She was exhausted and elated and worried and frightened. She bit her lip as dread rose to choke her. Could they edge so close to victory and still fail?
She sat up straight and uncurled fingers that had tightened into stiff claws in her skirt. She must be strong. For Matthew. For herself.
The carriage turned toward the gates and she braced herself for what was to come.
“Where did the bitch go?”
Matthew didn’t bother lifting his head to answer his uncle. I don’t know had worn down through repetition. He sagged in his shackles, resting the weight on his arms to ease his aching legs. He was tired, so tired.
Soon, they’d release him from the chains that bound him to the garden room wall. Only to tie him to the table where he could catch a few hours’ sleep. The pattern had become horribly familiar since Grace’s escape.
And she had escaped. His uncle still sought her but after all this time, Lord John must know she was long gone.
That thought alone sustained him. Somehow she’d eluded her pursuers. Even the legendary Bow Street Runners had admitted defeat. Thank Christ, once she’d got out, she’d realized Matthew was beyond help. He’d been sick with worry that she meant to mount some futile rescue attempt and willfully place herself within his uncle’s reach.
“You’re a fool, boy,” Lord John said coldly from the armchair set before his chained captive. His voice was the sole thing in the room that was cold. Matthew wore only a shirt and light trousers. Still, he sweated profusely in the greenhouse atmosphere.
After four months, he should be inured to the stifling heat. But he lived for the hour in the morning and the hour in the afternoon when they let him exercise outside. That and three meal periods a day constituted his allotment of freedom. He cooperated to keep his strength up. In eight weeks and two days, his promise to Grace ended and he’d kill his uncle. What happened afterward, he didn’t care.
“The slut has forgotten you, taken another lover.” Lord John rested his hands on the top of his stick.
Matthew told himself that he hoped Grace had found someone else to care for. And knew himself a damned liar. Corrosive jealousy burned him at the idea of her in another man’s arms, of another man touching that silken skin, bringing her to sobbing pleasure.
That other man was a lucky devil. To be free. Luckier still to be with Grace.
Matthew must have failed to hide his reaction. His uncle laughed low and salaciously and his fingers tightened over the smooth yellow knob. “She’s a peach, isn’t she? Sweet as honey. And quick to spread her legs.”
Matthew didn’t respond. The taunts were too familiar.
“When we find her, I’ll try her myself before I give her to Monks and Filey. And my other men.”
Matthew raised his head and glared at his uncle. If hatred could kill, Lord John would be in his grave instead of brushing an invisible fleck of dust from his heavy brown velvet coat sleeve.
His uncle still mused on what he intended to do to Grace. “Perhaps I’ll let you watch. To revive fond memories. I might even permit you a slice before we finish her.”
Sour loathing rose like vomit in Matthew’s throat but he clenched hard against it. He must appear docile, beaten, or Lord John would never release him. And he must be free to kill.
From experience, Matthew knew this inquisition could continue for hours. His uncle called on the estate at erratic intervals to question him. Although he must by now admit nothing, not exhaustion, not pain, not anger, would make Matthew reveal what he knew.
“Of course, there is another way, nephew.” His uncle checked his fingernails as if discussing the weather. “Tell me where she went and you’ll have her back in your bed quick as a snap of your fingers.”
“I don’t know where she is,” Matthew said in a voice rusty with disuse, although he knew it was fruitless to reiterate his ignorance.
He changed the angle of his body to ease the strain on his arms. His lank hair flopped around his face. For four months, his daily grooming routine had been restricted to a shave and a quick wash in a basin. He knew his uncle’s strategy was to break his spirit, but that didn’t make him any happier to know he looked the worst kind of ruffian. Since recovering his wits, he’d been fastidious about his appearance. Dressing like a gentleman had been a gesture of defiance against the shrieking specters of madness, captivity, and hopelessness.
“A pity we never found the cur,” Lord John said negligently. “He would engage your cooperation, I have no doubt.”
