Only a Duke Will Do

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Martha shrugged. “Mrs. Baker’s in Petticoat Lane has ’em.”

  “She even sells a special preparation to soak ’em in, don’t she, Amy?” another woman put in.

  But Amy had apparently lost interest, for she’d drawn the curtain aside to stare out at the street. “Look at them, the vultures, just itching to let fly.”

  Louisa drew her curtain aside also and grimaced to see the streets lined with onlookers, some having brought baskets of rotting refuse.

  “Why aren’t they throwing anything?” Amy asked. “They’ve got to know who we are. The ship’s departures are always in the papers, and they can guess what’s going on from the guards.”

  “Having you in carriages takes the fun out of it,” Louisa speculated. Still, the sight of a murmuring crowd casting black glances at the procession snaked a shiver down her back.

  “It’s that duke in front what’s keeping ’em still,” Martha said. “People don’t know what to make of the fancy carriages.”

  Louisa nodded. Yet she couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding creeping over her, especially when she realized how many miles they had left. She could only pray that Simon’s stalwart presence would hold the crowd at bay long enough for the carriages to reach the docks.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dear Cousin,

  Thank you for the advice, but I am always on my guard around bachelors. They have this deplorable tendency to surprise one, and surprises are so very hard on an aging woman like myself.

  Your friend and cousin,

  Charlotte

  Simon stared grimly ahead as he navigated the phaeton through streets clogged with rubbish-wielding dustmen, costermongers, baker’s assistants…anyone with the time and inclination to take their frustration with the government out on convicts. He had a chilly sense that if he gazed directly at them, the odd spell keeping them orderly would shatter and mayhem would ensue.

  As it was, the murmur of voices had been escalating. How long could an angry mob stay in check? He didn’t want to find out.

  Simon set his jaw. This was no place for Louisa or Regina or the other ladies. Let the Quakers take on prison reform—they knew how to handle the common people. But just thinking about Louisa confronting that guard earlier spiked fear through his heart.

  She would damned well never do it again. If she wouldn’t let Simon guide her, then he would make sure Draker received a full account of today’s events so that he could guide her. Either way, Simon meant to halt her activities.

  “Is that the ship?” the little boy at his side lisped, pointing ahead to where several masts loomed high above the river.

  “One of them is,” Simon said.

  “Will I see Papa there?” he asked with the hopefulness of his tender years.

  “Hush now, Jimmy,” murmured his mother before Simon could answer. Catching Simon’s eye, she said, “I told him his father’s a sailor.”

  Whether that was true was any man’s guess, but judging from her haunted expression, the father had probably abandoned them long before Jimmy’s birth.

  Such a thing was probably common, but the sadness of it infected Simon. All right, perhaps he did understand why Louisa felt she couldn’t stand back and let such small tragedies routinely occur.

  But must she go so far? Holding classes at a prison was one thing; putting oneself at the mercy of this lot was quite another. Or at the mercy of that villainous guard who rode ahead of the phaeton. Treacle reminded Simon painfully of the Maratha bullies who’d pillaged and burned Poona, until the English had arrived to stop them. Or to pick up the pieces, depending on how one looked at it.

  The acrid smell of smoke and blood still haunted Simon’s nights.

  Now the somber procession approached a busy intersection near the docks, and Treacle signaled a halt until they could cross. As they waited, Simon’s disquiet grew, especially when he saw Treacle talking with an onlooker.

  The bastard glanced back at Simon, and the chap he spoke to scurried off to spread some news among the crowd. Within seconds, low cries erupted throughout the mob like sparks of heat lightning across the Great Indian Desert.

  Simon groaned when he caught snatches: “the duke and his mistress” and “Foxmoor’s bastard” and “privileges of nobility.” It didn’t take long to decipher the rest of the tale spreading through the crowd. That he was personally carrying his mistress—presumably the woman at his side—to the docks. That he’d been allowed to circumvent the usual methods by virtue of his being a duke. That he was going to carry his bastard son away with him after his mistress was sent off.

