Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers
thin smile curving his lips. “No, no, I would not attempt to spring at me if I were you! For chained as you are you would only suffer the further humiliation of falling flat on your face at my feet. As I recall I once had my grooms hold you while they administered the beating you richly deserved for attacking my nephew. I am afraid, Dominic, that your unstable temper comes to you from your mother—and with such a poor inheritance, who knows? For your own sake and the sake of others you might injure, it might be that I could have you committed to Bedlam—”
His eyes studied carefully the effect of his words, but apart from that first instinctive, abortive tensing of his muscles Dominic seemed not to hear him, his eyes now staring stonily over the duke’s shoulder.
Royse now lowered his voice slightly and his tone became almost insinuating.
“Come now, I have only tried to make it plain to you what I could and would do as a last resort! But if you are prepared to be reasonable and to curb your animal rages, why—we might talk.” He watched the silver-grey eyes that seemed to reflect back the flickering of the lantern without revealing anything that was in their depths, and he continued in the same studiedly reasonable tone. “You can nod, can’t you? Well then, if you wish me to remove your gag and promise that you will not subject me to any bursts of your usual insolence, I will do so. You see? I am prepared to be reasonable. You have only to move your head.”
There was a long moment when it seemed as if Dominic was determined to be stubborn, and the duke cast about in his mind for other methods. But his face showed nothing of his thoughts, and at last he caught the grudging, almost imperceptible movement he looked for and permitted himself to smile again.
“There, you see? That was not too difficult, was it? It has been a long time since we have had a conversation, you and I. And believe me, we would have done so much earlier if I’d had any notion that your Uncle Conal was letting you run wild and associate with the scum who call themselves the United Irishmen.”
Placing the lantern on the chair, the duke went behind Dominic and deftly began to unfasten the leather straps, noticing as he did so that the young man’s back was also a mass of cuts and festering wounds. They had really done a good job on him with the “cat”—a pity in so many ways that the meddling Lord Fitzgerald had seen fit to interfere before they finished him off.
There was a certain tenseness in the figure before him that prompted the duke, as the gag loosened and came off, to give him a quick shove with his gloved hand, sending him staggering forward onto his knees.
“There is no need for you to attempt to get up, for with the weight of those chains, you cannot. And I must admit I feel safer this way. Besides—” he walked a little distance away and picked up the lantern once more “—it will do you good to do some penance. I take it that you have gone back to being a papist as your mother was?”
The voice that finally answered him was a husky whisper as Dominic forced movement into his aching jaws and swollen tongue.
“Did you want to speak to me, Your Grace? Or merely to force me into just such ungovernable outbursts of rage as you accuse me of?”
The duke of Royse arched one slim blond brow. “It seems that you have actually managed to acquire some polish, after all! Did your uncle find you tutors in Ireland?”
Dominic’s voice was carefully controlled. “My uncle tried to teach me many things, as I think you would know. But in the end I found my own tutors. Is this what you have waited to ask me?”
The duke’s face had tightened and his eyes flickered, but he managed to control his rage within him. “My time is short, Captain Rebel. Tell me—why do you Irishmen who call yourself leaders always choose such overly dramatic names? Captain this and Captain that. But in the end you will all be brought to the same state—condemned felons, on their knees to English justice!”
“But an English rebel is entitled to stand before a judge, is he not, Your Grace? And before a jury of his peers. I had not thought I would sometime find a use for the grand title that my accident of birth bestowed upon me!”
“I had thought you had some such plan in mind! But be careful. I do not take my name or my titles lightly!”
“What will you do with me then? Have me killed before I can stand trial? Or committed to Bedlam as you threatened? Will you make arrangements to send me gagged into the court? I do not think your English justice, of which we’ve seen so little in Ireland, will tolerate it.”
“You’re still defiant, then. I take it you mean to make some brave, impassioned speech about justice and liberty and equality for all before they pass sentence on you? Oh—very gallant! I can tell you’ve been absorbing all the revolutionary ideas that have unfortunately spread from America to France! But do not think that I will let you drag my name in the dust.”
Dominic’s voice sounded suddenly tired. “I intend to open the eyes of some of the people in England to the injustice and brutality their armies and corrupt officials practice in Ireland in the name of King George. And if that constitutes dragging your name in the mire, then I must tell you, Your Grace, that only the two alternatives I’ve mentioned before will stop me from doing so.”
“I think not!” was all the duke said between his clenched teeth before he strode to the door and called for the jailers.
He waited until they had come back and refastened the gag, and then, drawing off his glove, struck the man the world knew as his son across the face.
In French he said, “If we ever meet again, you are at liberty to call me out for this. But I do not think that we shall.”
Outside the night air was clean and cold as the duke of Royse climbed into his carriage where his brother sat anxiously awaiting him.
“Well, Leo? Dammit, man, you had me worried when you took so long! And it’s a deucedly cold night too—a good thing I thought to bring my flask of brandy with me. Well, what happened? You look like the devil himself.”
“And so I might be called, by some! But I have decided what must be done and left instructions with the warden.”
Lord Anthony cast his brother a doubtful, sidelong look.
“Pitt’s letter helped, eh? Thought it might. He’s the real ruler of England now the king’s health is failing. But you were saying—”
“You did not let me finish, Tony. But yes, the earl of Chatham was good enough to give me carte blanche in the handling of this unfortunate affair, along with the expression of his fullest trust.” He sat back, relaxing against comfortable velvet cushions as he pulled the fur lap robe up over his knees. “Tomorrow afternoon at precisely two o’clock our five rebels will be permitted to take one turn about the exercise yard, at a time when all the other prisoners are already locked back into their cells. And at about two minutes after the hour they will be taken and impressed into the Royal Navy—a not unusual happening in many of our prisons both here and in Ireland, as you know.”
“By George!” Lord Anthony breathed admiringly. “Damn me, Leo—I always knew you had a devilish, devious mind! So there’ll be no trial after all, eh? And no scandal, thank God!”
“And our young rebel,” the duke added silkily, “will serve His Majesty for a change.”
1
The small Carmelite convent, white-washed walls almost hidden by the tall trees that surrounded it, stood like a miniature oasis on the dusty, arid road to Toledo. Like the royal estate at Aranjuez, which lay nearby, it was watered by a thin artery of a stream that branched off the Rio Tajo.
Sometimes, when one of the more adventurous young females left in the care of the good sisters was daring enough to climb atop the thick stone walls, she would see around her, shimmering endlessly under the sun, the arid brown and ochre plains of the Spanish province of Castile. How hot and desolate the countryside looked! And especially from