“Tell me where the wench is and you have my word the dog remains unharmed.” Lord John paused. “You know, I would have thought you’d learned your lesson about defying my will the last time, when I had your nurse and her husband transported.”
Oh, yes, he’d learned his lesson. He’d learned this life wasn’t worth living. He’d learned he’d do anything to end this travesty and wrest control of the Lansdowne fortune away from his uncle.
Six months…
Grace, you don’t know what you ask.
Wolfram had been a loyal, undemanding companion. Since the day he’d arrived as a hairy, ungainly puppy seven years ago, he’d offered Matthew nothing but devotion and trust.
Now Matthew must betray that trust.
Because he couldn’t betray the woman he loved.
He kept his voice expressionless. “I don’t know where Mrs. Paget is.”
“I’m sure witnessing Filey and Monks at work on your dog will jog your memory. You remember how…thorough they can be.”
Lord John gave his stick a peremptory tap on the flagged floor. The door opened and Filey sidled in, cradling a freshly bandaged hand to his chest. He’d clearly been waiting just outside.
“Aye, your lordship?”
Matthew sucked in a breath of the fresh air that poured into the room. It cleared the mist of pain from his head, even though his ribs still felt like they were on fire. He needed to do something to save Wolfram. But what?
Christ, he loathed his uncle.
“Fetch me the mongrel.” Lord John lifted the collar of his coat against the faint breeze through the open door.
“Aye, your lordship. Right away, your lordship. He’s skulking in the woods somewhere. Bit me when we was holding down…looking after Lord Sheene.” An expression of shifty pride crossed his jowly face. “But happen I put a bullet in his sorry tail as he took off.”
“You shot my dog, you bastard?” Matthew shouted, struggling yet again against his bindings and just as uselessly.
Hatred rose to gag him. His muscles tensed to agony. If sheer rage could free him, he’d be knocking Filey’s teeth down his neck right now. He pulled so hard against the leather ties that the skin of his wrists split and hot blood trickled down over his hands.
“Aye, happen I did. And not before time, my lord.” The undercurrent of satisfaction in Filey’s voice made Matthew vow yet again to kill him. But promises of vengeance wouldn’t halt the coming abomination. If Wolfram was still alive to be tortured. He sent up a brief prayer that his dog was dead. Even while the thought made his heart kick with angry grief.
The idea of Wolfram crawling off into the undergrowth to suffer a slow, miserable death turned his stomach. Although given his uncle’s abhorrent plans, it would be better if Wolfram died before Filey found him. Acrid sorrow flooded Matthew as he recognized that his dog was yet another innocent victim of Lord John’s iniquity.
An expression of chilly anger crossed his guardian’s face. It was the most emotion he’d shown since Matthew had opened his eyes. “If the cur is dead, I will be most displeased, Filey. Most displeased.”
Filey’s pasty face developed a sickly hue. “Aye, your lordship,” he muttered. “Were only a bit of fun.”
“Burn in hell, Filey,” Matthew said in a low vicious voice, then looked at his uncle. “Let me up so I can look for Wolfram. You can’t leave him out there hurt and alone.”
“Of course I can,” Lord John said indifferently. “Although of course I’ll bring the dog in for your tender ministrations, if you tell me where the slut is.”
His fists clenched, slimy with sweat and his own blood. Hoping against hope that Grace had remained true to their plan and headed toward Wells, then for London, Matthew said in a flat voice, “She has family in Bristol. I assume she went there. She didn’t tell me she was going. She must have seen her chance with the gate open and me out of my wits.”
Lord John frowned, as if considering what he heard. Did his uncle believe him?
“That’s where Filey and Monks found her. Ask him,” Matthew added desperately.
“Bristol?” Lord John said slowly. “It’s possible. It would make sense to find a place where she could mix with the populace. A woman like her could always earn a coin on her back.”
“She’s no whore!”
“If she wasn’t when she arrived, you’ve made her into one,” his uncle said without emphasis.
