He was silent for a moment, thinking of just how little he wished to become embroiled in the situation Miss Dauntry had brought to his door. And yet, as the president of the Lords of Anarchy, he did have an obligation to find out more about the clubs’ ties—if any—to Dr. Archibald Hayes. Aside from the fact that George Grayson might have traded on that association to have his own wife taken up, there was also the fact that it was damned suspicious for a club devoted to sport to be linked with a madhouse. The implications of the various ways in which that connection might be misused was enough to make Trent’s head pound with tension.
“Please, your grace,” Ophelia said, obviously mistaking his silence for denial. “You must surely see how wrong it is to lock away someone who is not ill. But if not for that reason, then do it to find out for yourself just how this was planned and carried out, and whether it will have any bearing on the club’s reputation.”
Clearly she was not above using his own conscience against him, Trent reflected wryly. “Fine,” he said with a brisk nod. “I will look into the matter. For all the reasons you’ve listed, and one of my own.”
“Which is?” she asked.
“Because you asked me. And a gentleman tries to accomodate a lady when it is at all possible.”
For a moment, Trent thought she would argue, but perhaps because she was still a bit woozy, Ophelia contented herself with a smile so bright he was momentarily knocked off-kilter himself.
He was accustomed to seeing Miss Dauntry as one of a trio of ladies whom he’d mentally labeled “off-limits”—mostly because he associated her with his friends’ wives, who were her own dear friends. It had become as much a reflex as anything else. But suddenly he was reminded of the decision he’d come to last night, that it was time for him to begin looking for a wife of his own. With her shining dark hair and blue eyes, she would make a lovely duchess. But it was her determination and loyalty that had impressed him the most today.
He could do far worse than to marry a woman like Miss Ophelia Dauntry.
The memory of holding her against him earlier suddenly flashed through him. As if his body was reminding him that he’d rather liked the feel of her in his arms.
“Thank you so much, your grace,” Ophelia said, apparently unaware of the direction of his thoughts. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
“I will just go upstairs and make myself presentable for the visit to the Grayson town house,” he said, feeling his color rise as if he were a green lad again as he stood. “And then I’ll be off. You must make yourself comfortable until I return.”
“But I thought I would go with you,” Ophelia said, her smile turning into a frown. “I’m a frequent visitor there and even if they weren’t expecting Maggie to return they would not be surprised for me to stop by.”
“Absolutely not,” Trent said reflexively. “You are unwell.”
Seeing a mulish expression on her lovely face, he softened his tone. He must recall that she wasn’t one of his soldiers to be ordered about. “Stay here and I promise I will relay everything I learn to you as soon as I return.”
But he could feel her glare on his back as he left the room.
Clearly he had much to learn when it came to dealing with ladies.
This one in particular.
Four
“I might have known you’d ignore me,” grumbled Trent as he spied Ophelia waiting for him in his curricle. “You are in no condition to make the journey to the end of the drive, let alone to the Grayson house.”
“That is not for you to decide,” Ophelia said firmly, trying not to notice the brush of his hip against hers as he took the seat beside her. “I do not expect you to fight my battles for me. I simply wished for your assistance. There is a difference, you know.”
She could all but feel the power radiating from him, especially when his strength was combined with the perfectly tailored attire of his station. From the top of his cropped, expensively cut, dark hair to the toes of his shining black Hessians he was every inch the duke. And there was something both compelling and, to her shame, exciting about being so close to him.
This trip wasn’t about exploring her attraction to Trent, it was about saving Maggie, she told herself.
Perhaps realizing that argument was futile, he didn’t respond to her, only took the reins from the groom and set the horses in motion.
Which, in turn, set Ophelia’s head to pounding. Though she’d die before admitting as much to Trent.
“How is it that you are acquainted with Mrs. Grayson?” he said, distracting her from her aches.
“We both write for the Ladies’ Gazette,” Ophelia responded through gritted teeth. “Her column is quite popular, but not with her family, I don’t think.”
“Her own family or her husband’s?” He reached a protective arm across her as the curricle sped around a sharp corner.
“Her husband’s,” Ophelia said. “I got the feeling that the Graysons were not particularly pleased with her for it.”
“I spoke a bit with George Grayson about her this morning,” Trent said. “He seemed to be sanguine about her writing.”
“That’s true,” Ophelia agreed. “I believe George, though sometimes annoyed that it kept her away from home, was supportive. Sir Michael, George’s father, is the one who frowns on it. He’s quite a stickler, I think. They argued about it, I believe.”
“When was this?” Trent asked, turning to look at her, his blue eyes sharp.
“Earlier this week, I believe.” Ophelia tried to recall just what Maggie had said about the row, but she was having difficulty concentrating at the moment. She gave a frustrated sigh.
Perhaps sensing that she was in pain, Trent was silent after that. Soon they were turning in to Bruton Street where the Grayson town house was located.
“I think it would be best if you let me speak to them,” Trent said as they came to a stop before the house. “Perhaps you could see her maid. Make up some tale about taking some of Maggie’s things to her.”
