Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  She thought back to her time in Rome and Versailles, not with Charles or Louis or even with Sir Anthony, but with Alex, remembering again the beautiful slate-blue eyes, the ridiculously long eyelashes, the warmth of him against her back as she slept curled into him, one muscular arm wrapped around her. Four months with no word from him or anyone else that he was alive. The pain she felt at these times was physical, and she closed her eyes tightly in an attempt not to cry, releasing a small gasp of misery as she did.

  “Are ye awake, Beth?” her neighbour whispered.

  “Yes,” Beth answered. “I’m sorry, Isobel. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “I wasna asleep. I wanted to talk with ye, in private.”

  Beth sat up and Isobel came to sit next to her, wrapped in her blanket.

  “Do ye think the Duke of Cumberland will ask to see you again?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I wouldn’t think so, not after the things I said to him last time.”

  “Do ye no’ think it foolish to anger him so?”

  “No,” Beth said. Was Isobel hoping that she’d intercede for her? “I’m never going to tell him what he wants to know, nor am I going to become his mistress. All I have left is my honour, and that I intend to take to the gallows with me.”

  “What about the bairn?”

  What the hell was she talking about? Beth looked at Isobel’s face, dimly visible in the light of the dying fire. She didn’t look as though she was feverish; her eyes were lucid, her expression earnest as she looked at Beth.

  “What bairn?” Beth asked.

  Isobel’s eyes widened.

  “Holy Mother of God, do ye no’ ken ye’re with child, lassie?”

  “What?!” Beth said loudly, then caught herself. “What are you talking about? I’m not pregnant!” she continued in a fierce whisper.

  “Are ye sure? Because ye seem so to me, and in my trade I saw enough women who were. It’s a risk of the job.” She grinned.

  “It’s not possible!” Beth said. “I haven’t…well…you know.”

  “When was the last time ye did?” Isobel asked.

  The last time. The night before Culloden. The night before Angus’s birthday. Cumberland’s birthday. They had lain together on the edge of Drumossie Moor, inadequately shielded from the others by gorse bushes. The stars were rising in the evening sky, and she felt again the heavy warmth of his weight on her, his unbound hair soft on her cheek as he came to his climax…

  No. Three years they had been married, and in all that time her womb hadn’t quickened. It wasn’t possible.

  Of course it was possible.

  “Four months,” Beth whispered.

  “Have ye bled since?” Isobel asked.

  “I don’t know about the first month, I was unconscious. But yes, once since then, but only a little. I thought it was the shock of the injury. After my father died I didn’t bleed for three months.”

  Isobel considered this.

  “Have ye felt sick? Have ye wee red veins on your breasts? Have your paps changed colour? Have ye put on weight?”

  Beth’s head reeled under the weight of questions.

  “I haven’t felt sick, no. I have a bit of a stomach now, but I haven’t been able to move about much and I had wonderful food in the Tower, and even here it’s quite good. I don’t know about my breasts, I haven’t been looking for anything.”

  “Tomorrow ye must look for it. And in a lot of the women I saw when I was in the whorehouse, they get a wee brown line down here.” She ran her finger down her stomach.

  Beth spent the rest of the night awake, praying that Isobel was wrong. Up until now her path had been simple. Alex was either dead or a prisoner, otherwise he would have found a way to get a message to her. If he was a prisoner he would never agree to plead guilty, so he would no doubt be executed. She would not betray him, and if he was either already dead or soon to be so she wished to join him. Therefore her whole aim was to be as insulting as possible to the people who had the power to order her execution. If she was pregnant everything would change.

  She was not pregnant. God could not be so cruel as to deny her a child for three years when it would have been welcomed, and then give her one when it was not.

  As soon as it was light enough to see she stood up, and walking to the tiny barred window, she pulled down her stays. Her breasts were pale and rounded, with no signs of red lines. But her nipples were definitely a brownish colour. Had they been pink before? For once in her life she cursed her lack of vanity. She had never been one to spend time looking at herself in the mirror. That had been Sir Anthony’s job. She hauled her petticoats up round her waist, and with some difficulty peered round the bunched material.

  And there it was; the slightly rounded stomach and running down it, a clear brown line.

  “No,” she breathed. “Dear God, no, not now.”

  She let go of the petticoats and turned round. Most of the women were still asleep, but a few of them were watching her. Isobel’s expression formed the question she wanted to ask.

  Beth looked at her and nodded. Then she burst into tears, waking up the women who had still been slumbering.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled five minutes later when the sobs had turned to hiccups and she was able to speak. She was sitting on one of the mattresses, Isobel’s arm wrapped round her shoulder, the other women all crowding round her, their faces full of concern for their friend who until now had lifted all their spirits with her infectious optimism and unending courage and humour. They had expected her to be happy at the discovery that she was pregnant; a baby was always a blessing (unless you were a whore), but a pregnancy in jail was a double blessing, as it guaranteed a reprieve from the gallows.

  “Here ye are greetin’ over the news that ye’re wi’ child, and there’s women all over Newgate allowing themselves to be swived by anyone who wants them, in the hopes of getting pregnant. Ye’re safe now, lassie. They’ll no’ hang ye or burn ye once they ken. Is that no’ good news?”