“Eh, I’m not sure about Bristol, your lordship.” Filey scratched his head with his good hand. “If I remember rightly, the lass said she was lost when we took her.”
“She has family there,” Matthew said. “That’s all she told me. Now let me up to find my dog.”
“Your madness has returned and you must be controlled.” His uncle had the temerity to smile, a brief baring of teeth. “Surely you recall that much from previous fits.”
“I’m not mad. I had a temporary physical relapse that has now passed,” Matthew snapped. “You know that as well as I.”
“How can we be sure?” His uncle’s voice was smooth as oil. “I’ve sent for Dr. Granger. He’ll give us his diagnosis when he arrives.”
Matthew bit back an appalled curse. Dr. Granger was the more brutal of the two physicians who had certified him. For three miserable years, Matthew had endured beatings and purges and bleedings. He was lucky he’d survived.
His uncle permitted himself a small satisfied smile before he turned his attention back to his henchman. “Filey, set the search parties on the cur’s trail. Woe betide you if he’s dead. He’ll be a useful lever if Lord Sheene has lied to us and we need to force the truth from him.”
Filey bowed. “Aye, my lord.”
“Then you and Monks will take two men and ride to Bristol. Someone will have seen the jade on the road if she went that way. Check for Pagets in the city. Check the area where you found her. If you pick up no trace by tomorrow, leave the men to continue searching and come back.” Lord John turned to Matthew. “What was her maiden name?”
Matthew said without a word of a lie, “I have no idea.”
His uncle nodded, for once believing him immediately. “No matter. We have enough to go on. I shall return, nephew.”
By now Matthew’s throat was so parched, he felt as though he’d swallowed the Sahara. And he desperately wanted to rinse the repulsive taste of stale vomit from his mouth. “You’re just leaving me?”
“For the moment,” Lord John said with obvious indifference. “Filey, you have your instructions.”
They closed the door behind them, abandoning him to an airless room and a heart brimming with guilt and futile rage. There was nothing he could do for Wolfram. There was nothing he could do for Grace. There was nothing he could do for himself.
He was so damned helpless, he wished to hell he were dead.
Dusk had fallen and Grace still hadn’t met anybody by the time the narrow track joined three roads. She looked up at the signpost marking the crossroads, squinting to read the words.
Slowly, she made out the faded lettering. And nearly shouted aloud for joy.
Matthew had always been vague about the estate’s location and she’d been unconscious when she arrived. But it turned out she knew exactly where she was. Or at least where she went.
Marked clearly on one arm of the signpost was a village a few miles away whose name was almost as familiar as her own.
Purdy St. Margaret’s.
Her cousin, the Reverend Vere Marlow, was vicar at Purdy St. Margaret’s.
For the first time in months, since well before Josiah fell sick, her heart leapt with genuine hope. She forgot her weariness and her blistered feet and the way her heavy dress irritated her sticky skin.
If she reached Vere, she was safe. If she reached Vere, she could find help for Matthew.
A joyful bark behind her made her turn in surprise. She squinted into the sun and raised one hand to her eyes to shield them from the dazzling light.
A huge brindle shape hurtled up
the track toward her.
Wolfram?
What was he doing here? How had he escaped?
Then she remembered that the gate had been open for the cart to depart. Perhaps his jailers’ panic over Matthew’s illness meant they’d been too distracted to shut it again. Either that or he’d escaped when Monks had ridden in pursuit. He must have followed the scent of the wagon or of Monks’s mount, then picked up her trail from where she’d climbed down.
What if he’d caught up with her at that moment? Her belly clenched with horror as she imagined what could have happened if he’d run up when she’d hidden in the woods. Her bid for freedom would have been over before it had begun.
“Wolfram! Good boy,” she said, crouching and stroking his shaggy coat. He licked her face and butted her with his blunt head and whimpered with delight. He was dusty and panting and almost pathetically happy to see her. The rope she’d tied to his collar still dangled from his neck.