  It was a measure of how tense the people were, that they would embrace Treacle’s lie instead of considering its absurdity. If any duke had wanted to prevent his criminal mistress from suffering for her crimes, he would have used his influence long before she made it to trial.

  But mobs were rarely logical. Nor did it help that his passenger’s son shared Simon’s coloring.

  The intersection cleared, and Simon started the horses going before Treacle gave the order, but the damage had been done. The crowd’s grumbling grew to a rumbling, then an outright uproar. Within moments, missiles began to fly.

  He heard the refuse hit the carriages behind them, splatting against the panels, startling the horses. As the mounted guards strove to regain order, Simon spurred his steeds to greater speed and the hackneys followed suit. They raced the last mile to the docks amid rotten vegetables and other slop.

  Since few in the crowd dared to toss anything at Simon, his passenger and her son were mostly spared, though he did throw his coat over them. Fortunately, once they reached the docks, more guards awaited. They and the mounted ones managed to hold the crowd back so the passengers could disembark without being struck.

  But the women couldn’t escape the jeering, and as the first of the carriages emptied, a woman in Louisa’s group fought back, snarling curses at the crowd.

  Simon had just finished lifting his passenger and her son down when he glanced over to see Louisa admonishing the angry woman. He saw a man in the crowd push through the guards and lift his hand, and before anyone could react, the man let his missile fly.

  But this was no putrid tomato; it was a large rock.

  Simon lunged for Louisa, but it happened too fast—all he could do was watch in horror as it struck. Louisa reeled, then crumpled to the ground.

  “Louisa!” Simon vaulted the remaining distance in a panic.

  When the man who’d thrown the rock realized it had struck the wrong woman, he ran off, but Simon was too frantic to care.

  As Simon reached Louisa, the woman who’d taunted the man fell into hysterics.

  “Quiet!” he ordered, fear slamming his heart in his chest. He knelt beside Louisa to feel for a pulse. At least her blood beat steady and strong, though her eyes remained closed and her arm lay limp in his grasp.

  “Oh God, she’s dead, ain’t she?” The convict woman wrung her hands, refusing to leave Louisa’s side. “They killed her, and it’s all my fault! She told me to ignore them, but I just had to give ’em a piece of my mind—”

  “She’s not dead,” he growled. “Now go on, and let us see to her.”

  A guard pulled the woman away as Regina pushed through. “How is she?”

  “I don’t know.” Simon could hardly breathe past the pressure in his chest. “She either fainted or she’s unconscious. Do you have smelling salts?”

  “We don’t carry our reticules to the prison.”

  He could well imagine why. “Then I have to get her out of this madness.”

  “Take the hackney.” Regina gestured to the still-open door of the nearby carriage. “I’ll see that the phaeton is returned safely for you.”

  “You should go with me, you and your friends. This is not safe.”

  “Nonsense,” Regina said, “the guards have already got the mob under control. And we need to pass out packets to women who have come from other prisons. Go on. I will be home as soon as I can
.”

  Louisa’s pale face alarmed him more by the moment. After carrying her limp form into the hackney, Simon settled Louisa’s head in his lap. Sobered by the sight of a reformer being struck low, the crowd thankfully parted to let the carriage pass, and they raced toward the Draker town house in Mayfair. With fear throbbing in his throat, Simon removed her bonnet. As gently as he could, he threaded his fingers through her hair to assess her injuries. The lump swelling on her scalp increased his panic. It was far too large.

  Her breathing was steady and even, but that did not reassure him. How could it when her eyes remained shut and her head lolled with every jolt of the carriage? Swearing, he removed the pins from her tightly wound hair and unfastened the top buttons of her pelisse robe. When she still didn’t rouse, he removed her gloves and began to chafe her clammy hands, unsure what else to do.

  If she ever came out of this, he would make sure she never took such a chance again. He would marry her and lock her up at one of his estates. He would bribe her London Ladies to keep her out of it. He would resort to any method to ensure her safety.

