reputable gentleman willing to vouch for her, which could be useful.
“To the best of your knowledge, Clatterford, she has taken place in no treasonous activities?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“Are there others who will support her?”
The solicitor looked extremely uneasy, which wasn’t surprising when he knew he was using a false name to refer to the lady in question. “I’m sure I can find some, Your Grace, but she has lived quietly.”
Thorn rose. “Very well, sir, I’ll do what I can. Where are your offices?”
“In Tunbridge Wells, Your Grace.”
Thorn paused by the door and looked a question.
“I came to Town to persuade the lady to return with me to the Wells. We were to leave today.”
“May I ask why?”
“To live, sir. I have arranged for her to come under the wing of some ladies there with the intention that she take her rightful place in society.”
“And she has agreed?” Thorn asked, much interested.
His surprise was misinterpreted. The solicitor took offense. “I believe some improvement is possible, Your Grace.”
Thorn decided he liked Clatterford. “I wish Miss Flint well in the Wells, and I assure you I will do all in my power to enable her to go there.”
He meant it. If Bella was established in society, it would make many things easier, and there would be ways Thorn could help bring it about. He saw Clatterford out and was about to return to Lady Fowler’s house when a courier arrived bearing a letter from Rothgar.
Dear Sir,
Written in haste. On the Fowler affair, I fear that if we leave the matter in the hands of spy catchers the ladies could suffer severely before any regular processes bring them ease. I suggest a direct appeal to the king. His Majesty is always kind to the weaker sex and may be willing to succor such ladies in their distress.
Your much obliged, etc., Rothgar
Thorn admired the vague obligation made possible by haste, and the words chosen in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. No man married to the Countess of Arradale could believe women to be universally weaker than men, but the king took that as the word of God.
Thorn considered Bella as a representative of the weaker sex and shook his head, but she could play a part. Evesham and Abercrombie would fit the king’s standard. He knew nothing of the other women who’d taken to their beds, but that reaction seemed hopeful. The sticking point would be the thin and sour Miss Sprott. She seemed the type to insist on hanging for her principles.
Thorn set Overstone to compose the right missive to the king, and Joseph to devising exactly the right clothing for an eventual royal audience. When he set out to return to Grafton Street, at least he left two people happily employed.
Bella was sewing, having picked up an item from the basket of charity sewing kept in the parlor. She’d encouraged the others to do the same. They all needed something to occupy their minds, especially now that they were forbidden to discuss the important matters.
Her mind returned, as she knew it would, to the inn parlor in Upstone, and to Thorn reading to her as she sewed. It was probably unnatural of her to find that memory even sweeter than their time in the bed, but it had been so uncomplicated, which made it easier to visit.
What danger he was in, however. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if he came to grief through helping her.
She was alerted by some inner sense, and looked up to see Thorn in the doorway. She worked very hard at not smiling at him and had to pray her blushes didn’t show.
“We are ready to begin the recording of your accounts, ladies. Miss Flint and Mistress Evesham, please.”
Bella rose, thankful that Mary was his first choice. Her account would probably be the most coherent and unbiased. They went to the scriptorium, where a young man stood beside the table on which he’d arranged a neat pile of paper, a number of fresh pens and three ink-wells, one uncapped. Prepared for anything.
There was another clerk present, with his own supplies, though not so impressively ranked. Presumably he was to record everything for the Lord Chancellor. An elderly man sat in the corner, seemingly only to observe.
They all sat and the questions began.
All went well and Mary’s account made it clear that most of the ladies had played no real part in the writing or printing of the treasonous paper. Betsy Abercrombie remained in danger, however.
Next, Thorn summoned Ellen Spencer.
Ellen arrived already protesting her innocence with a desperation that suggested she was being dragged up the steps of the gibbet and was guilty as the devil. When Thorn commanded her to calm down and simply give her account of the past few weeks, she burst into tears.
Thorn looked to Bella for help. She’d obeyed his instructions not to speak or react, but now she took Ellen into her arms. “Ellen, dear, you must not go on so. We all know you’ve done nothing.”
Ellen looked at her. “But I have, Bellona! The worst possible thing.” As if she might be able to keep it secret, she whispered, “Murder. And Helena Drummond knew of it.”
Bella shot Thorn a look, but there was nothing he could do, and Norman’s clerk was taking all this down—as was his own.
She thought to wonder where he’d found such an impeccably ducal clerk.
Someone had to ask, so Bella did. “Whom did you murder?”
Still whispering, Ellen said, “I didn’t precisely. . . . Because he didn’t eat the cake, you see. But I tried to. And they told Lady Fowler, so Helena knew. And she made me do things.”
Bella refused to ask the next question, but Thorn did. “What things, Mistress Spencer?”
“The news sheet. I wrote out fair copy.” Ellen covered her face with her soggy handkerchief. “Such terrible things. Things against the king, who is such a good man.”
“Get that down,” Thorn said sharply. “Mistress Spencer, no one is going to take further action against you for the matter of attempted murder. You were in temporary distress because you thought your employer was in danger, and you attempted to save her in the only way you knew. Your character is vouched for by a number of people whose opinion is valued.”
He knew all about that?
How?
“It is?” Ellen asked, emerging slightly from her soggy shield.
“On my honor, ma’am.”
Bella took the sodden handkerchief and substituted her own, and Ellen blew her nose. Bella was still trying to make this new piece fit.
Ellen began a moderately coherent account of recent times. It turned out to be particularly useful, because Helena Drummond had known she had Ellen under her thumb and hadn’t bothered to conceal anything from her. Bella suspected the Irishwoman had enjoyed forcing Ellen to hear and see things that distressed her.
Helena had pretended to consult with Lady Fowler, but as that poor woman was rarely capable of rational speech, it had been more a matter of telling her what was happening, but Ellen had been instructed to stand witness to Lady Fowler’s agreement.
“And generally she did agree,” Ellen said seriously. Now that she’d revealed the worst, a sensible woman was slowly emerging. “Lady Fowler wasn’t in her right mind, so she agreed that having her name attached to a great revolution would be a memorable triumph. She did not fear death, but she feared being forgotten.”