“Good…What’s this?” Wolfram flinched as her fingers brushed a wet patch of hair near his haunches. When she lifted her hand, it was sticky with drying blood.
“Wolfram?” Heavens, what had happened after she left? Had there been some kind of brawl? Had Matthew been injured? Killed? He’d promised her that his uncle would do anything to keep him alive. But who knew what could happen in a crisis?
No, she had to believe he was still in this world. Or she couldn’t bear to go on.
Very gently, she explored Wolfram’s injury. From what she could see, the graze wasn’t serious. There wasn’t even a lot of blood. Wolfram whined and pressed his trembling body closer to her. She automatically put her arms around him.
“You poor darling. We’ll get you help. Don’t worry.” She spoke to comfort herself as much as the wolfhound.
Her heart lurched with a sudden pang of yearning for Matthew. She’d give anything for one last chance to feel his embrace and to hear his deep voice whispering her name. Missing him had been a constant sharp ache in her heart from the moment she’d said goodbye. But crouched on this lonely road, the stark reality of his absence stabbed at her like a steel blade.
Bending her head, she buried her face in Wolfram’s coarse coat. She didn’t cry. She’d cried so much already and tears had done her no good. For a long time, she knelt there, praying for her lover’s safety, praying for strength, praying for her own survival so that she could accomplish the impossible task ahead of her.
Finally, she drew in a deep breath and stood on legs that quivered with exhaustion. She straightened her backbone, gripped the rope attached to Wolfram’s collar and lifted her chin to the east as if daring life to defy her.
She would free Matthew or she would die trying.
The sound of the hallway door opening woke Matthew from restless sleep. Darkness surrounded him. It must be the middle of the night.
“Have you found Wolfram? Is he all right?” Matthew asked groggily as his uncle came in.
He tried to sit up then subsided with a painful grunt when his bruised ribs met the leather bindings. For a moment, he’d forgotten he was tied down. He was stiff and sore and thirsty. Around sunset, his uncle had sent Mrs. Filey in to give him some water. The cool liquid had been sweeter than nectar on his throat and on his chapped and splitting lips. But that must have been hours ago.
His uncle didn’t answer but spoke to the servants who followed him into the room and began to light the lamps. “Release him but keep a close hold when you do.”
Matthew maintained an appearance of weary apathy while they untied him and brought him to his feet. The instant the hands on his arms loosened, he broke into a frenzy of fighting and punching and struggling.
He’d reached such a pitch of anger that if he got his hands on his uncle, he’d kill him. Then gladly face the consequences, whatever his promise to Grace. For the sake of his own manhood, he couldn’t stand docilely like a bullock awaiting the butcher’s ax.
He was weak after his bout of illness and the beating, and clumsy from lying strapped to the table so long in this stifling room. He managed to clout one thug over the face before they caught his arms with embarrassing ease and wrenched them behind his back. The damaged flesh over his ribs tightened in agony and a groan escaped him.
Chest heaving and convulsive shudders running through his aching muscles, he hung from the men’s grasp. Failure tasted sour in his mouth.
“There’s no point to this, nephew,” his uncle said frigidly, not looking remotely worried at the sudden violence.
“If I manage to kill you, there is indeed a point,” Matthew gasped, breath scraping in and out of his lungs.
“When I’ve come to reward you for your cooperation? Surely not. If you can restrain your madness for the nonce, I’ll allow you up to bathe and change your clothing. And Mrs. Filey already prepares a meal for you.”
Matthew refused to express surprise or curiosity. Even broken and defeated and weak, he wouldn’t surrender.
“Don’t you want to know why?”
Matthew remained silent.
After a pause, his uncle pursed his lips with disappointment. “The doxy was seen in a village on the road to Bristol. Filey returned to inform me while the others continued on. They’ll catch her before she reaches the city.”
No! Jesus, no!
He thought he’d screamed his anguished denial aloud. But he mustn’t have because his uncle still stared at him with a gentle expectation that didn’t fool him.