  The ride was the longest of Simon’s life.

  At Draker’s town house, Simon climbed out of the carriage with her and ascended the steps.

  As he strode inside, Draker’s butler approached. “Your Grace! What has happened?”

  “Miss North had an accident,” Simon snapped. “Fetch her brother at once.”

  “H-he’s not here, sir,” the butler said. “He’s at Tattersall’s for the day.”

  “Then send for him, for God’s sake. And a doctor.” He headed for the wide central staircase. “Which bedchamber is Miss North’s?”

  “The one at the end of the hall on the right.”

  “Send a footman up with smelling salts.” Simon stalked up the stairs with his precious burden.

  Her bedchamber proved simple and spartan, with a plain Brussels carpet and modest furnishings. Perfect for a Joan of Arc. He could only pray she did not end up as that famous saint—dead at the hands of her persecutors.

  She did not stir even when he laid her on the bed, increasing the vise of terror around his chest. His aide-de-camp must have felt like this when they’d rushed to Poona and found Colin’s wife dying of a sword wound to the belly.

  The familiar old guilt knotted in Simon’s gut, but he pushed it aside. Louisa wasn’t going to die—she was not! He would not allow it.

  Hurrying to her writing table to fetch the chair, he froze as he spotted what lay beside her inkwell: the lily he had whittled years ago. She had kept it despite his lies and deceptions.

  Grabbing the chair, he dragged it back to her bedside, then sat down and tugged off her half boots. Her feet looked so small and fragile in their white cotton stockings. He skimmed his gaze back to her bloodless face. She had to live. She must. Life without her…

  No, he would not consider it. Grabbing her cold hands in his, he prayed. He had never been religious, but he prayed for all he was worth.

  He was still praying when Louisa groaned, and her eyelids fluttered open.

  She gazed around her, confused. “Why am I at home? And why are you here, Simon?”

  The vise around his chest eased. She knew where she was! So she couldn’t have been hurt too badly, thank God. Swallowing the thick emotion clogging his throat, he squeezed her hands. “Shh, sweetheart. Don’t try to talk now.”

  “Why not?” She frowned. “The last thing I remember, I was coming out of a carriage—”

  “Someone threw a rock that hit you and knocked you out.”

  Confusion knit her pretty brow. “That explains this throbbing.” She rubbed her scalp, then winced. “But why would anybody throw a rock at me?”

  “It was meant for one of the convict women.”

  “The convict—Oh no, I have to get back to the docks!” She jerked upright, then released a heartfelt moan.

  With a curse, he pressed her back down on the bed. “You must rest. At least until I can be sure you are all right.”

  “But I have to help pass out the packets,” she said plaintively, though she closed her eyes.

  “You are not going anywhere right now. Regina and the other ladies have matters under control. Besides, you are in no condition to help them. You have a nasty lump, and we will not know how bad it is until a doctor looks at it.”

  “A doctor!” Her eyes sprang open, and the abject panic in them chilled him. “Absolutely not. I’m fine, really.” She sat up, and before he could stop her, swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood.

  Rising himself, he caught her just as she pitched forward.

  “Bloody hell.” He sat back hard on the chair with her in his arms. “Stop that, damn you, before you keel over and add another lump to the first one.”

  Thank God she didn’t resist him, just settled into his lap. “I…I really am fine, you know. I only need a minute to…to steady my dizziness.”

  He cradled her head against his chest with an oath. “You are the most stubborn female in creation, do you know that?”

  “Surely not.” Opening her eyes, she cast him a weak smile. “There must be someone more stubborn somewhere.”

  “I shudder to think it,” he said hoarsely.

  She nestled against him, rubbing her cheek against the rough nankeen of his waistcoat. Suddenly she drew back to stare at his chest. “Where’s your coat?”

  “God only knows. I threw it over my passengers when the mob started hurling refuse. It is probably lying trampled on the docks.”

