“Henry Whetham, thirty-second Foot,” stated the wounded individual directly across from Anthony. Like Charles, Henry evidenced signs of abuse. “Lost my leg at Quatre Bras.”
“Thomas Pulteney, twelfth Light Dragoons.” He dipped his chin, and Anthony noted the black eye. “Although I am physically hale and whole, I am told I suffer brain fever from prolonged exposure to battle.”
“So what brings you to Little Bethlam?” asked Charles. “Or should I inquire after who brings you to the British Army’s dirty secret?”
“Little Bethlam?” Anthony reflected on the name but could recall no past reference. However, he knew of its namesake, a notorious asylum built atop a sewer that often overflowed into the building. The patients confined in squalor, provided naught but piss-pots and left to wallow in their own excreta, with no suitable food or clothing. Doctors who traded in lunacy to amass a small fortune, never helping anyone but themselves. “I have never heard of such a place.”
“That is because the only ones familiar with it are those locked within its walls.” Henry snorted and rolled his eyes. “As well as our jailers and the blackguard that has the nerve to call himself a doctor, George Shaw. From what I have learned, Shaw has the favor of some powerful lords with deep pockets. He holds us prisoner and drains our families of their money, promising we are much improved but not quite well enough to rejoin society. If only our relations pay for additional therapy, he guarantees he can cure us of our ailments.”
“The man ought to be charged with crimes against humanity.” Anthony pondered Shaw’s arrogance and temper. “I have no doubt he is dangerous, and one of the first actions I will take when I am free of this place is to see him brought to justice.”
“Watch yourself with Shaw, because he has gained formidable power. The Parliamentary Committee on Madhouses entrusted him with both quiescent and severely disturbed patients during the rebuild of Bethlam.” Thomas shivered and hugged himself. “He loves his water torments, and he has a real taste for them. I believe hurting others gives him pleasure. Rumor has it he killed three soldiers in the lily pond, in the garden, but no one cares about us. Underestimate him at your own peril.”
“We have met, and I do not doubt you.” Anthony cursed the villain. “He convinced my father that I needed to be institutionalized, and he may have been persuaded by Shaw’s manipulations. Following my recent marriage, Shaw took my wife and I hostage, with my father’s blessing. It was only by a stroke of good fortune she was able to escape. Must confess I may have made it easy for my father to be prevailed upon by an unscrupulous doctor. I should have shared my experiences with my family. I should have told them what I witnessed and how the recollections impacted me. Instead, I shut them out, but I have to believe my father’s intentions were honorable. At least, I would like to think my father acted in good faith.”
“I am in a similar position.” Thomas averted his stare. “I was engaged, and my fiancée and I planned to wed this Autumn. But the visions that plagued me frightened my lady, and her father reneged on our contract. After that, my grandfather had me committed.”
“I am more sorry than I can say.” Anthony had much in common with his bunk mates. The violent representations he could not control. The imaginary enemy waiting to pounce. The nightmares. The cold sweats. “I know what it is like to be suspected of madness. To be punished for that against which you cannot defend yourself. To be called other, because you lack, when your only fault is that you answered the call of duty.”
“So, you served?” When Anthony nodded the affirmative, Henry arched a brow. “Therein lies part of the problem. Shaw did not, and he hates us for it. He punishes us for our principles and his lack thereof. The man is more brutal than any officer of my acquaintance, and I knew Picton.”
“When His Majesty issued the war cry, I purchased a commission. I rode with the fifth Cavalry Brigade, seventh Hussars.” Anthony glanced at his stump and frowned. “Lost my arm at Waterloo.”
“The Hussars?” Charles whistled in monotone. “You must be well-connected. What is your name?”
“I am Lord Anthony, Marquess of Rockingham.” The three patients glanced at each other, surprise marking their expressions, and in concert returned their scrutiny to Anthony. It was then he realized he was garbed only in a dingy cotton gown, the same as the others, and his state of undress must have undermined his credibility. “I concede it appears I am not so well-connected as you believe. What happened to my clothes?”
