Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  The gratitude of the hero of Culloden? Was he up to the task? He would happily beat her till she begged for mercy for the sheer pleasure of it, but to gain the favour of Prince William, he would do anything, anything at all.

  “Yes, Your Grace. She has always been stubborn, but I’m sure a word from me will have the desired effect.”

  The duke had been perusing Richard’s records, but now looked up again.

  “A word. Yes, let us call it that.”

  “Do you want me to go to her immediately, Your Grace?”

  Newcastle looked Richard up and down and he squirmed uncomfortably, aware of how bedraggled he looked.

  “No. She is in somewhat uncomfortable circumstances at the moment, and I can see you have had an arduous journey. Another night and she may be a little more receptive to your fraternal entreaties. Go home and see your wife. I’m sure she has missed you, and you her. And get some rest. You can visit your sister tomorrow. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

  Richard smiled. This had been the most confusing interview he had ever had. But in the end it would all turn out well. He couldn’t wait to see her face when he walked in the room. And he would not walk out until she had told him exactly what he wanted to know. He stood, and bowed to the duke.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” replied the duke. Richard turned to leave. “Oh, just one thing, Captain, while you are having this talk.”

  Richard turned back.

  “She is scarred from the gunshot wound, but the prince has specifically ordered that under no circumstances is she to acquire any more scars or be permanently disfigured. I have examined your file in depth, Captain. You may be forceful in your conversation, but discreet, if you understand me.”

  He did. He understood perfectly. Cumberland was still hoping to swive her, and didn’t want damaged merchandise. This was going to be fun.

  After Cunningham had left, the duke closed his file and put it to one side. Then he sat for a while, brow furrowed, deep in thought.

  He had not got where he was by taking people at face value. It was apparent to him that the captain was hiding something regarding his relationship with his sister, although he had clearly been thunderstruck when he’d been told she was at Culloden. He thought it unlikely that Cunningham had known about his sister and brother-in-law’s Jacobitism. He was obviously a dedicated soldier through and through.

  His colonel had stated in the report the duke had asked for that Captain Cunningham undertook his duties in Scotland with extreme zeal, and that there had been a number of complaints from the citizens of Inverness among others regarding his conduct during the pacification raids, but that no independent witnesses had ever been found who would testify against him, therefore no charges had ever been brought against the man.

  So, for extreme zeal, read brutality, and for no one to testify, read intimidation of witnesses. The captain was quite clearly in the mould of Fergusson and Scott.

  Which, the duke thought, will serve my purpose well.

  Personally he found it ridiculous that such an important potential informant should be treated so leniently because of an infatuation. Prince William was renowned for his realism and practicality – except where beautiful women were concerned. And it was true that this one was exceptionally beautiful.

  Even so…

  The duke smiled. He could not lose. If Cunningham succeeds in extracting the information about Sir Anthony from his sister without marking her, I can take the credit. And if he gets it by torturing her, as is more likely, I can state, with complete honesty, that I told the man not to mark his sister, and that he acted in flagrant disregard of my instructions.

  But he would still have the information. And if Cunningham tortured her and still failed to get the information, then he could put all the blame onto the hapless soldier and come out of it smelling of roses.

  He thought that unlikely, though. Cunningham was probably the only male alive who would be indifferent to her extraordinary loveliness, being her brother, whilst she was surely accustomed to wielding the power great beauty brings, and no doubt believed that being made to stand for a couple of nights would be the full extent of her suffering.

  Unless I am very mistaken in my assessment of Richard Cunningham, thought the duke, she is about to be disabused of that notion.

  * * *

  When the footman opened the front door and saw who was standing on the step, the supercilious expression on his face was momentarily transformed to one of complete horror, before he regained control of his facial features and adopted a neutral aspect. He bowed deeply.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he began. “What an unexpected pleasure –”

  “I’m sure,” Richard interrupted impatiently, pushing rudely past the man and striding down the hall in the direction of the drawing room. He had no time for insincere platitudes. All Anne’s, or rather Lord Redburn’s servants detested him, as he well knew. Now he was home for a time, he would dismiss the lot of them and employ more malleable staff.

  Before the footman could catch up and offer to announce him Richard had thrown open the doors and walked in, to be confronted by a complete stranger attired in silk and lace, who was currently lying at full-length on the chaise longue, languidly helping himself to raspberries from a crystal bowl by his side. As the door opened, the young man tilted his head backwards to see who had entered in such a rush.

  “Good afternoon, sir!” he said brightly, without getting up. “Would you care for a raspberry? They really are succulent. Aunt grows them herself, you know. Well, she’s not actually my aunt. I suppose she’s my aunt-in-law, if there is such a thing.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Richard asked rudely.

  The languid man popped another raspberry in his mouth, licked the juice off his fingers, then stood up and proffered a soft lily-white hand, which Richard regarded with the utmost contempt.

  “Oliver,” he said. “Delighted to meet you sir, whoever you are. I must say, what a fine job you brave soldiers are doing, saving us from papery and all that.”

