“What?” Mama rushed to Arabella’s side. Taking her by the hands, Mama met her stare. “I thought you were in Brighton.” To Papa, Mama said, “My lord, did you know of this?”
“I was assured that my own father supported Swanborough’s scheme.” Arabella narrowed her stare. “What say you, Papa? Did you or did you not consent to my imprisonment?”
“I…I—that is to say, I’m not sure.” Papa opened his mouth and closed it. Then he stood and glanced at Emily. “Who is this person you have brought into my house?”
“She is Emily, my lady’s maid.” Arabella flicked her fingers, and the dutiful servant came to stand beside her. “She has proof of Swanborough’s nefarious plot.” She accepted the letter from the maid. “In this correspondence, written in Shaw’s own hand, he confirms the duke’s intent that I remain at Sanderstead, even after delivering a child. There was to be no London residence. And my husband has been taken I know not where.”
“There must be some mistake.” Papa blinked like an owl. He paced and then halted. He pointed and then waved at no one. “Swanborough is my oldest and dearest friend. He has been a brother to me from the cradle. He would never deceive me.”
“Swanborough is the worst of libertines.” Beaulieu squared his shoulders. “He must tell us what he has done with Rockingham.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.” Emily curtseyed. “But I know people, and Shaw is a no-good silk snatcher.”
“Please, one at a time.” Papa rubbed his eyes. “I am scarcely awake, and I will not have you besmirch the name of my friend, when he has done naught wrong.”
“But he has, Papa. Do not take my word for it.” Arabella offered the correspondence, which he accepted. “Read it for yourself.”
Her father unfolded the parchment and moved near a candlestick bearing a single taper, and Mama peered over his shoulder. As he perused the missive, he squinted. When he furrowed his brow, she stepped forward.
“It is all there for you to see.” She fought a lump in her throat, and the blasted tears resurfaced. Her chest tightened, as her heart bled for her father, because she never wanted to hurt him, but she had to save Anthony. “Do you deny involvement in this dastardly enterprise?”
“I deny nothing and own to nothing.” Papa pressed the backs of his knuckles to his mouth. Again, he scanned the dispatch, his gaze darting back and forth. “Yet, I cannot reconcile the instructions documented herein with what I was told.”
“Do you suspect me?” Arabella held a clenched fist to her bosom. “Do you accuse me of falsehood, Papa?”
“N-no. That is to say—I don’t know what to think.” Transfixed, he wiped his furrowed brow and licked his lips. For a pregnant moment, quiet fell on the impromptu gathering, but the tension grew thick as the London fog. “I would speak with my daughter, in private.”
“Lady Rockingham, please, check your temper,” Beaulieu whispered and cupped her elbow. “I know you are upset, and you have every right to be, but we need your father’s support, if we are to get Rockingham back.”
With nary a reply, she nodded.
Mama stepped forward. “But I want—”
“Am I not the master of this household? I said I will speak with my daughter, alone.” With a flushed face, Papa grabbed Arabella by the arm and stomped to his study. With a swift push, he thrust her across the threshold and slammed the door shut behind him. When a reproduction of an oil portrait of Hans Holbein fell from its mount, she started. Papa eased into his high back chair and sighed. “All right, my girl. Out with it, and I will have the whole, ugly truth, no matter how unsavory.”
“Papa, what I detailed in the drawing room is what happened.” She neared the large desk, where her father always meted punishments, when she was a child, and perched on the corner. It was a familiar position, designed to grant her the advantage, because her father could never discipline her. “We were ambushed in our traveling coach. En route to Brighton, we discovered the doors were locked. The rig delivered us into the custody of Dr. Shaw, where we have been held, all these months.”
“Why didn’t you write me?” Papa tapped his fingers to the blotter. “I could have traveled to meet you and provided reassurance.”
“Are you not listening to me?” She smacked her open palm to the desktop. “We were denied contact with everyone. We were locked in our bedchamber, under guard, unable to move about as we pleased.” Again, she slapped the desktop. “Did you know of the duke’s plan? Were you privy to his double-dealings?”