  “No!” Beth cried. “I WANT them to hang me!”

  The women exchanged looks of shock.

  “Ye dinna mean that. I ken ye loved your man, but you’re young. You’ve your whole life ahead of ye. And he might be alive yet,” Catriona said consolingly.

  There was no point in trying to explain. None of them had husbands with huge rewards offered for their capture. None of them had husbands who had promised to come for them, and who had the courage and acting ability to do it, no matter the risks. She had said to herself that she would wait six months, but if he was alive he would have found a way to contact her by now.

  “What happens, once they know?” she asked. “Do they let you go? Can you keep the child?”

  “They’ll no’ let ye go, but ye’ll no’ be hung at least until after the baby’s born, and often if you’re found guilty, they’ll transport ye instead. They may let ye take the bairn, or it may go to a foundling hospital,” Màiri said.

  That night, to her surprise, Beth actually fell asleep as soon as she lay down, probably due to the exhaustion of having had no sleep the previous night coupled with the emotional trauma of the day. She woke suddenly some time in the middle of the night from a deep sleep, and for a moment had no idea where she was.

  Then it all came flooding back, and she stroked her stomach, both marvelling at and despairing of the tiny person growing inside her. This could be all she would ever have of Alex. Was there a way to save it? She ran through her options.

  She could carry on as she had been, as though she wasn’t pregnant, and if she succeeded, would kill both herself and the unborn baby.

  She could tell the authorities and plead her belly, and hope they would let her keep the baby. In which case she would either bring her baby up in prison, with an almost zero chance of it surviving, or would be transported with or without the child, again, with an almost zero chance of it surviving the transport ship or the foundling hospital. If it survived being born. So many babies
died at or just after birth, even those whose mothers had access to good food and conditions and medical attention. If she remained in prison she had almost no chance of her baby living for more than a few days or weeks at best.

  Or she could strike a deal, and betray Alex on the condition that she received a full pardon and got to keep the child. She cradled her stomach in her hands and tried to imagine what the child would look like. There were many possibilities. Tall and strong with silver-blonde hair. Small and fragile, with chestnut waves. Or any number of variations between.

  The child would be a constant reminder of that glorious final lovemaking, the skirl of the pipes, the laughter of the clansmen in the distance when they still believed they could win. So many of them now lay dead, in graves or rotting on the battlefield still, for all she knew.

  The child would be a constant reminder that its life had been bought at the cost of its father’s if he lived, and of his clansmen, who would be hunted down ruthlessly once the truth was known. Of the carefree reckless Angus, blue eyes brimming with mischief, of Duncan the peacemaker, fierce yet gentle, of Iain, who had loved Maggie so desperately, and must be grieving terribly. Of all of them, who had accepted her into their clan, made her one of them.

  Alex would want her to betray him. He had wanted her to do that to save herself, even without having considered the possibility of a baby. If he were here now he would be ordering her to save herself and their child. He was her husband and chieftain. She should obey him.

  She lay there and thought. And made her decision. And then, because Isobel had been the one to recognise she was pregnant, and because the next morning she asked Beth what she was going to do, she told her the truth, in confidence. And Isobel swore to keep that confidence, although she did not agree with Beth’s decision.

  Two days later they came for her again, telling her that the duke wished to interview her. This time they didn’t let her choose the most expensive dress possible, but instead Kate arrived at the prison with a cotton gown, silk neckerchief, and a pair of soft leather shoes. All of which were very good quality, but which would not keep ten women in comfort for several weeks as the previous gowns had.

  Beth dressed and apologised for not being able to order chocolate for Kate this time, then accompanied the guards to Whitehall once more. She was somewhat surprised that Cumberland still wanted to see her in view of her remarks to him the last time they’d met, but when the door opened and she was escorted in she was confronted not by the podgy prince, but by the Duke of Newcastle, who regarded her coldly from across his desk as she sat down on the chair opposite him without being invited to do so. She arranged her skirts and folded her hands in her lap as she had on their last meeting over a month ago. Then she turned her gaze on him, her expression neutral, giving nothing away.

  Her wound was healing well, he noted, although she would be scarred for life. Otherwise she looked in the best of health. Newgate was hell on Earth, an odiferous verminous nightmare. People who had been incarcerated for any length of time were always changed for the worse. People of quality, as she was, unused to privation, were usually wrecks after a few days in the common cells. She had been there for four weeks.

  He examined her carefully. She was perhaps slightly paler than previously, but other than that she was blooming, her hair lustrous, her skin clear, eyes bright. No sign of trembling or nerves.

  “So, madam,” he said, “have you had time to consider your position?”

  “Indeed I have,” she replied. “I have thought of nothing else for the past two days.”

  “And have you now come to a sensible decision?”

  “I have come to the only possible decision, Your Grace,” she said.

  His hopes soared, partly because she had used the correct form of address, and partly because there was of course only one possible course of action for her to take. He smiled.

  “I am glad to hear it. I will call my clerk to take your deposition.”