  “Popery,” Richard growled.

  “Popery, quite,” Oliver acknowledged.

  “So, Oliver, what the hell are –”

  He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps running down the hall, and then his wife appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily as though she had run a great distance, although she had in fact merely run down one flight of stairs, the rest of her breathlessness and her alarming pallor resulting from being told who had just appeared at the door.

  “Richard!” she cried. “I did not expect you.”

  “Clearly,” Richard said, gesturing to the young man, who had sat back down again. “I can see I have not come home a moment too soon, if this ignorant fop is the sort of company you keep when I am away!”

  “You have me to a T, sir!” Oliver said pleasantly, completely unfazed by the insult to his appearance and intelligence. “Anne, should we call for wine, perhaps? Toast the great victory over the unwashed rabble and all that?”

  Both Richard and Anne ignored him completely. She was still standing in the doorway trying to recover her composure.

  “I…er…I…” she stammered.

  He took one step toward her, then stopped, staring over her right shoulder and down the hall in amazement. She turned to see what he was looking at and then stood aside with obvious relief to let the wizened old woman who was the cause of Richard’s amazement, and her younger companion into the room.

  The old woman strode straight up to Richard and looked up at him, an expression of utter contempt on her face.

  “Hell are you doing here?” she barked. “Bloody nerve!”

  Richard was stunned. What was going on? It seemed as though his house had been taken over by lunatics; a limp-wristed idiot, a wrinkled old crone dressed as a man, and standing in the doorway a young woman as tall and almost as broad as himself, who was smiling
at him, clearly highly amused by his discomfiture.

  With an effort he pulled himself together and attempted to gain control of the situation.

  “This is my house, madam,” he announced disdainfully. “I am Captain –”

  “I know who you are, man!” she interrupted. “Didn’t ask who you were, did I? Bloody cowardly son of a bitch enjoys raping women and murdering babies!”

  “Trying to,” the large-boned woman supplemented dryly.

  “Right. Trying to. Don’t look like you can get it up.” The old woman looked down at Richard’s crotch with disgust.

  “No, Aunt. Trying to murder babies. Didn’t succeed. Probably gets stiff on rape, though,” the woman corrected.

  Richard’s face flushed even more scarlet than his coat. Did everyone in the country know about Martha and her brat?

  “Saved us from pap…popery, though,” Oliver supplied from the sofa.

  “Popery my arse,” the crone replied. “Don’t need to butcher women and children to save us from that. Like bloody Hawley, aren’t you?” she said accusingly.

  Richard felt the rage rise up in him. He didn’t give a damn what this old witch thought she knew. No one spoke to him like that. He would throw her and her foul mouth and obnoxious relatives out on the street, right now! And then he would have a word with his wife.

  He raised himself to his full height and opened his mouth to order her out.

  “Seems Billy thinks that’s the sort of bastard needed to do the job. Must have a word with him about it,” the old lady continued, unaware that she was about to be bodily ejected from the premises. “When are we due at St James’s next?”

  “Tuesday week,” Oliver said.

  “Right. Give him a piece of my mind then. And George. Anne!” she shouted.

  Anne, who had been trying to melt into the wall, jumped violently. She came forward, trembling.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, how remiss of me. Richard, this is Lady Harriet, and –”

  “Marchioness of Hereford,” the young woman interrupted. She came forward. “Lady Philippa Ashleigh, and this,” she waved a hand at Oliver, “is my husband Oliver, Earl of Drayton. Oliver, get up! Captain Cunningham is about to order us to leave.”

  The young man, once more supine on the chaise longue, unfolded himself and stood.

  “Oh,” he said sadly. “How dashed inconvenient. I was looking forward to dinner. Ragout of veal you know, my favourite.”

  Philippa looked at Richard expectantly.

  “Well?” she said when he failed to issue the order.

  “No, of course I wasn’t going to order you to leave,” he managed, backtracking rapidly. “I was just a little…er…surprised. I didn’t expect my wife to have guests, that’s all.”

  “Why not? Husband like you, needs friends, don’t she?” Harriet barked. She moved over to the fireplace and tapped her pipe out on the hearth. Philippa grinned and Richard’s fingers itched to wrap themselves round her throat. He didn’t dare order a marchioness and an earl out of his house, particularly one who was on familiar enough terms with the royal family to call the Duke of Cumberland ‘Billy’ and the king merely ‘George’. It would be social suicide for him to do that.

  And you know it, you bitch, he thought, glaring at Philippa, who smiled sweetly back.

  The following four hours were the longest and most excruciating Richard had ever spent in his life. He was not comforted by the fact that Anne clearly felt the same way, though for different reasons. She hardly spoke a word the whole evening, which left him, no conversationalist at the best of times, having to make opening gambit after opening gambit, to have all of them disdainfully rejected by Lady Harriet, who clearly despised him, and presumably due to her elevated status, or perhaps just because she was barking mad, felt no need to observe the social niceties. Oliver seemed to live in his own little world, oblivious to the hostile atmosphere that permeated the room, while Philippa observed his humiliation with amused hazel eyes.