  A look of remorse crossed her face. “Did those awful people ruin your lovely phaeton?”

  He couldn’t believe she was worried about that. “I don’t give a damn if they did.”

  The irritation in his voice made her wince. “If you don’t care about your phaeton, then why are you so angry?”

  “Good God, woman, why do you think? I nearly lost ten years off my life when you fell.” He nuzzled her hair, his voice thickening. “I don’t care about my phaeton or my coat or even the fact that the masses now think I have a mistress and a bastard headed for Australia. I only care about you.”

  Her face softened, and she began to smile. Until the rest of his speech registered. “Mistress? What are you talking about?”

  He explained what he thought had set the crowd off.

  She frowned. “That sounds exactly like something Brutus would do.”

  “Brutus?”

  “Mr. Treacle. I call him Brutus the Bully because of how he treats the women.”

  He tightened his arms about her fiercely. “And that is the sort of vile person you deal with—”

  “Better I deal with him than the women. At least he knows he can’t bully a woman of my rank.”

  “Oh?” Simon said hotly. “He can only incite a riot to attack you—”

  She pulled back with a scowl. “You said the rock wasn’t meant for me.”

  “That scarcely matters. You are the one it struck.”

  A knock on the door presaged the entrance of a footman, who halted when he caught sight of Louisa in Simon’s arms. “I-I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I brought the smelling salts.”

  With a blush, Louisa leapt from Simon’s lap. This time she stayed on her feet rather well. “Thank you,” she told the footman, batting Simon’s hand aside when he rose and tried to pull her back toward the bed. “But as you can see, it’s not needed. I’m fine now.”

  The footman glanced from Louisa to Simon. “His lordship’s doctor wasn’t home, sir, so is there another doctor you wish to call?”

  “No,” she said at the same time Simon said, “Of course.”

  “Simon!” she cried. “I told you, I’m not going to see a doctor.”

  Ignoring her protest, Simon strode to her writing table and jotted down the name and address of his own physician. Then he walked over and handed the footman the paper. “If he’s not at this address, then he’ll be at St. Bartholomew’s.”

  As the footman nodded and hurried off,
Louisa darted toward the door. “Come back here this minute! I didn’t say you could—”

  Simon caught her about the waist, then shut the door and locked it, pocketing the key. “That’s enough from you, Joan of Arc.” He tugged her toward the bed. “You are not going anywhere until the doctor says you can.”

  Wrenching free with surprising strength, she backed away. “No doctors.”

  “Do not be foolish, for God’s sake. You might have a fracture or—”

  “I don’t have a fracture. I’m sure I would know if I did.”

  “We will let the doctor determine that.”

  “I don’t like doctors!” Alarm suffused her cheeks. “They bleed women on the smallest pretense. Besides, I feel better by the moment.” She turned in a slow circle without stumbling once. “You see? I’ll be fine. No need for a doctor.”

  “Let’s see what your brother says.”

  Anger flared in her face. “You can’t tell Marcus about this.”

  “The devil I can’t. He needs to know what dangers you and Regina are getting into when his back is turned.”

  “He already knows.”

  “I seriously doubt that, or he would never let his wife participate.” Eyes narrowing, he stalked toward her. “And you wouldn’t be begging me not to tell him. So get back into that bed. Now.”

  She dropped her pretense. “Simon, you mustn’t say anything to Marcus. I know you—you’ll make it sound worse than it is.”

  “Worse!” he roared. “How can I make it sound worse? You nearly got killed!”

  She thrust out her pugnacious chin. “And you nearly got killed at the Battle of Kirkee when you weren’t even a soldier. No one thought twice about your risking your life, but I must sit at home and do nothing like a good girl, is that it?”

  “Damn it, Louisa—”

  “You can’t tell him. Please.”

  Muttering an oath, he raked his fingers through his already badly disheveled hair. “He’ll find out anyway from the papers tomorrow.”

  “They’ve never put it in the papers before,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t know why they should put it in now.”