“They take them.” Henry smacked a fist to a palm. “When I was admitted, I was stripped of all personal items. Just as they take everything from us. Our dignity. Our freedom. Our humanity.”
“Your belongings will probably be sold. Shaw is a greedy bastard, and he will do whatever he can to make your confinement as miserable as possible.” Thomas inclined his head. “I beg your pardon, but are you really a nobleman?”
“He is, indeed,” Charles answered and smiled. “Must admit I didn’t recognize you, at first, Major Bartlett. In here, we all begin to look alike. That was a devil of a charge at La Haye Sainte. But I thought your elder brother held the title.”
“He did.” The tattered red coat, riddled with holes and singe marks, the mangled remains, almost unrecognizable, flashed before his eyes. Anthony shuddered and blinked. “John was killed at Waterloo. And the fifty-second’s rout of the Garde should go down in history, although Wellington did not give you proper credit.”
“Commiserations and my thanks. There is enough glory to go around, and Wellington’s oversight in his report does not negate what we accomplished.” Charles arched a brow. “I beg your pardon, but how did you end up here? That is to say, you were born into wealth and privilege. You are heir to the dukedom of Swanborough. Your family can afford the best medical professionals and treatment. Why, on earth, would they deliver you into Little Bethlam, where no one knows we exist? Where there is no salvation. There is no hope. There is only never-ending pain.”
“It is doubtful your families know what you endure. I suspect they wanted to help you. In that respect, I suppose my story is much like any other.” Anthony shrugged, even as Charles’s words cut him to the marrow. “My father thinks me mad, because I am often beset, through no fault of my own, by nightmares and assailed by unpredictable images of battle. In hindsight, I never welcomed his support. In my struggles with memories of the carnage, I shut him out. I excluded everyone, preferring to suffer in silence.”
Yet Arabella forced her way into his heart and soul, offering unfailing strength and understanding. He envisioned her, as she slept in the early morning hours, so cherubic in slumber. The way she splayed her arms, welcoming him when he made love to her. And her kisses. Ah, her kisses, which could banish the darkest thoughts from the deepest crevices of his mind.
“Who is not after surviving war.” Henry punched his pillow. “Despite what Shaw claims, I submit we are not mad. We evidence symptoms of army life. We spent years on guard for enemy combatants hell bent on trying to kill us. We subsisted on meals comprised of fare no sane person would call food. We left our loved ones and all that was familiar to us to journey to the Continent, where we camped in conditions unfit for man and beast, fighting on lands that were not ours to own. And we are blamed because we exhibit lingering effects of the horrors we witnessed.”
“In that I cannot argue.” In that moment, Anthony remembered he was not alone. “You remind me of my friends.” He sat upright. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I promise you ours is not a lost cause. Even now, there are those working to free us, and I will not leave here without you. This I pledge on my honor as a gentleman.”
“I would have it on your word, as a soldier.” Thomas narrowed his gaze. “I have known no gentleman with honor.”
“You have me there.” Anthony chuckled.
The rasp of keys had everyone looking toward the door.
“Lively, men.” Charles plopped on his pillow, and the others followed suit, so Anthony took thei
r lead. “No matter what happens, remember, it will go better for you if you yield. If you resist, Shaw will exact blood in recompense.”
The door opened to reveal two burly attendants garbed in white shirts and trousers. From a pocket, one guard produced a large key. He walked straight to Anthony’s bed and unlocked the shackle.
“Dr. Shaw wishes to speak to you.” None-too-gently, the surly ruffian grabbed Anthony by the back of the neck and threw him to the floor. “Get a move on, fancy pants.”
“There are no ranks, here.” The second thug kicked Anthony in the ribs. “We hold the advantage.”
Given Charles’s warning, Anthony held his tongue and scrambled to his bare feet. There would be time enough for retribution, after he was liberated. With a custodian at either side, he marched into the wide but dark hall. Screams emanated from all directions, inspiring a host of familiar vignettes.
His heart raced, and his ears rang with cannon fire. Enemy soldiers, bearing rifles and swords, emerged from the walls. Panic rose in his throat, choking him. In silence, he reminded himself that none of the images were real. They were a figment of his tortured imagination.