  He hadn’t even been able to change out of his dusty, coffee-stained uniform, his tentative suggestion that he do so being shot down by Lady Harriet, who announced that she wasn’t about to eat cold veal because he wanted to prance about trying to make himself look respectable, an impossible task in any case. Instead he sat there in utter mortification until, after what seemed like a century the crone announced that she was off to bed, and he managed to make his excuses and flee the company.

  Anne had told the servants to prepare his room for him, and waited around downstairs for a while after he’d gone up, no doubt hoping he’d be asleep by the time she retired.

  Once in his room, he took off his coat, changed his breeches and combed out his hair, then waited until he heard her door close. Then he waited for another ten minutes before he tiptoed barefooted down the corridor and opening her door, marched in.

  She was sitting at her dressing table brushing her lank brown hair, and gave a little shriek of shock when he entered. He closed the door quietly, then walked straight over to her and grabbed her by the hair, lifting her off the stool and pulling her round to face him.

  “You enjoyed watching me be humiliated tonight, didn’t you?” he snarled.

  Her eyes opened wide, her pupils dilating in terror.

  “No! I swear I –” she began.

  “Shut up,” he said, and she quietened immediately. “Listen to me, you mealy-mouthed bitch. You’re lucky that I’m tired tonight, and I need my sleep because I’ve got an important job to do for the Duke of Cumberland tomorrow. But after that I’m coming home, and when I arrive I expect your friends to be gone. Do you understand me?”

  She stared at him white-faced, paralysed with terror. He gripped her hair tighter, pulling her head backwards until she cried out in pain.

  “Do you understand me?” he said again, softly this time.

  “Yes!” she cried. She was trembling like a leaf.

  “Good. I expect to be here for some time. We can discuss our domestic arrangements when I get back from my appointment. And where the false accusations that old witch threw at me tonight came from.”

  He let her go, and very gently ran his finger down her cheek. She flinched as though he’d hit her, and he smiled.

  “I look forward to resuming our marital relations,” he said. “It’s about time you fulfilled your duty and got me an heir. Until tomorrow.”

  He left the room, leaving her ashen-faced and weeping.

  This had been a horrible evening. He had never been good at making small talk, even when the company was congenial. But tomorrow he was going to do what he was really good at. It promised to be enormous fun. And to enjoy it to the full, he needed a good night’s rest.

  He walked back to his room with a spring in his step, the unpleasant evening already fading as he thought of the joys tomorrow would bring.

  * * *

  She had been standing for two full days now, and this was the third. She knew that because the two soldiers who had been ordered to watch her did twelve-hour shifts, and the nice one, Ned, was about to come on duty again.

  The other one, whose name she had not discovered, did not speak to her at all. He might have been dumb for all she knew. If she asked for a drink he gave it to her; if she asked to relieve herself he lifted her skirts and held the bucket provided so that she could urinate, and then he took it away. Otherwise he stood or sat in the corner, biting his nails or playing solitaire with a pack of grubby cards. His silence had been unnerving at first, but Beth had got used to it now. At least he left her alone, which was a small mercy.

  She tried to wait until Ned was back to use the bucket, because he, as he’d promised, would untie the rope from the hook, help her to straighten up, and turn his back, which at least afforded her some measure of dignity, and more importantly the opportunity to sit for a few seconds, rest her legs and try to move her arms a little. She didn’t take advantage of Ned’s good nature by trying to sit for longer, partly because she knew that he would probably be
flogged if it was discovered that he was releasing her, even for a minute, and partly because they would then remove him, and his replacement could be a man of the sergeant’s ilk.

  Periodically she would move one leg or the other, and at first that had brought her some measure of relief, although she risked overbalancing and causing damage to her shoulders. But now her legs, her arms and her back were just a throbbing mass, and any movement at all caused her agonising pain. She no longer tried to lift her head, because her neck hurt too much for her to do so. So she stayed, legs straight, body bent at the waist, arms behind her, looking at the floor and wondering how long it would be before her legs gave way.

  She was hungry too. She had not eaten anything since she had been brought here, and had stomach cramps from time to time. The hunger she could stand; but she was also starting to feel faint at times, little silver lights dancing at the edge of her vision. If she lost consciousness, would they leave her hanging there until she came round? She reasoned that she would find out in time, because she was not about to tell them anything and they showed no signs of releasing her.

  How long did it take to die of starvation? She had no idea, but thought it must be weeks. Could she stay like this for weeks? The men walked all night to attack Cumberland’s camp then walked back and fought a battle, with only a biscuit to eat in two days, she told herself. I can stand here for as long as they make me. To hell with them.

  The door opened and the welcome sound of Ned entering greeted her. The nail-biting soldier stood, the two men saluted each other, and then the door closed and she was alone with the kind young man.

  “Good morning, Ned,” Beth said, trying to sound cheerful. “It is morning, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Would you like a drink, Miss?” he asked.