  She waited calmly while he sent for his clerk and instructed him to scribe her statement. The young man sat at a desk in the corner and prepared his writing materials.

  “Now,” said the duke once Benjamin was ready, quill poised above the paper, “tell me about the man known to us as Sir Anthony.”

  She thought for a moment and then began.

  “Sir Anthony Peters is the most intelligent man I have ever met,” she said. “He managed to fool everybody he met, including the Elector, yourself and me, into believing he was who he said he was.” She paused, and waited considerately for the clerk to catch up.

  Newcastle frowned at the use of the word Elector to describe the king, but decided to let that go for now. What a coup if he could be the man to reveal to the king the true identity of the most wanted spy in Britain!

  “After I married him he taught me many things; he taught me duplicity, at which society in general is so adept and which I, being reared in the country, knew little about. But he also taught me about honour, loyalty and trust, and that without those life is worth nothing. So here is my deposition; I would rather die tomorrow with my head held high than live to be a hundred in shame and regret. I will never, under any circumstances, tell you anything about Sir Anthony Peters that you don’t already know. You are wasting your time. That is all I have to say to you.”

  She sat back, eyeing the duke’s shocked expression with obvious pleasure. Benjamin’s pen scratched busily across the paper until Newcastle raised his hand, at which it stopped. Silence fell on the room. The duke glared at the young woman sitting opposite him.

  “Madam,” he said icily. “Let me warn you that this is your last chance to save yourself. If you think the Duke of Cumberland will continue to extend his protection to you should you refuse to give up this traitor, you are very much mistaken. He has told me that if you persist in your recalcitrance, he will wash his hands of you.” This was not strictly true, but she did not need to know that.

  “Thank God that something positive has come out of this interview, then,” Beth replied. “At least I will no longer have to witness his pathetic infatuation for me. That alone was worth me coming here.”

  She said it as though she had decided of her own accord to pay him a visit. The woman was delusional! They had been too lenient with her. She needed a shock to bring her to her senses.

  “Call the guard,” he said, and Benjamin rose to do his bidding. The soldiers returned and Beth stood and moved to the door. The soldiers saluted, then, standing one each side of her, prepared to escort her back to Newgate.

  “Sergeant,” Newcastle said, just as they were about to close the door. “A word, if you please. You can wait outside.” The other soldier led Beth out and closed the door. The sergeant waited, at attention. He was a florid-faced, beefy middle-aged man with the air of a career soldier. No doubt he would welcome the chance to gain the favour of a great man. Indeed, who would not?

  “At ease, man,” the duke said. The sergeant’s shoulders dropped and he relaxed a little. “Now, I need to give the young lady a shock. She has some extremely valuable information about a man we very much wish to apprehend, but so far she is proving very stubborn.”

  “Do you want me to try to…persuade her, Your Grace?” the sergeant asked. He looked as though he would relish the task, but the methods he would likely use would not do at all.

  “I am sure you would be capable of doing so, Sergeant, but I must tell you that she is not to be brutalised in any way. Nothing that will leave any lasting marks or scars. Can you think of such a punishment that may bring her to her senses?”

  “We could starve her, Your Grace. A week or two without food in solitary confinement should bring her round.”

  The duke considered this.

  “No,” he said. “We have wasted far too much time already. Unless we can get the information soon, it will be worthless.” Indeed, he thought, it could already be so. “I want quick results, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant thought for a minute.

/>   “Well, Your Grace. When I was in Inverness, there was a vault in the bridge where people were put, where they could neither sit nor lie, but had to stand all the time. It became very painful very quickly, and their legs swelled something terrible at the time, but I don’t think it was lasting.”

  “Excellent! Well, I am sure that you can improvise something to make sure that she does not lie or sit down. Keep her on her own, and a guard with her at all times for when she decides to cooperate. I am sure it will not take long. She is a gently reared young woman, unused to suffering of any kind.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. Is she to be fed?”

  “No. But give her water. On no account must she die of thirst. Report to me daily, Sergeant. I am entrusting this task to you and will be most grateful if you succeed in bringing her to a confession.”

  The sergeant smiled.

  “You can rely on me, Your Grace.”

  After the sergeant had left, Benjamin returned to clear away his writing materials.

  “Er…do you wish to keep the lady’s deposition, my lord?” he asked.

  “What?” said the duke, deep in thought. “No. It’s worthless. Throw it on the fire.”

  Damn Cumberland! They had wasted far too much time. This Anthony had no doubt gone to ground, and could be anywhere by now. If Newcastle had had his way, he would have flogged her the moment she regained consciousness instead of spending months treating her with kid gloves. The prince was making this very difficult, saying that Miss Cunningham must remain unblemished apart from the scar she had already sustained. How could he still entertain the notion that she was an innocent dupe of Sir Anthony’s? It was true that the man had been a master of disguise and extremely charismatic and deceitful, but this woman, fragile and beautiful as she was, was no victim. Newcastle was sure of it.

  However, the young prince was infatuated and, in spite of all she had said, still entertained the notion that she would come to her senses in time, still could not believe that any woman could resist him, based on the fact that no other woman he had set his heart on to date had refused him.