To fight the torments, he summoned Arabella’s angelic face. He envisioned the subtle bounce of her breasts as he took her. He savored the taste of her lush lips. Then she was there, by his side. Bolstering his courage. Calming his frazzled nerves. Banishing his demons.
Slowly, he emerged from the disturbing reverie and focused on breathing. On the simple act of inhaling and exhaling in a relaxed rhythm.
“This way.” The first guard struck Anthony upside the head. “If you give me any trouble, you will be lucky if you live to regret it.”
At a double door entry, the blackguard pushed open a single oak panel and shoved Anthony over the threshold. In contrast with the sparse, dirty asylum, the well-appointed office boasted rich carpets and damask wall coverings, in indigo. A hand-tooled desk held pride of place between two huge windows sans bars. At right, a side table held a crystal decanter, filled with amber liquid, and six brandy balloons. At left, bookcases spanned from end to end.
“Welcome to my lair, Lord Rockingham.” A leather high-back chair rotated to reveal Shaw. With his elbows perched on the armrests, he steepled his hands and sneered. “Have a seat.”
“I would thank you, but I doubt I could do so with conviction.” Anthony eased into one of the two matching, shield-backed Hepplewhite chairs. He shifted his weight and noted a slight tic at the corner of Shaw’s mouth. Resting his hand in his lap, he rolled his shoulders. “Perhaps you can tell me how long I am to be a guest in your dubious facility?”
Shaw nodded once, and a guard slapped Anthony across the face.
“You do not ask questions, Lord Rockingham.” Shaw glowered. “You do as I say, when I say, or you will know my wrath.” He lurched forward and slammed a fist to the blotter. “Where is Lady Rockingham? What have you done with her?”
“She is far beyond your reach, in the safety of friends who would give their life to defend her.” Anthony smiled. “You may do what you wish with me, but you should know those same friends will come for me.”
“You should hope you live that long.” Shaw threw back his head and cackled, and gooseflesh covered Anthony. Then the doctor quieted and caught Anthony in a lethal glare. “No one makes me look like a fool. The Duke of Swanborough is not privy to Lady Rockingham’s escape, and you had better pray he never discovers her little mutiny. Now, where is she?” Again, he pounded the desktop. “Answer me. Answer me, or so help me before I am done with you, you will wish you were never born.”
Anthony lifted his chin but said naught.
Shaw waved.
The first blow landed to Anthony’s stomach. The second caught him in the jaw and sent him flying from the chair. The taste of blood filled his mouth, as both attendants kicked him repeatedly. Relentlessly. Someone lifted him from the floor, only to knock him to the rug. His vision blurred, and the sound of rushing water filled his ears. At last, he drifted into merciful unconsciousness.
*
Tradesmen and milkmaids hurried about their business. Light spilled from the windows of a bakery, the smell of fresh bread wafting in the air, and a young man drove his paper delivery cart, as the coach steered through the sleepy, pre-dawn heart of the British Empire. On the sidewalk, laborers collected discarded refuse, and stray dogs foraged for food.
To evade Shaw and his men, they drove northeast from Hersham, until they reached the turnpike and the Mile End toll gate. With her nose pressed to the glass, Arabella reflected on various appeals, to sway her father, because she would need his help to free Anthony. Her heart beat in time with the steady clip-clop of the horses, and she wrung her fingers in her lap. Then she plopped into the squabs, and at her side Emily stirred.
“Are you certain your father will be in town?” Beaulieu checked his timepiece and yawned. “Most members of the ton remain in the country until October.”
“My father journeys to the city at the end of summer, without fail.” She settled her skirts and worried her bottom lip. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. She shifted her weight. “He prefers to visit his tailor and plan his agenda for the upcoming parliamentary session, without the crowds associated with the Little Season. He will be here.”