The mention of Wolfram stirred the rage that had roiled inside Matthew since that horrific afternoon. Matthew assumed he’d crawled into some hidden hollow to bleed to death from the bullet wound. It was better than Lord John torturing the hound to death, but not much. He tamped down his flaring temper and concentrated instead on the blazing ache in his shoulders.
Anger threatened his control and without control, he couldn’t defeat his uncle. Now Grace was safe, his only remaining purpose was Lord John’s downfall.
Without much interest, he heard movement in the hallway. His jailers must have finished checking the grounds as they did every night. He wondered with dull curiosity if his uncle would order them to beat him. Since Grace’s escape, Lord John had only rarely subjected him to violence. But he sensed a frustration in his uncle tonight that could spill over into brutality.
Matthew didn’t stir as the door opened, although the faint breath of air from outside fell on his sticky overheated skin like balm.
“Release that man immediately!”
Matthew’s head jerked up in astonishment. What the hell…
What in God’s name was happening? He shook his head to clear his vision. The sudden explosion of noise and color and movement after the quiet wretchedness of the last months left him disoriented.
He frowned and fought to make sense of this chaos.
Who were these strangers? What were they doing here? He didn’t recognize the man who had spoken and who now placed himself in a position of authority at the center of the room.
But he was heartbreakingly familiar with the slender figure in dark green who jostled past the men pressing through the doorway and dashed to his side. Softness scented with sunshine and delicate flowery perfume suddenly supported his weight.
Grace…
Damn. Damn. Damn.
With appalled disbelief, he stared down at the masked lady whose arms encircled him. Her mouth trembled into a joyful smile. Under the mask, tears shone in her indigo eyes.
“You’re alive. You’re alive.” She whispered the words like a prayer. She sounded so happy.
He wished to Hades he felt the same.
“What in Christ’s name are you doing here?” he snarled in angry despair. How the hell could she put herself in danger like this? Had he endured four months of torment for nothing?
Her hold tightened. In spite of his anguished fury, her touch felt so good. Briefly he closed his eyes and struggled for control, although her nearness made control nigh impossible. Still he tried. He’d need all his wits to bring her out of this disaster.
Oh, Grace, why did you come back? Why did you risk everything? Why? Why? Why?
She pressed into his side and even through his anger, he felt life spark inside him for the first time since she’d gone. “I’m here to rescue you,” she said softly. “Look.”
Dazedly, he opened his eyes. All he could see was her beloved face, pale beneath the mask. He wrenched his attention from her to take in the room. The suddenly crowded room.
Against one wall, Monks and Filey stood in the custody of four brawny men armed with horse pistols. Monks was disheveled and shackled, and drying blood smeared his mouth. He’d clearly put up a fight. Filey must have been as spineless as usual because he wasn’t chained like his crony. Four other men in livery ranged around the walls.
Now Matthew’s bewilderment receded, he realized that the long-faced, gray-haired man who demanded his release was vaguely familiar. Next to him stood an equ
ally authoritative-looking man who bore a strong resemblance to Grace. Two middle-aged men of great self-importance stood to one side. After eleven years of acquaintance with the breed, he had no trouble identifying them as doctors.
“Your Grace?” Lord John surged to his feet, shock eating into his usual sangfroid. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Unshackle Lord Sheene,” the first man, apparently a duke, said.
Lord John’s self-possession revived. “You have no rights here. Your Grace, Lord Wyndhurst, I protest this intrusion.”
Matthew’s bewilderment mounted. Why was the Earl of Wyndhurst here? Was he some relative of Grace’s? Was the duke? She’d said she came from a wealthy family but these men were among the greatest in the land.
“Protest all you like.” The duke made a lordly gesture toward the men who held Filey and Monks. “I said I wish this man released.”
Filey drew out a key and shuffled toward Grace and Matthew. The stench of his sour breath and stale sweat briefly suffocated Matthew as the brute stretched up to unlock his irons. Grace huddled closer and he felt her tremble with anger or revulsion or fear. Probably all three. He couldn’t read her expression under the damned mask.
