Free The Secret Duke by Jo Beverley

the Fowler woman slides around the subject you’d think incest is involved. Then there’s his cruelty to his wife.”
    “What?”
    “Rothgar showed me Fowler’s latest screed. He’s vile for forcing his wife to accept such a scandal beneath her roof. As if Diana cared for that.”
    “Rothgar subscribes to the Fowler letter?” Thorn asked, surprised.
    “Of course he does. Or someone does on his behalf. Knowing everything is one of his skills.”
    Thorn wished he’d thought of doing the same thing. “If the woman’s after the Dark Marquess’s wife and daughter, her days are numbered. And I will applaud.”
    “I’d like to call her out. Pity she’s a woman, and an old one at that.”
    “Only in her forties, I think,” Christian said.
    “But unwell,” said Robin. “It’s said her husband gave her the pox. Enough to make any woman bitter.”
    Thorn shook his head. “Softhearted as always.”
    “Not softhearted enough to give her a thousand guineas. On top of the rest, she’s now spewing some dangerous political rants. Think what she could do with so much money. Of your kindness, dear souls, may I not give the money to some other cause? A foundling home. A hundred almshouses. Anything!”
    “She is dangerous,” Christian agreed, clearly not as drunk as he’d seemed. “Her letters used to be merely a source of amusement, but as Robin says, now she preaches violent action. She and her followers have become a matter of concern.”
    “Ah.”
    Major Lord Grandiston was now in the Horse Guards, who provided escort for the monarch and were generally involved in matters of his safety.
    Remembering that turned Thorn’s mind in another direction. “Do you know the king’s stand on masquerades? I’ve heard him denounce them, but he attended that one Rothgar held last year.”
    “And almost fell to an assassin,” Robin said.
    Christian grimaced. “Embarrassing for all concerned, I gather.”
    “Not for Rothgar. He had the opportunity to nobly put his body between assassin and king.”
    “If you’re suggesting he staged it,” said Robin, “don’t. The assassin died.”
    “What’s one death here or there?”
    Robin rolled his eyes and poured more brandy.
    “I have an interest in such matters,” Thorn said to Christian, cradling his glass. “I’m the host of the Olympian Revels this year, and it would suit me for the king to attend.”
    Christian raised a hand. “I’m not the man for subtle courtly machinations. I can suggest only that if he does attend, he’ll have guards in costumes.”
    “That won’t be difficult. Traditionally the men dress according to their position—members of Parliament in senatorial togas and military gentlemen in armor of roughly classical design.”
    “Real weapons?” Christian asked.
    “No. But if some are on official duty…”
    “Satisfactory.”
    But Robin said, “I doubt he’ll attend. The revels are somewhat notorious, and I’m not aware of him attending any thus far. The previous king, of course, delighted in them.”
    “Mine will be suitable for the most delicate sensibilities,” Thorn said.
    The other two stared at him.
    He smiled. “I merely mean no costumes that expose truly unsuitable parts, and no open orgy.”
    His friends still stared.
    “You fear I will be unforgivably dull? There will be some additions. Theater people to play guests of the livelier sort.”
    “Ingenious,” said Robin. “What would the revels be if bored ladies and gentlemen had no one to flirt with, and perhaps do more? But your hirelings will keep it out of sight. Pity I won’t be there to witness the attempt.”
    “I will,” said Christian. “Even if the king doesn’t attend, I won’t miss this modern miracle.”
    “Why won’t you attend?” Thorn asked Robin.
    “Petra’s with child. We’ll be living quietly for a while.”
    From what he knew of the imminent Countess of Huntersdown, Thorn wondered about that, but he didn’t raise doubts.
    Christian asked,