“I swear to you, I did not know of any endeavor that involved kidnapping my own daughter, else I never would have agreed to the marriage.” Papa reached for her, but she withdrew. He winced and sucked in a breath. Then he pushed from the desk and stood. He walked to the window and flung back the heavy drapes. For a while, he gazed at the sky, a watercolor of vivid blue, pink, and yellow, signaling the dawn. “But I was aware of Swanborough’s intent to remove his son to an asylum, for treatment. It was for his own good, or so I was told, and I had to protect you.”
“Papa, you hosted Lord Rockingham in our home.” She tugged on the sleeve of his robe, but he steadfastly refused to look at her. “He shared our dinner table. We broke bread together. Did he strike you as mad?”
Again, unending silence.
“No, he did not.” Papa turned and searched her face. With his finger he traced the curve of her jaw. “You have grown into a woman, overnight, but I recall, with fondness, so many afternoons spent in reflection about some trivial scientific discovery. It has been my honor to nurture your inquisitive spirit. I should like, very much, to hear your assessment of Lord Rockingham. If I trust anyone’s judgement in regard to the man’s character, it is yours.”
“You wish me to plead on his behalf?” When Papa indicated the affirmative, she steeled her spine and swallowed hard. “Lord Rockingham is the kindest, gentlest man of my acquaintance. I had not known him more than an hour when I determined he needed my support. He convinced me, during our courtship and brief engagement, that he suffered no mental defect. Indeed, he is human, Papa. He witnessed unspeakable horrors, at war. I submit, only an insane person could be exposed to such carnage and remain untouched. Unfeeling. It is the very symptoms upon which the Duke of Swanborough casts aspersions that mark Lord Rockingham as sane.”
“You care for him.” Mouth agape, Papa recoiled. “You have formed an attachment with Lord Rockingham.”
“I love him, Papa. He owns me, body and soul, and there is more.” She pressed a hand to her belly. “I carry his heir, and I shall go to my grave before I allow the Duke of Swanborough to take my babe from me.”
Papa stumbled backward and fell into a chair. Resting elbows to knees, he cradled his head. With no acknowledgement of her, he stood and strode to his desk. From a drawer he pulled a few sheets of stationery. He snatched the pen from the inkwell and scribbled a note, which she couldn’t read.
The stress of the escape, Anthony’s capture, and the argument with her father stretched taut her nerves, and she broke. Arabella bent forward and sobbed.
“None of that, now.” Papa rushed to provide support. To her relief, he enfolded her in his warm embrace. “None of that, my girl. It will be all right, I promise.”
Still, she could not stop crying. She wept for her husband. She wept for her unborn child. She wept for the future she desperately desired.
“Oh, Papa, what am I going to do if I cannot find Anthony?” Again, she wailed, and her father stroked her hair. “I cannot abandon him to Swanborough’s clutches.”
“And we will not.” Papa fumbled with his robe, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well, given I am not properly dressed to receive company, I have no handkerchief to offer you. Perhaps, it is time to rejoin the others.”
“Papa, what are you going to do?” She sniffed.
“Let us discuss our next move, with our guests.” Papa led her back to the drawing room, where the butler served tea. Her father thrust a letter into the manservant’s
grasp. “Travers, have the missive delivered into the hands of the Duke of Swanborough’s solicitor. Send a footman for my representative, and have another footman fetch Dr. Handley. Tell him Lady Rockingham is indisposed and requires his services.”
“Right away, my lord.” Travers bowed.
Beaulieu and Emily stood and cast a glance at Arabella. She shrugged.
“And one more thing.” Papa raised a finger. “Have footmen posted at all doors. No one is to enter this house without my expressed permission, and no one is to be granted an audience with Lady Rockingham, unless either myself or Lord Beaulieu is present.”
“Very good, my lord.” The butler hurried into the hallway.
In a short span, Ainsworth House morphed into a beehive of activity, as maids and footmen rushed in all directions. Arabella met her father’s stare, and he winked. In that instant, she knew she was not alone.
“My lord, what is happening?” Mama came to stand beside Arabella. “Why do you reassign the staff?”
