The Secret Duke Read Free Page A

stirred in the room as a whole.
    A pot flew by, spraying ale, and thunked into the side of the knife man’s head. He cried out, put hand to head, staggered, and then collapsed to his knees.
    “Hey, that was my pot, woman,” someone protested, but weakly.
    Thorn was cursing himself. That conversation had been a distraction and he’d fallen for it, but she’d kept her wits about her. He stepped back until he was by her side. “Good aim, ma’am.”
    “Thank you, sir,” she said tightly, “but I have no more ammunition within reach.”
    He passed her his pistol. “It’s cocked, so be careful.”
    She took it, but as if she’d never handled a gun before.
    “Point it upward,” he said hastily. “We wouldn’t want to kill anyone. Not by accident, at least,” he added deliberately.
    Finally the men were backing away. Clearly the sight of a gun in the hands of a woman was more frightening than the same gun in a man’s, especially when the woman had no idea what to do with it.
    Thorn fought laughter, praying the girl wouldn’t shoot anyone by accident, especially him. Just perhaps, however, the tide was turning in his favor. The knife man was still glazed. She’d hit him well. The ox seemed truly bovine without him.
    He dug in his breeches pocket, feeling the coins there. What was the right amount for the situation? He didn’t want to inflame new greed, but he wanted to offer enough to get them out of here. He took out a silver sixpence and tossed it to the man who’d lost his drink.
    “Thank’ee, sir!” the man said with a gap-toothed grin.
    Thorn took out a crown and held it up to one of the other bully boys. “Ransom?”
    The man hesitated a moment and then snatched the five-shilling piece. “Right you are, Captain! Worth it, I reckon, to see such a good throw. I’d get that pistol off her, though, and fast.”
    “Excellent advice.”
    He retrieved his pistol from her trembling hands and uncocked it, but he kept it out. The room was still crowded, its mood still uncertain. They could be grabbed, tripped, even stabbed before they reached the door. Money alone might be cause. Women were cheap and silver was rare.
    Was he thinking too much, assuming too much hazard, as his friends sometimes accused him of doing? How did one not think in a situation like this? Thinking wasn’t creating a path out of here, however, and the knife man was beginning to struggle to his feet. Nearby faces were unreadable and could easily conceal a murderous interest in the contents of his pockets. . . .
    Then the church bell began to toll.
    Everyone’s interest shifted. It was too late for any service.
    “The French?” someone muttered, and others picked it up.
    Men stood, pushing back stools and benches. Some clattered over. From ancient times, church bells had called the men of the Kent coast to repel invasion. Despite the recent treaty of peace, no one down here, just twenty miles from Calais, trusted the French.
    To Thorn, it sounded more like the tolling for a death than an alarm sounded at invasion, but why toll a death so late at night?
    Then someone burst in, crying, “The king’s dead! George the Second’s dead! Took a seizure this morning. Stone-cold dead, he is!”
    Good God.
    This was his moment, however. “God save the new king, then!” he bellowed. “The ale’s on me. Drink up, lads, drink up, and toast young George the Third!”
    As everyone turned to push toward the barrel, he grabbed the girl’s arm again. When she fought him, he snapped, “Don’t be a fool!”
    “My cloak!” She gasped.
    He saw it puddled on the floor and let her pick it up and swing it on before putting an arm around her and bullying their way toward the door of the chaotic Rat.
    He was met there by a hard-eyed man, hand out. The tavern keeper. No time for haggling. Thorn took a half guinea out of his secret pocket and passed it over. The man actually smiled and nodded his head. “Thank’ee, sir. And God bless the king, indeed.