Was what Lord John said true? Or a trick to draw him out about Grace’s whereabouts? Bristol was in the opposite direction to Wells. Had she decided at the last minute that the larger city offered greater protection?
Oh, God, Grace, if they catch you, all hope is gone.
Chapter 25
Grace curtsied deeply as Francis Rutherford, Duke of Kermonde, swept into the library of Fallon Court. She hadn’t been inside this beautiful paneled room since she was a girl of eleven. She hadn’t seen the duke since she was fifteen, when she’d attended his fiftieth birthday at this house with her family.
Would he remember her? And if he did, would he deign to speak to her? He’d always been kind when she’d come to him as the spoiled daughter of his best friend. Now she was poor and desperate and needed his help. She ardently wished she had something other than her faded widow’s weeds to wear. They proclaimed her poverty and put her at immediate disadvantage.
Goodness, what did her appearance matter when Matthew’s fate hung in the balance? She stifled the stiff-necked pride that had forbidden her from seeking help from her family’s connections before.
At her side Vere bowed, clutching his document case close to his narrow chest. He’d requested this audience without telling the duke about Grace’s arrival at his vicarage yesterday.
She wasn’t sure surprising one of the nation’s most powerful men was a good idea. But she’d been too tired and frightened and sick with worry over Matthew to argue. And by the time she’d reached Purdy St. Margaret’s, Wolfram had been limping badly and he’d demanded her immediate attention.
Thank goodness his injuries weren’t serious, but he was exhausted and obviously fretting over his master’s absence. They’d locked the hound in the stable while they came to the manor. He’d been howling fit to break a window when she left.
“Reverend Marlow?” The duke paused before them. Grace felt him studying the crown of her bent head. “What’s this about?” Then she heard his sharply indrawn breath as she rose.
“Good morning, Uncle Francis,” she said calmly, holding her head up and daring him to scorn her. She was a Marlow. Her blood was as blue as his, however empty her purse.
“It’s…Good God, it’s little Grace! I’d know those eyes anywhere,” he said in astonishment. “Lord, I haven’t seen you in ten years. Bless me, you’ve become a beauty.”
Then he gave a delighted laugh as though her visit presented the greatest treat and held his arms wide. “Come here and say hello properly!”
She�
��d expected any reaction from wary curiosity to immediate banishment. Open and unhesitating welcome hadn’t been on her list.
Fighting tears, Grace threw herself into his embrace. She’d always adored her godfather. Throughout her girlhood, he’d descended upon her at irregular intervals, bringing extravagant gifts and laughter. He’d always treated her as a cherished daughter. His wife had died young and childless and he’d never remarried.
“Oh, Uncle Francis! I’ve missed you so much,” she eventually stammered in a choked voice, drawing away.
He bombarded her with questions, questions she answered as well as she could without long explanations. Any delay extended Matthew’s ordeal. Was he even alive? The harrowing memory of how ill he’d been when she left gnawed at her like hungry rats. More hung on this meeting than a reunion. Although she couldn’t help asking the one thing that had haunted her. “How are my parents, Uncle Francis?”
Vere had told her what he knew once he’d stopped apologizing for the carriage accident which had prevented him reaching Bristol. So banal a cause for all that had befallen her. But Vere hadn’t seen her mother or father for years. The duke had been her father’s friend since Eton.
By now, she and her godfather were seated on a leather couch near tall glass doors opening onto the magnificent garden.
“You know about your brother, of course.” Kermonde’s narrow face was somber. With his long nose and tawny hair and sharp pale blue eyes, he’d always reminded her of a fox.
“Yes. I saw it in the news sheets.” She took a shaky breath. Talking about Philip always filled her with a crippling mixture of shame and sorrow. Her own criminally irresponsible behavior had hurt her family so much. Then they’d endured the loss of their only son in circumstances that brought humiliation to a proud name.
“Things haven’t been…good. Your mother gave up her social engagements and retired to her room as an invalid. Your father throws himself into parliamentary work in a way that worries me. I sincerely believe they’d love to see you, Grace.”
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