Free The Secret Duke by Jo Beverley Page B

the advantage of outranking him.”
    “You’d be safer getting your thrills on the Black Swan .”
    “Go away,” Thorn said, and Christian did.
    His valet returned to help him undress.
    “Do you think I’m looking for trouble, Joseph?” The valet was ten years older than Thorn, a quiet, steady man who’d dressed him since Thorn was fourteen and had begun attending court and other fashionable events. They had no secrets.
    Or rather, very few.
    “Perhaps a little restless these days, sir. Since you decided not to go to sea.”
    “I have been aware of the imbalances at court for longer than that.” As Thorn put on his robe, he asked, “Should I marry?”
    “Only when you want to, sir.”
    “And if I never want to?”
    “The world won’t end if the Ithorne title does, sir.”
    “Sacrilege! I do want it, you know.”
    Robin was correct that the draw was family. He had been thinking of looking closely at one of Christian’s sisters, for he was fond of that large brood, but he couldn’t do that. They should all marry for love, not convenience.
    “I need a wife to manage my homes and be hostess when I entertain,” Thorn said, aware of arguing with himself. “Someone to buy jewelry for and have it stay in the family. Someone to bear healthy children to carry on the line.”
    Children to teach to sail on the lake. Who’d play pirates and Robin Hood . . .
    “All in good time, sir. You’ll find the right woman.”
    “I hope so,” Thorn said, and yawned. “It would be hell on earth to marry the wrong one.”

Chapter 6
     
     
     
     
    Ithorne House, London, September 1764
     
    “H ere you are, ma’am.” The nervous maid indicated a plain door at the end of a short, whitewashed servants’ corridor. “Brings you out near some bedchambers, ma’am, and they’re not properly open to the guests. But turn to your right and you’ll soon find company.”
    The maid was gone thirty, but turned her fingers together in her apron like an anxious child. “If you’re caught, you won’t say as it was me let you in, will you, ma’am? I do what I can for Lady Fowler, but I need my place. And this isn’t so bad a house, really. The duke keeps his sin elsewhere. It’s just drink here, and gaming. . . .”
    Bella touched the woman’s arm. “I’ll never let slip that anyone in this house assisted me. Return to your duties now, and forget all about me. And thank you.”
    The maid bobbed a curtsy and scuttled away. Though Bella had no intention of scuttling, she faced the door with some of the maid’s fears. She had invaded the home of a nobleman—a duke, even. What was the penalty for that? To make it worse, in moments she was going to invade a select gathering of the highest in the land.
    She shivered at the thought.
    Lady Fowler had received a letter from the maid, distressed that the duke was to host the Olympian Revels, an annual and wicked masked ball for the London elite. The servants would be forced to wear indecent garments. What was she to do?
    Lady Fowler had seen a prime opportunity to hunt for the vilest secrets of those who ruled the country and made its laws. The maid must provide a way in for one of her flock. But which? The eventual, unwilling choice had been Bella—or rather, Bellona Flint.
    Bella had achieved her original plan. She had assumed the persona of Bellona Flint—plain, severe, with eyebrows that met in the middle and a small wart on her nose. She’d rented a small house close to Lady Fowler’s and spent her days at Lady Fowler’s house copying the Fowler letter and being useful in any way she could. Over five months, however, she’d become disenchanted with the lady, her coterie, and her work.
    Lady Fowler, poor woman, had been given an unfortunate disease by her husband. It was destroying her health so that she was now almost bedridden, and perhaps was affecting her brain. Her letter had degenerated into a scandal sheet, but now flirted with danger in radical political rants. Many