Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers
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 one long finger against the line of his jaw, and his voice grew thoughtful. “It will be interesting to see if the young savage I remember has changed very much since he’s grown into a man.”
In the beginning the duke, his fastidious senses already offended by the prison stench and the tiny, windowless cell to which he had been escorted, found it hard to recognize any resemblance to a man at all in the emaciated, heavily chained wretch who was half-pushed, half-carried through the iron-studded door.
The light shed by a single, flickering lantern was dim, and it took His Grace some moments to realize that the scarecrowlike, raggedly clad creature who fell back against the door as soon as it had closed was not only manacled hand and foot so that he could hardly stand, let alone move, but gagged as well. So the warden was following his strict instructions to the letter, it seemed! A conscientious man.
The duke had preferred to stand rather than take the single rush-bottomed chair that had been hastily brought in for his comfort. And now, moving leisurely, he permitted himself to take a small pinch of snuff before he reached with his other hand, still gloved, for the lantern.
Still moving slowly and deliberately, he crossed the small space between them, his polished boots rustling the dirty straw. There was no sign of movement, not even a flinching away, from the chained man, even when the duke suddenly held the lantern high, barely inches away from the bearded, bruised face. Or what he could see of a face behind leather straps that held the gag in place.
Was it possible that they had made a mistake, after all? That this was some other rascally rebel who hoped to save his own skin by pretending to be an English viscount?
The duke’s thin nostrils wrinkled with distaste. They should have thrown a few buckets of cold water over him before bringing him in here! His eyes, moving over the ragged figure, noticed without surprise the collection of cuts and weals that decorated both his torso and arms.
He said aloud, letting a sneer creep into his voice, “I see that our soldiers are as efficient as usual when it comes to putting down rebellions against the crown! I take it you were persuaded to confess to your part in it?”
There was no answer, nor had he expected any, but the man’s head went up at last, and slitted eyes that reflected the lantern light like silver looked into the duke’s appraising ones.
“So it is you, after all. You should have stayed in France, after all—or did you go there to drum up help for your ridiculous cause?”
The eyes were the same, although the boy of sixteen he remembered had grown taller. They glared defiance and hate at him, precisely as they had done so many years ago when Dominic had said, his voice flat and hard, “And someday I will come back here and kill you, for what you have done to my mother and to me.”
But as long as his mother lived, and the threat remained that the duke her husband might send her to Bedlam, Dominic had not dared to return to England.
The duke saw the corded muscles stand out in the young man’s throat as if he ached to speak—to cry his defiance aloud, perhaps? Or to beg for mercy? But there would be time enough to remove the gag if he wished it; and for the moment there were things he wished to say first.
“Your mother died last night—a pity there was no time to send for you or that I had no idea you were already on your way here. You’ll agree with me that it was a merciful release?”
This time there was a sound from behind the gag that sounded like an animal growl, and the duke smiled.
“Ah yes. I had forgotten how attached you used to be to the poor, unfortunate woman. But time, as you know, has a way of changing most things, and even