None of this made sense. Why had these people come to his aid? He stifled a groan as blood rushed painfully back into his numbed arms. The piercing agony made him lightheaded and he swayed against Grace.
He felt stiff and ungainly after standing so long. Without his chains to hold him vertical, he was humiliated to discover his legs wouldn’t support him. Grace staggered under his weight, then suddenly Wyndhurst shored up his other side.
“Courage, man,” he muttered. “We’ll see you safely out of this.”
He’d never met the earl. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to deserve the almost affectionate encouragement. Nonetheless, he nodded and fought to regain his balance.
“Oh, Matthew,” Grace said in a choked voice. “What have they done to you?”
“My lady, you promised silence,” the duke said curtly.
Matthew watched delicate color wash over her face. The lush mouth he’d dreamed about for four long months flattened. He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to take his next breath but their audience made that impossible.
Why must she be silent? Why was she masked? What were these men to her?
Surely she wasn’t the duke’s mistress. Call him a fool but he was convinced she still loved him. He heard it in her voice. He saw it in her eyes. He felt it in the hands she laid with such tender strength on his body.
“We need to examine the patient, Your Grace, my lord,” one of the doctors said in an officious voice.
The earl helped Matthew to an upright position. At least this time his legs didn’t buckle. He gingerly rolled his knotted shoulders and stretched his tingling arms as feeling and movement returned.
“The marquess is a raving madman,” Lord John snapped.
The earl shot him a contemptuous glance and released Matthew. “Nonsense. I can already see he’s as sane as I am.”
“Wyndhurst, you’re hardly qualified to judge,” Lord John protested, his chin taking on a belligerent jut. “I insist this dangerous maniac is constrained.”
“My lord, you may insist upon nothing,” the unknown duke snapped, his tawny eyebrows drawing together in aristocratic displeasure. “I am here on the king’s business. That business includes your arrest.”
Lord John’s response was no less haughty. “I find myself at a loss, sir. Upon what charges?”
“Abduction, deprivation of liberty, fraud, larceny, assault. I could continue.”
“On the word of this slut?” Lord John was clearly in no doubt of Grace’s identity, despite the mask. “I don’t know how she enlisted such exalted interest in her lies but I stand prepared to prove my innocence. Should these absurd accusations ever reach a court of law. Which I doubt.”
“This lady’s testimony will not be required,” the duke said coolly. “We have Dr. Granger and Dr. Boyd in custody. We have concrete proof of your dishonesty. We have Lord Sheene.”
“A certified lunatic,” Lord John snapped, although his complexion was waxy and the hands clasping his cane shone white-knuckled with tension. For the first time ever, Matthew saw a line of sweat above his uncle’s lip.
The duke remained unimpressed. “A man who suffered a fever in youth and who has been unjustly imprisoned ever since. These men are the king’s doctors. They will provide a true diagnosis of his sanity. But like Lord Wyndhurst, I see no evidence of madness. Although I see much evidence of crime.”
“There is no crime, damn you! I’ve been a good and watchful guardian over my poor deranged nephew.”
Matthew was steadier on his feet but he kept his arm firmly around Grace. Who knew when she might be ripped away from him? These men offered the astonishing promise of liberty but he couldn’t yet trust they’d prevail.
He straightened and squared his shoulders. It was time he became more than a spectator. “I’m not mad and you know it, Uncle.” Matthew’s tone was caustic. “You’ve been a grasping and self-aggrandizing guardian to the Lansdowne fortune, more like.”
“Don’t fight a hopeless battle, Lord John,” the duke said in a persuasive tone. “Come quietly for the sake of your family. Believe me when I say the game’s well and truly up. I offer you my word I’ll do my best to help your wife and your girls if you give yourself into custody.”