“Because we are going to war, my lady wife.” Papa lifted his chin. “We challenge the Duke of Swanborough.”
Chapter Seventeen
A delightful cherub flitted above him, sprinkling him with gold dust. Dancing and prancing through the air, in seraph form Arabella soared. Her smile, stretched across her face, fed his soul and soothed his nerves. Her effusive laugh, bubbling with joy, filled his ears, and Anthony relaxed and sank into the mattress of his filthy bed. When his wife splayed her arms in welcome, he reached for her, and the treasured vision dissipated.
“How are you this morning, Rockingham?” Charles glanced at Anthony, winced, and quickly averted his gaze. Yes, he required no mirror to know he looked bad after Shaw’s henchmen practiced their pugilist skills on his face. “This cannot be allowed to continue. You will not survive much more of Shaw’s torture.”
“We must get you out of here.” Thomas scooted to the end of his bed and hefted the chain attached to the shackle on his ankle. “I would gladly take another beating for you, today, but that is no real solution. If we do not liberate you, and soon, Shaw will kill you.”
“That will not happen.” Anthony choked and sputtered, and he bit back the searing agony in his ribs. Thanks to Thomas, who intervened when Shaw’s men arrived to take Anthony for more therapy, he enjoyed a brief respite the previous day. “Lady Rockingham will find me. She will find me and free us all. Just wait, and you will see.”
“It has been a fortnight.” Head bowed, Henry sighed and punched his pillow. “Surely, they would have found you, by now. And Shaw starves you. You grow weaker with each successive day, and you are powerless to defend yourself. How much more can you—can any man withstand? And what did you do that he attacks you so? I have never seen him assault a patient with such ferocity and ruthless abandon. If necessary, I will take your treatment, today.”
“No.” Anthony shook his head and sucked in a breath. His eyes watered, and the room spun out of control. “I cannot, in good conscience, permit that. I will take whatever Shaw metes out, and I will prevail.” He swallowed hard. “With my wife as a shield, he cannot touch me.”
“Despite evidence to the contrary.” Charles snorted. “You look like you’ve been trampled by a herd of elephants, and they focused particular attention on your face. And your wife is not here.”
“Thanks, ever so much, and she will come for me.” Anthony’s stomach growled, and he ignored the hunger gnawing at his insides. At one point, out of sheer desperation, he envisioned some of his favorite foods, like Yorkshire pie, a savory ragout of beef, and onion soup. The images, so vivid in detail, he could almost taste them. “I beg your pardon, but I am so famished I may eat my pillow.”
The telltale scrape of the keys heralded the arrival of the morning meal, and he rolled onto his side and sat upright. Two guards entered the chamber and set a tray at the foot of each man’s bed. Whereas the other veterans were given a bowl of porridge, a large chunk of bread, and a cup of tea, Anthony received naught but a meager crust and a small glass of water.
“Eat your food, and be quick about it.” The larger attendant, a beast of a fellow with a half-moon scar from his mouth to his chin, scowled and waved a fist. “Else I will shove it down your throat, and I would enjoy it.”
Shivering, Anthony blanched at his paltry fare, but he had to keep up his strength, if only to stay alive until Arabella saved him. And she would save him. He would believe in her to his last breath. Just as he retrieved the crust, Charles tossed a portion of his bread.
“You cannot subsist on that, soldier.” The infantryman grinned. “Besides, I have more than enough to satisfy me.”
Henry and Thomas followed suit.
Their generosity touched him more than he could say.
“Gentlemen, I will never forget your kindness.” His mouth watered, as he claimed a warm morsel. “When we are liberated, I shall see you rewarded for your benevolence.”
“No reward necessary, major.” Henry dipped his chin and compressed his lips. “We are all but marking time, and we support you. Never doubt that.”
In silence, Anthony inhaled the scant portion and gulped the water. With his finger, he caught every crumb, yet his belly grumbled. He developed a newfound respect for cooks and vowed to pay his chef double the usual salary upon his return to London. As he pushed aside the empty tray, the guards reappeared.
