Far from behaving suspiciously, he’d welcomed the three ladies into the orphanage with open arms. A tall, pleasant-looking man in his early forties, Ophelia would have guessed, Swinton was about as different from what she’d expected as could be. While it was true he did appear to stress discipline with the children, he also seemed to hold them in genuine affection. And they seemed to return it.
Ophelia had informed him only that Maggie was missing. She hadn’t gone into detail about what might have happened to her, both for Maggie’s privacy, but also because she wished to know how much Swinton himself knew about what had happened.
They were currently in the library where the girls as young as five and as old as fourteen either read quietly or were taught to read by one of several teachers. It was all much more civilized than Ophelia would have credited. She’d heard many terrible tales about what went on in such places, but it did appear that her impressions of Maggie’s notes had been correct. There had been nothing untoward about Swinton or the school.
“Have you heard of a Dr. Hayes, Mr. Swinton?” she asked, as Leonora and Hermione spoke to two of the smaller girls who had been bold enough to approach them. “He runs a sort of hospital for those with unbalanced minds called the Hayes Clinic.”
Swinton turned sharply, staring at her. “Why would you ask me about Dr. Hayes?”
Careful not to show her excitement that she’d seemed to touch a nerve, Ophelia said, “I came across something in Maggie’s notes that seemed to make a connection between the Hayes Clinic and your orphanage. Something about ‘discarded girls.’ Do you know what that means?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. “Dr. Hayes is no longer associated with my school, Miss Dauntry. There was a time when I sent girls who suffered from maladies too serious for me to cure for treatment at the Hayes Clinic. But when I learned about the unorthodox practices used by Dr. Hayes and his staff, I stopped sending them. Now I have an arrangement with a Dr. Barnes who comes here to treat the girls. It is much more agreeable for all of us.”
“And the discarded girls?” Ophelia pressed. She sensed that there was much more to the story than Swinton was letting on, but she could hardly force the man to tell her.
“That,” he said, his mouth white with anger, “was what Hayes called my students who were sent into his care. As if they were scraps of old clothing tossed into the ragbag. I fear my cousin has little respect for my girls as children of God. Indeed, I wonder if he has respect for anyone but himself.”
Ophelia bit back a gasp. “Dr. Hayes is your cousin?” she asked in surprise.
“Not that it’s something I am proud of, Miss Dauntry,” said the headmaster. “I’m afraid my cousin and I had very different upbringings. My parents were missionaries and taught me to love my neighbor, and to care for those who could not care for themselves. My cousin, though, was taught to do whatever he could to get ahead. He is not a bad man, Miss Dauntry, but I must admit that there are times when I cannot understand that we share the same blood.”
Leonora and Hermione returned to them just then and soon they were on their way back to the small room where they’d been taken upon their arrival.
They had just reached the door to the waiting area when Ophelia heard Leonora gasp.
It was difficult to say which group was more surprised to see the other: the ladies, who had been so immersed in their discussion with Mr. Swinton they’d forgotten their visit was supposed to be a secret, or the gentlemen, who had not expected to find the ladies were already there.
“How lovely that you came to collect us,” Leonora said upon seeing her husband, scowling though he might be. “I must admit I was rather put out that you were unable to join us this morning, gentlemen. I’m so pleased your errands were completed in time.”
Ophelia watched as a cascade of emotions ranging from annoyance to exasperation flashed over Freddy’s countenance. Finally he shrugged and said, “I’m not sure those are the precise words I’d have chosen, my dear, but nevertheless we are here now. And it’s high time we got you home.”
“I hope your visit was fruitful,” Trent said after they’d all said their good-byes to Mr. Swinton, and the Mainwarings and Lisles left in one coach while Ophelia and Trent took the other. “Though I admit a certain degree of frustration that you chose to go there without any sort of protection.”
He had taken the seat beside her rather than the one opposite, and Ophelia was reminded once again of just how much larger than she he was. The inside of the vehicle seemed rather close suddenly and she was all too aware of the press of his thigh against hers.