“Damn you, I will not be tried as a common felon.” Lord John’s cheeks were bloodless now and his hands trembled so violently that the amber-topped stick clattered to the ground.
The duke studied the cane as it rolled across the flagged floor, then smiled at Lord John with a hint of pity. “Yes, you will. Because you are a common felon.”
“I’ll see you in hell first.” Still facing the duke, he backed toward Matthew. He fumbled at his pocket and pulled out a beautiful little pistol with a pearl handle.
With rough urgency, Matthew shoved Grace behind him although his uncle wasn’t aiming in her direction. Over Lord John’s shoulder, he noticed the armed escort was ready to intervene. The men had the bearing of trained soldiers and were obviously used to dealing with trouble. But in this small space, violence could spiral out of control and in the fracas, Grace might be hurt.
“You can’t win, Lansdowne. You must know that,” the duke said calmly without shifting.
“I can win! I’ve always won!” Wildly, he lunged toward Matthew. “I should have been Marquess of Sheene, not you, you rotting stump of useless lunacy!”
No trace of the assured tyrant remained in this shaking, desperate man. The conscienceless beast who had always inhabited his uncle’s body under the social polish was at last naked to the world. Spittle marked his lips and spattered Matthew. Without shifting his eyes from the gun, Matthew wiped one hand across his face.
The scent of impending bloodshed sharpened the atmosphere. Matthew heard Grace’s low sound of distress and his protective grip on her tightened.
“Put down your weapon!” the duke barked.
“For pity’s sake, Lansdowne!” Lord Wyndhurst approached Lord John, keeping a careful eye on the pistol. “This has gone far enough!”
“Be careful!” Grace cried out, lurching forward. “Be careful!”
Matthew thrust her out of the way. “Uncle, it’s over,” he said quietly, trying to stem the building crisis. “What use to cause further pain? Think of your daughters. Your wife.”
Lord John cocked the pistol, the sound echoing eerily in the quiet room, and waved it in the air. “Don’t preach and prate, nephew. You’ve always been a bloody parson at heart. What do you know about what a real man wants?”
Matthew ignored the jibe, as he’d ignored so many of his uncle’s jibes. He kept his voice steady, reassuring, as if he spoke to an injured animal. “I know a real man doesn’t destroy his family just to save his vanity, Uncle. A real man accepts the consequences of his actions. You reached high and came to
disaster. There’s no one else to blame.”
His uncle sneered even as the gun swung in Matthew’s direction. “For God’s sake, spare me the lecture, you self-righteous worm. You think you’ve defeated me. You haven’t. Nobody bests John Lansdowne. My one regret is I didn’t fuck the bitch then kill her when I had the chance.’”
Quickly, before anyone could stop him, he raised the gun to his temple and fired. The report resounded around the closed room. A dull thud followed as his body hit the floor.
Behind Matthew, Grace inhaled on a shocked gasp. He felt her hide her face in his back. Nobody else moved as the hot tang of gunpowder and the metallic stench of blood mingled in the stuffy room. The bluster of Lord John’s final words jangled like untuned bells in the close air.
The man who had tormented Matthew for eleven years was dead. He should feel triumphant. He felt nothing. Numbly, he stared at the still figure lying in its expanding pool of blood.
“Good God,” Lord Wyndhurst said eventually.
The doctor who hadn’t spoken knelt at Lord John’s side. He raised his head and said, “He’s dead.”
“A coward to the end,” Grace said shakily. She broke free of Matthew’s hold and stepped toward Lord Wyndhurst. “My lord, are you all right?”
Matthew immediately missed her warmth. The absence reminded him too vividly of her absence during these long lonely months. Longingly, he gazed after her.
His distraction lasted a fatal moment too long. Monks broke free of his captors and sprang forward.
“Matthew!” she screamed. She whirled back toward him. He dived to drag her to safety.
Too late.
Monks flung his beefy arms over her head. The chain of his shackles tightened brutally around Grace’s slender neck.
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