While two attendants collected the dishes, two additional keepers made straight for Anthony. He sat poised and sedate to meet his fate. The schedule remained the same, and he admired the rolling hills and lush greenery while an escort removed the shackle.
“Come along, Rockingham.” With customary benignity, the scoundrel grabbed Anthony by the back of his gown and threw him to the floor. When he didn’t move fast enough, the guard kicked Anthony in the arse. “Get a move on, fancy pants. I haven’t all day, and Dr. Shaw awaits your presence.”
So many recriminations danced at the tip of Anthony’s tongue, but he said nothing. Instead, he tucked his legs beneath him and scrambled to his feet. Thomas met Anthony’s gaze, and he cast a warning glance, but Charles shuffled to the end of his mattress.
“Now, see here.” The infantryman frowned and pointed for emphasis. “Your methods are cruel, and Lord Rockingham should be shown the deference owed to a member of the aristocracy.”
“Aw, what have we here?” The beast struck Charles across the face. “I will be sure to tell Dr. Shaw how Lord Rockingham has incited rebellion in our ranks. You just earned your friend additional therapy.”
How Anthony longed to protest, but he knew he would only make the situation worse. Anxiety wrapped like a vise about his throat, and he concentrated his attention on the dirty floor. He imagined strange shapes transforming into various depictions of his bride and clung to her likeness.
The usual combatants surfaced, crouching in dark spaces, waiting to pounce. The drummer’s rat-a-tat-tat played in rhythm with his pulse, and he ached to scream and run amok, but Arabella anchored him to reality. When the cannons fired, he flinched, but he blinked and centered her image, a cherished reverie, before him.
From the moment he met her, he thought her the handsomest woman of his acquaintance. And the most talkative. He adored her sweet nose and her impish grin. The little pink tongue he loved to suckle. Her heart-shaped face and her patrician features any debutante would kill to possess. But her best quality was that which he could not see. It was her capacity for compassion.
Anthony tripped, and a blackguard smacked the back of his head.
“Watch your step, fancy pants.”
At the door to Shaw’s office, the larger brute pounded on the oak panel, before pushing it open and shoving Anthony over the threshold. Perched behind his desk, Shaw smiled his sickening smile, and Anthony braced himself to endure another session of treatment in the form of unmitigated violence.
“Lord Rockingham, my favorite prize. We have no one with such estimable lineage in our facility, so I consider
you my most valuable patient.” With a sneer, Shaw closed a ledger and rested his hands atop the blotter. He appeared calm. Too calm. “Please, have a seat.”
The room, decorated in various shades of blue, with mahogany accents and an ever-present hint of cigar smoke, struck Anthony as far too refined for its occupant, given what often occurred there. Without complaint or comment, he plopped into one of the Hepplewhite chairs.
“What, nothing to say, today?” Of course, Anthony wouldn’t reply, because whatever he might have said would have only garnered him more pain. Shaw laughed and drew a book from a drawer. He flipped through the pages and furrowed his brow. “I thought we might work on your attitude, because you cannot improve until you accept that you are very ill. You do understand that, do you not? That battle has perverted your character and damaged your sanity?” When Anthony refused to respond, Shaw pounded a fist to the desktop. “Answer me.”
“No, I do not accept your assessment of my mental health.” Given Arabella’s counsel, and Larrey’s work, Anthony knew there was naught wrong with him. He inhaled a deep breath and repeated a single phrase in his mind: I am not alone.
“Your continued refusal to acknowledge your infirmity validates my conclusion and your need of further treatment, as I recommend. I shall compose a letter to the duke, informing him of your deteriorating condition and ongoing descent into madness.” Shaw snatched his pen from the inkwell and scribbled on a piece of parchment. “By the by, you should know we recovered Lady Rockingham, along with the maid, Emily, and Lord Beaulieu.”
“That is not possible.” Anthony’s hand shook, and a chill slithered down his spine. His heart raced, and his nerves tightened. “You lie.”
“Ah, now I have your attention.” Shaw leveled his gaze, pinning Anthony on the spot. “But it is true. My men ran them aground, just outside the London environs, and Lady Rockingham again resides at Sanderstead, under my supervision.”
The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Page 26