“But I want to speak to George and convince him to confront Dr. Hayes,” Ophelia said, annoyed at his attempt to shove her off into the domestic realm. “And I’d like to talk to Sir Michael as well. George’s name might have been on that writ, but it was Sir Michael’s idea. I know it.”
“And you think they will simply do as you ask?” Trent asked in a reasonable tone that made her want to box his ears. “George isn’t likely to admit his reasoning to you. And I doubt Sir Michael will even dignify your accusations with a response. I’ve dealt with such men before. They respond only to other men they see as being on their level or higher. And like it or not, as a duke I am higher.”
Ophelia glared at him. Hating that he was making logical sense.
“I also know George Grayson better than you do,” he added gently. “Let me speak to him as a friend. He’s much more likely to open up to me than he is to you.”
She pressed her fingers to her pounding head. “Fine,” she huffed out. “I will talk to Hopkins, her maid. But remember that I am relying on you. If we bungle this I fear Maggie will be trapped there indefinitely.”
“I give you my word, Miss Dauntry,” Trent said, dipping his head so that he could meet her eye. “I will get the information you need.”
Knowing that would have to do, she nodded.
Once they’d descended from the curricle, Trent offered her his arm as they climbed the few steps to the door of the Grayson town house.
Their knock was answered by a very dignified butler, Thompson, who upon learning who Trent was, became much more welcoming.
“We are indeed fortunate to welcome you, your grace,” Thompson gushed.
“I need to speak with Sir Michael at once,” Trent informed him before he could go on. “As well as Mr. George Grayson if he is here.”
If Thompson was annoyed by the interruption, like any good butler, he did not show it and merely gave a bow and ushered them into the drawing room.
“I will
have Sir Michael summoned at once, your grace.”
Ophelia should have been annoyed that the man ignored her so completely, but who was a mere miss when there was a duke to be offered obeisance?
When the door closed behind him, she turned to Trent. “The house doesn’t seem to be particularly upset given that one of its inhabitants was taken to the madhouse this morning.”
Turning from his inspection of a particularly ugly painting of a long-dead Grayson spaniel, Trent shook his head. “It’s likely most of them haven’t heard of it yet. I suspect there will be a great deal of gossip about it below stairs once word gets out.”
Just then, Sir Michael strode into the room, looking flushed. Perhaps he was not as happy to drop whatever it was he had been doing to answer the duke’s summons as Thompson had given them to believe.
“Your grace,” he said to Trent. Then turning to Ophelia he gave a condescending nod. “Miss Dauntry, I was not aware you were acquainted with his grace.”
And why should he be? she wondered, mentally rolling her eyes. Before she could respond, however, Trent spoke up.
“She is hardly required to give a list of her acquaintances when she pays calls, Sir Michael,” he said with a raised brow. “Miss Dauntry came to me after your daughter-in-law was taken up by two gentlemen at the behest of Dr. Archibald Hayes. She herself was injured in the process and needed medical attention.”
Sir Michael’s eyes widened. “Miss Dauntry, I am sorry to hear about your injuries. But what’s this about Margaret? I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps Miss Dauntry can go speak with Mrs. Grayson’s maid while we discuss the matter,” Trent said smoothly. “I would not wish her to be upset further. And I believe she is familiar with the location of Mrs. Grayson’s rooms from previous visits.”
Nodding, Sir Michael indicated the door. Ophelia, despite her annoyance at the suggestion that she was too weak to handle their discussion, hurried from the room.
* * *
“I wonder at your agreeing to become involved in this, your grace. It is a family matter,” Sir Michael said stiffly, indicating that Trent should take the wing chair opposite his own. “And really, it is none of Miss Dauntry’s concern.”
Though there was nothing outwardly unwelcoming, Trent got the sense that the man would have been far more agreeable had Trent not arrived with Ophelia on his arm.
Ignoring Sir Michael’s chilly demeanor, Trent got down to business. “Miss Dauntry is a friend, and could have been gravely injured by Dr. Hayes’s men. And as a close friend of your daughter-in-law’s she wished to take some of Mrs. Grayson’s things to her to make her more comfortable. And as your son was at my home while this unfortunate incident occurred I came to offer what assistance I could to him. He slipped away without letting me know he was leaving, you see. Is he here?”
If possible, the baronet’s manner became even more glacial.
“As I said, Trent, it’s a family matter,” said Sir Michael, ignoring the question about George’s whereabouts, instead saying, “My son did not consult me, but I cannot say that I am surprised that he sought help from Dr. Hayes. Margaret has been quite unruly of late.”
“So unruly that he would have her locked away for it?” Trent tilted his head. Having one’s spouse locked away in a madhouse was not something to be taken lightly. Yet George had shown no indications earlier that morning that any such thing was on his mind. “That seems a bit extreme.”
“I am not privy to George’s reasoning,” Sir Michael snapped. “He is a man grown and makes his own decisions.”
“Do you perhaps know where he is now, sir?” Trent watched closely to see what his reaction would be. But the older man didn’t flinch.
“As far as I know he is at his club. But he might have gone to attend to his wife in Dr. Hayes’s facility since you say she’s been taken there. I really do not keep close watch on his comings and goings, your grace.”