“We took footmen,” she said, sounding rather breathless to her own ears. “We were perfectly safe. Mr. Swinton was all that was polite. Truly.”
Turning, she saw that he was watching her with an expression somewhere between frustration and affection. “I am delighted that Mr. Swinton turned out to be so unexceptional, but what if he had not been? You went there asking the same sort of questions that Maggie did. And she is now missing.” He picked up her hand and threaded their fingers together. “I do not want anything to happen to you. And I certainly do not want to be the one to tell your parents that you’ve been injured or worse. Have a care. For yourself as well as for me.”
“Of course I am careful,” she said, staring down at their joined hands. “That is why I took Leonora and Hermione. He could hardly dispose of three of us at one time.”
Trent gave an exasperated sigh. “If you think that then you are far more naïve than I at first thought.”
Annoyed, she tried to prise her hand away from his. “I am not naïve. I am sensible. And as you can see nothing untoward happened. So I’m not quite sure why we are arguing over this.”
Letting her take her hand back, he shook his head. “We are quarreling because I was damn near terrified to find you’d gone to what might have been a hellhole without so much as a note to inform me,” he said sharply. “Because if something had happened to you I’d have never forgiven myself. Because I don’t know what I’d do if I had no idea where you’d gone!”
By this time he’d gripped her by the shoulders and was staring down into her shocked face. “Do you have a response for that?” he demanded, all the frustration and fear and affection he felt for her combined into that one question.
“I…” she stuttered, never having faced this sort of interrogation.”I am sorry I worried you, Trent. Truly.”
But his confession had unleashed something in him and he responded by pulling her against his chest and kissing her. Hard.
This was not the gentle seduction of the night they’d become betrothed, but a claiming. Every press of his lips, every stroke of his tongue, every firm caress told her in more than words that she belonged to him. In body and mind and soul. And far from feeling her usual frustration at being hemmed in, she instead felt a return sense of claiming. If she was his, then he was also hers. And she told him so with every returned caress.
When his hand slid up her side and over her breast, her own hand slid around his neck to pull him closer. When he lightly pulled at her lower lip with his teeth, she did the same with his upper one. She matched him move for move and felt no shame in it, only triumph.
When finally they each pulled away, breathless and aching with unspent passion, he gave her a crooked frown. “You cannot even let me give you a proper set-down without taking over.” But it was clear from the way his eyes shone that he bore no grudge over it.
“Why should I?” she asked archly. “When there is a time that I agree with your assessment I will acquiesce. Until then, I will continue to give as good as I get.”
He looked as if he’d like to object, but then surprised her and laughed. “I suppose I have no one to blame but myself,” he groused. “I suspect there is a general out there who is laughing his head off at how the mighty have fallen.”
But Ophelia would have none of it. Clasping his hand in hers now, she only said, “Would you like to hear what I lear
ned from my visit with Swinton?”
Gesturing for her to go ahead, Trent listened carefully as Ophelia outlined what the orphanage headmaster had said about Maggie’s visit to them, as well as his admission that Dr. Hayes was his cousin. When she was finished, Trent whistled.
“That’s quite impressive,” he said with a nod. “It never occurred to me that he and Hayes might be relations. There certainly seems to be no love lost between them.”
“No,” Ophelia agreed, “and what’s more, he said that ‘discarded girls’ was Hayes’s way of describing girls sent to him from the orphanage. Swinton was quite angry over it still. So I don’t think he’d kidnap the person who threatened to expose the man’s lack of compassion for his cousin’s charges.”
“Good point,” he conceded. “If anyone had something to hide as result of Maggie’s article it was Hayes, who was trying to keep his hospital afloat. If it got out that he was mistreating orphans as well as wealthy young women like Leonora’s cousin, then his reputation would suffer a serious blow.”
“And the worse his reputation, the fewer paying patients he can get,” Ophelia agreed. “It all comes back to the article Maggie wrote. If Hayes could stop her from getting it published then he could potentially keep his business from losing money.”