“Then let us hope he will hear our side.” Beaulieu glanced at the passing storefronts, as they navigated Cheapside, and frowned. “We will need Lord Ainsworth’s support, if we have any chance of succeeding. It is doubtful Swanborough will grant us an audience, but I wager he will listen to his lifelong friend. Their comradeship is the stuff of legend, and from whatever angle I approach our situation, your father is the only person with legal standing to protest Swanborough’s actions. With Rockingham institutionalized, your custody should revert to your father, per the marriage contract, but he will have to challenge the duke, in court, or so I suspect. My solicitor will have more to say on the matter.”
“Papa will not fail me.” If she said that enough she just might believe it. Old alliances died hard, and her father often toed the line, especially when Swanborough wanted something. And the duke wanted her. “After all, his blood runs in my veins.”
When the luxurious equipage turned onto Oxford Street, she stretched her legs and tugged the hem of her sleeves. Still wearing the lavender wool traveling gown, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She would have preferred to change into something more suitable to greet her parents, but Beaulieu refused to stop except for necessary conveniences.
The coach traversed Grosvenor Square and veered onto Upper Brook Street. With palms resting on her thighs, she inhaled a deep breath. She revisited her well-rehearsed lines and methodically arranged her arguments. The rig slowed to a halt before her family home, and a footman placed a stool and tugged the latch.
She should have waited for assistance, as would a proper lady. Instead, she hiked her skirts, in a scandalous display of her calves, and leaped to the sidewalk, leaving Beaulieu and Emily in her wake. She ran up the entrance stairs and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she gritted her teeth and pounded her clenched fist on the oak panel, which at last opened.
“My lady.” A bleary-eyed Travers responded, as he pulled on his black jacket. “Pray, come inside.”
“Where are my parents?” She pushed past him and stomped into the foyer. “Are they awake?”
“Arabella?” Mama peered from the landing and belted her robe. “What are you doing here? Is Lord Rockingham with you?”
“You do not know?” Tears welled, and Arabella sniffed. She did not want to cry. “Have you not heard, or did Papa lie to you, too?”
“I beg your pardon?” Papa appeared, just behind Mama, and they descended to the first floor. “What is the meaning of this? Why have you brought Lord Beaulieu and a stranger into our home at this hour?”
Well-composed charges and rebuttals, based in logic, always her ally, traipsed her tongue. Instead, she marched to her father and pummeled hi
m. She beat her father for the husband she loved. She fought for her unborn babe. More than anything, she let her fists speak for her, pouring all the fear and anger from her hands, that he might know how much he hurt her.
“Arabella, control yourself.” Papa caught her by her wrists, so she resorted to kicking his shins. “Will you cease your outlandish behavior, and tell me why you behave like a berserk mare.”
“How could you do it?” She wrenched free. “How could you betray me, so completely?”
“I don’t understand.” Papa motioned to Travers. “Wake the household and prepare tea, in the drawing room.”
“Oh, no.” Arabella shook her head and bared her teeth. “You will not negotiate your way out of this, Father. After what I have endured in these last months, you will face me and the consequences you wrought.”
“Arabella, calm yourself.” Her father raked his fingers through his hair. Once her hero, her champion, he seemed so small in the cold light of day. “Sit down and tell me of what you believe I am guilty.”
“You greet me with easy smiles and polite hospitality.” When Beaulieu tried to draw her to the sofa, she shrugged from his grip. “Are you so certain of your innocence? You knew of Swanborough’s plan for his son. You told me of it, prior to the engagement.”
“Of course, I did.” Papa eased into an overstuffed chair. “I would never lie to you. And, as far as I know, the terms have not changed. Lord Rockingham is to receive the best of care, and you are to be housed, as befits a marchioness, in London.”
“Anthony spoke with his father prior to our marriage. They settled their disagreements, or so we thought.” She paced before the windows overlooking North Audley. So many times, they gathered in the comfortably appointed room, she could navigate it with her eyes closed. The soft scent of lilac, which her mother favored, teased her nose. She admired the chaise upon which her father sat and read many a Christmastide story. Everything evoked fond memories, but she found no comfort. “En route to our honeymoon, we were taken captive by a disreputable doctor named Shaw.”
The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Page 25