The baronet’s tone suggested that he would not have told Trent even if he did know where George was.
“I see,” Trent said thoughtfully. It was impossible to say whether Sir Michael was merely covering for his son or if he himself had something to do with Maggie’s situation.
“Just so,” said Sir Michael, his teeth clenched. “Now, if you really don’t mind.”
But Trent wasn’t ready to leave yet.
“I really do find it extraordinary that your son would have his wife taken away against her will in manacles,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing one booted foot over his knee. “Most families would take great pains to keep the embarrassment of such a thing out of the public eye. But Hayes’s men accosted her in a hat shop of all places. In front of any number of witnesses. Especially someone with social standing, like you, for instance.”
“I don’t see what business it is of yours, Trent,” Sir Michael snapped, finally losing his poorly leashed temper. He stood and waited for Trent to do so as well. When his guest did not rise, he made a growling noise in the back of his throat.
“What do you want from me?” he demanded, clearly out of patience. “I only learned of it a short while ago. And yes, I would have much preferred that George go about the business in a more discreet manner. Is that what you wished to hear?”
Striding to a table on the far side of the room, he unstoppered a decanter of brandy and poured himself a generous glass.
Not caring that his host hadn’t offered him a drink, Trent watched him as he walked back over and resumed his seat.
“I told him it was a mistake to marry her almost as soon as he informed me of the match,” Sir Michael said, taking a drink. “She’s a good enough chit, I suppose. But clearly has her own opinions. And isn’t afraid to voice them.”
Not unlike another lady of Trent’s acquaintance then. It was no surprise that Mrs. Grayson and Ophelia were friends.
“But having opinions is not generally the sort of thing that makes one a candidate for Bedlam,” Trent said carefully, not wanting to stop the flow of words now that Sir Michael was talking.
“No,” his host agreed. “And to be honest, I don’t know what my son was thinking to have her taken up like that. I knew they were having problems, but the girl isn’t mad. Just a bit high-strung. And so I would have told him if he’d consulted me about it. But he didn’t.”
“So, you had no notion that she was going to be taken up today?” Trent asked. So much for Ophelia’s theory that it had been Sir Michael behind Maggie’s predicament.
“I said as much, didn’t I?” Sir Michael asked, shaking his head. “Do you think I wished for my family to become a byword in town? That I’d want it known hither and yon that a member of my family has been sent to an asylum? This isn’t the sort of thing a man in my position brags about, Trent.”
“And what of Grayson?” Trent asked him, ignoring the sarcasm. “Do you truly not know his whereabouts?”
“I have no idea where he is,” Sir Michael said with a sigh. “As far as I knew he was still at your meeting of the Lords of Anarchy—a ludicrous name, by the way, for a group of well-bred gentlemen. He should be home anytime now. I daresay he’s gone to visit his wife in that place. Or to see Dr. Hayes.”
This was not what Trent had wished to hear. When Ophelia had informed him that it was George’s name on the writ, he’d hoped that it was a mistake. It was one thing for a husband to take his wife to see a physician against her wishes. Sometimes one needed outside coercion to get the help one needed. But even if she had been behaving with signs of madness—and it sounded from what both Ophelia and Sir Michael said that Maggie had not—it would take a great deal of cause to make a man have his wife sent to the madhouse. And Trent found it hard to believe that a man like George, who had visited such places with Trent to see some of their former comrades-in-arms, would ever do such a thing.
“When your son returns,” he said aloud, “I would like you to send for me.”
Sir Michael nodded. “I will. Though I can make no pro
mises. There is something about this whole business that I find troublesome. Aside from the harm it will do to our reputation, I cannot believe my son would have Margaret locked away without cause. No matter how strong-willed she might be, she is not mad.”
“Let us hope that our fears are unfounded, then,” Trent said with a grim smile.
As they both rose, Sir Michael asked, “If you don’t mind my asking, your grace, what is your interest in all of this? I know you said you are acquainted with Miss Dauntry, and I know you are friendly with my son, but that is hardly enough to make a man of your stature become involved in such a mess.”
Not a bad question, Trent thought wryly. Still, he felt he owed the older man some explanation. “I dislike injustice,” he said simply. “And I trust Miss Dauntry’s judgment. If she says that her friend isn’t mad, then I believe her.
“And,” he added as they approached the door, “I would not wish my worst enemy in an asylum. Especially not if he had his wits about him.”
Five
After consulting the butler, Ophelia made her way upstairs to Maggie’s rooms where her maid, Miss Hopkins, was said to be.
Finding Maggie’s sitting room empty, she took the opportunity to search for something that might tell her more about what had happened to her friend. Situated between the dressing rooms of George and Maggie Grayson, the little room where Maggie spent most of her free time was a cozy little chamber, with a pair of comfortable chairs before the fire, and a writing desk facing the window.
After listening for movement from the adjoining rooms, Ophelia hastened to the desk and began opening drawers, searching for any document or letter that might give a clue as to why she’d been taken up by Dr. Hayes’s men.
It felt wrong to be prying into her friend’s personal papers like this, but there was a need. And she hoped that if their situations were reversed, her own friends would not cavil at searching her own belongings in order to save her.
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