Just then the carriage began to slow and Ophelia frowned. It didn’t seem as if they’d been driving for long enough to have returned to Mayfair.
“Where are we?” she asked, frowning.
“I don’t know,” Trent said, his brows lowered. Opening one of the compartments beside the carriage seat, he removed two pistols. Handing one to Ophelia, who wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, he took the other for himself. “Now, if for whatever reason, something happens to me, do not hesitate to shoot.”
“What?” she demanded, eyes wide, holding the pistol in one hand gingerly. “I don’t understand.”
“One of the only reasons we’d be stopped at this point in our journey is because of footpads. I simply do not wish you to be unarmed should the need arise.”
Just then, the carriage door was wrenched open and a handsome man around Trent’s age glanced inside, before his eyes fell on Trent. “There you are, your grace. I was beginning to fear we’d have to wait all day.”
“What the devil are you doing, man?” Trent demanded. “I might have killed you.”
“So you might,” said the other man with an elegant shrug. “But you didn’t so that’s no matter now.” Turning to Ophelia he offered her a slow grin. “You must be the lovely Miss Dauntry. If you don’t mind I shall steal your betrothed for a few minutes. It won’t take long, I promise.”
With a wink at Trent he shut the door, leaving Ophelia to stare after him. “Who was that?” she demanded of her betrothed.
“That,” he said with a shake of his head, “is one of my lieutenants in the Lords of Anarchy, Viscount Wrotham,” Trent growled. “Let me go see what he wants. I’ll be right back.”
And without another word, he stepped out of the carriage and shut the door behind him.
Sixteen
“Why the devil would you stop my carriage like a footpad, Wrotham?” Trent demanded with a scowl. “That’s a good way to get yourself shot.”
If he’d thought Wrotham would be cowed, however, he was doomed to disappointment.
“It’s hardly the Great North Road, your grace,” the other man said dryly, “and it’s the middle of the day. And we’re on the edge of Mayfair. Truly, I think you’re overreacting a bit.”
“Just tell me what the devil you’re up to,” Trent pressed. “I should like to get Miss Dauntry home.”
“It’s about Miss Dauntry,” Wrotham said grimly, “or rather that newspaper of hers, that I needed to speak to you.” He pulled a rolled-up broadside from his inside pocket. “Take a look at this.”
Wordlessly, Trent took the page and unrolled it, seeing that it was the sort of one-page announcement that was circulated all over the city to advertise coming shows or carnivals or the like. Only this one had a crude drawing of a curricle with the words “Lords of Anarchy” posted above it, and a short paragraph beneath telling exaggerated details of the club’s exploits. Nothing libelous, or bad enough to incur any kind of government crackdown, but enough to make Trent feel ill at the sight.
“Carrington,” he spat out as soon as he handed it back to Wrotham. “If he thinks to shame the club with this nonsense then he is sorely mistaken. Everyone who actually knows the club, or its new roster of members, knows that we are reformed now. And dredging up past history will do no good at all.”
“So, you intend to simply ignore it?” Wrotham asked with a skeptical look. “But what of our reputation?”
“Our reputation will suffer whether we confront Carrington or not,” Trent assured him. “And in case you haven’t heard the news, I’ve got a wedding to attend tomorrow. And I have no intention of letting this fellow ruin it.”
“So you don’t even want a couple of the lads and me to go speak to him?” Wrotham asked, deflated.
“No,” Trent told him with a shake of his head. “I’ll handle it. Have no fear.”
After saying his good-byes to the other man, Trent climbed back into the carriage, only to be peppered with questions. Who was it? What did they want? Was it something good or something bad? Did he need to go take care of something?
Finally, he picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “Nothing for you to worry about,” he assured her. “Now, let us get back to your father’s house at once. I’ll tell you about this business later.”
* * *
As he stood at the altar of St. George’s Hanover Square some three days later, Trent tried to recall when he’d last felt this nervous.
