naked. The Indians wear very little, you know.”
Instead of being grateful and relieved that he had ransomed her and taken her back, she had spent most of her time crying or mooning around with swollen eyes. She’d tricked him, curse her, damn her! And all the punishment he’d inflicted on her since then could not wipe that out.
After he’d left her that night, bruised and bleeding from the force of his assault on her body, he thought he had cowed her forever. And then, a scant month later, she had announced to him quite calmly across the breakfast table, “I think you’ll be happy to know, my lord, that I am expecting a child.” Then, as he half rose, she must have read the ugly resolve in his eyes for she continued in the same even voice, “I could not bear not to confide our happy news to Mrs. Gordon and some of the other ladies whose husbands are your closest friends. They all wish us well, of course.”
At least the child she bore was no progeny of an Indian savage—but he could not be thankful for that; for if it had been, he would have had the excuse and a reason to strangle it. No, she had produced a grey-eyed, black-haired brat who looked like her and might, by the slimmest margin of possibility, be his. And she had never, no matter how he threatened or bullied her, confessed to having been the mistress of that half-French American, even after he came back into her life.
“Why does she cling to her miserable existence? By God, that fool of a doctor said it would be only a matter of hours.” And then on the heels of his wish he received its fulfillment with the panted cries of the women upstairs and the scurrying of feet.
For the first time that evening the duke smiled and leaned back in his padded velvet chair. So it was over at last! He had everything prepared—all the necessary papers drawn up and signed and the doctor on his way. If all went well, he would be back in London by morning—no need to spend another night in the country with a corpse and whispering servants for company.
“Well, Leo? ’Pon my soul! I’d hardly expected to find you back in town so soon, after—” Lord Anthony Sinclair, Baron Lydon, let his words trail away into an awkward cough as he lowered his ponderous bulk into the padded leather chair next to his brother in the Select Room at Whites Club.
The duke raised an eyebrow as he studied Lord Anthony’s red, perspiring face.
“Indeed, Tony? I would have thought that you of all people would be the least surprised to find me back in town.” A certain dryness crept into his voice. “Well? Did you tear yourself away from Prinny’s company merely to offer me your condolences?”
Lord Anthony cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“Dammit, Leo! Why will you always put a man so deucedly ill at ease? To tell the truth, I had half-expected to discover you here tonight. Saves me a trip into the country, y’know, although I daresay, with the funeral—”
“The funeral, my dear brother, took place very quietly this morning as you very well know. And, to forestall any further questions on the matter, I did not feel the need to be present. So, now that that is out of the way perhaps you will put me out of my suspense and tell me why you found it necessary to come looking for me.”
“Last thing I wanted to do, actually!” Lord Anthony confessed with a sudden burst of frankness. “Why does everything have to happen all at once, eh? But dash it, there was no one else to be the one to tell you, and you know the Prince of Wales thinks a great deal of you—reminded me that you have Chatham’s ear—”
Languidly, the duke raised one white, be-ringed hand, causing his brother’s words to stumble into silence.
“Peace, my dear brother, peace! I am afraid that I can make no sense at all of whatever you’re trying to convey to me. I presume you did come here to bring me bad news of some kind? Well, I have found that news of any sort is best delivered quite directly without any frills or evasions.” He paused deliberately to take a pinch of snuff and heard his brother sigh heavily.
“You’re a devilish cold fish, Leo. Damned if you aren’t. Never quite understood—but very well then, no need to give me that cold-eyed stare, I’ll come directly to the point. It’s your—it’s Dominic.”
This time he thought he saw a reaction in the duke’s cold, composed face, a certain strange gleam in his eyes, making them grow suddenly more brilliant for an instant. But the next moment, the duke had raised one eyebrow as he said calmly, “Indeed? But now you have truly surprised me, Tony. I was told some months ago that the young man had suddenly decided to take off for France in spite of the somewhat turbulent turn of events there. So? What of him?”
This time Lord Anthony was quite blunt, his face flushing.
“He’s here. In England. In Newgate Prison, to be exact, facing a charge of treason along with five other Irish rebels. And if you can’t do something about it, Leo, there’s going to be the very devil of an ugly scandal when he comes up for trial within the next fortnight.”
The duke’s snuffbox closed with a snap—his only show of emotion. He said softly, “So? And do they know who he is? Has anything been noised abroad yet?”
“He would have been summarily executed after a public flogging, along with some ten or fifteen others, if not for the intervention of a certain Lord Edward Fitzgerald, who informed the major in charge that the man known as ‘Captain Challenger’ was none other than the Viscount Stanbury and the heir to an English dukedom. Damn it, Leo—no need to look at me that way, I can’t help the way matters turned out! Fortunately, this Major Sirr proved to be an exceptionally intelligent and discreet man. He had five of the rebel leaders sent here to Newgate, under heavy guard, of course. And they’ve been permitted to speak to no one, not even to the prison doctor. No exercising in the prison yard, and their meals are pushed in to them through a grating under the door—”
“You may spare me the trivial details, Tony, and relate to me only the facts, if you please.”
The duke’s voice remained unaccented by any overt feeling, but his fingers had clenched themselves over the head of the slim sword cane he habitually carried. “How many persons, outside of yourself and the Prince of Wales, and this major fellow in Ireland, of course—how many others know?”
Lord Anthony, feeling himself reprimanded as if he had been a schoolboy, sounded a trifle sullen. “I told you—no one. Not even the warden of the prison himself. They are being kept incommunicado; that’s not unusual, you know, for those accused of treasonable acts! But the question is, dammit, for how long can the secret be kept? There will have to be a trial, and then—can’t you see what the results would be? I’m known to be one of Prinny’s closest intimates and you—I’ve heard rumors you’re likely to follow Chatham as prime minister if he ever decides to step down. I tell you, Leo, you cannot—”
“And I will not, my brother. But this, you must admit, is too public a place to discuss such matters. I will order my carriage, and we will go together to the earl of Chatham’s house. I think he will still be up. And then, on our—unnoticed, I hope—way to Newgate Prison we will talk further.”
“You are going to tell Chatham then? But—”
Lord Anthony was forced to cut short his expostulation as his brother, summoning a servant, gave the man instructions to have his carriage brought around to the door.
“With a personally signed order from the prime minister himself, I think we will be allowed access to these treasonable Irishmen. And then—we will see.”
The duke smoothed