Even before a battle he’d been able to arrive at a sense of calm, pushing any worries about his safety or the safety of his men into a far corner of his mind where they wouldn’t affect his ability to fight.
But today was different.
Today was about forever.
“You’ll wear a hole in the marble if you keep pacing like that,” Freddy said from his place next to the spot where Trent should be stationary. “I have a feeling you would not like to hear the cost of replacing it.”
Sighing, Trent fiddled with his cravat and came to a stop beside his friend. “I’d be a damn sight more easy about it if I didn’t know her mother was so opposed to the match. Who’s to say that Goring hasn’t managed to convince Mrs. Dauntry to allow him to spirit Ophelia away to Scotland? She seems perfectly capable of it.”
“She might,” Freddy said, clapping him on the shoulder, “but I sincerely doubt Ophelia’s father would allow such a thing. Mrs. Dauntry might be foolish enough to wish for Goring as a son-in-law, but Dauntry has a great deal more sense than his wife. Besides that, the announcement is in the papers this morning, so there will be a great deal of explanation involved should she attempt to change the plan at this late date.”
Clenching his teeth, Trent knew that Freddy was right in his assessment of Ophelia’s parents. And added to that, Ophelia would not allow herself to be forced into marriage with Goring no matter how much her mother might wish for it. She was a determined young lady when she had the bit between her teeth and she would fight like hell if her mother so much as mentioned Goring again.
“You’re likely correct,” he admitted aloud. “I just wish I knew what was taking so cursed long.”
Freddy raised his brows in skepticism. “Can you think of nothing that might delay a lady on her wedding day? The day when she cares the most about how she looks? Even one such as Ophelia, whom I will admit is far more sensible than most of her sex, will take a bit of extra care in her toilette on this day.”
Unbidden, a mental picture of Ophelia clad in a revealing wrapper, seated at a dressing table, came to Trent. Though he hadn’t seen her in such a state of undress, his mind had no difficulty filling in the gaps and he found himself rocked back on his heels by the knowledge that all the curves his
imagination was currently sketching for him would soon be his to touch.
Before he could get too carried away, however, there was a noise at the rear of the church, and as he watched, Ophelia’s mother hurried up the aisle. She didn’t meet his eye, and he held his breath—waiting for her to approach and reveal that Ophelia wasn’t coming—but she stopped long before the altar, moving to stand next to her other daughter, who stood beside her own betrothed, the Marquess of Kinston.
At a speaking look from the archbishop, Mrs. Dauntry nodded, and to Trent’s great relief, the rear door of the church opened, and Ophelia, on her father’s arm, walked slowly up the aisle toward them.
He was surprised to see her eyes were bright with tears, but since she was smiling, he supposed they were happy ones. He’d never understand the distinctions between the various types of weeping.
Even so, he was relieved when the archbishop began the ceremony.
And soon, Mr. Dauntry was kissing Ophelia’s cheek and placing her hand on Trent’s arm. When he felt it tremble a little, he couldn’t help placing his other hand over it, offering what comfort he could and realizing only a moment later that it had calmed him as well.
When it came time to say their vows, it was Trent whose voice cracked as he slid the family ring over her knuckle, saying, “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship.”
Ophelia’s voice rang out clear and strong as she said her own, but there was a moment where he thought he saw a brief longing in her eyes. But whatever it was, she quickly masked it again and soon they were pronounced man and wife. And being congratulated by the few friends and family they’d invited to witness the ceremony.
“I am so pleased for you both,” Hermione said as she pulled him into a hug. “I couldn’t have arranged things better myself. It’s as if the heavens were making all of my greatest wishes come true before me.”
“If we are to be blessed with a sudden onslaught of miracles enacted on your behalf, my dear,” Mainwaring said from behind her, “then I believe we should warn the authorities. For I fear some of your ‘greatest wishes,’ as you call them, are quite bloodthirsty.”
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