The Reluctant Duchess

by Jane Goodger

  “You will call me Your Grace,” he shouted.

  “Mr. Winters?” Molly asked uncertainly. Another slapping sound. “Your Grace!”

  “You’re mad,” Rebecca said, her confusion overcoming her fear.

  “I am the old duke’s firstborn son. I am the rightful heir to the title.”

  “If that is true,” Rebecca said as calmly as she could, “why are you not the duke?”

  “Because my grandfather convinced my father that he would be foolish to marry my mother,” he spat. “He used her and refused to marry her. And then my father was gracious enough to allow me to live in his house as a servant. Such a magnanimous thing for him to do, don’t you agree?”

  While he was speaking, Rebecca eased toward the door as silently as possible, hoping to make her escape and get help, both for her and for poor Molly. She felt along the wall, praying that her fingers would touch wood instead of cold stone. Once she reached the door, she would make a run for it. She must. But before she could find the door, a match flared, illuminating the room, illuminating her as she slid along the wall.

  She stood still, as if the light had somehow paralyzed her.

  “My mother,” he said, as he calmly lit a lamp, “was the daughter of the third son of a baron.” He chuckled. “She at least had some aristocratic blood running through her veins, but my grandfather thought her too far below my father socially and would not hear of a match. Can you imagine what he would think of you?”

  He walked calmly over to her, his face devoid of expression, so Rebecca was shocked when he quickly grabbed her hair and yanked her hard, pushing her toward Molly.

  “You’re such a little fool.” He let out a sigh as if the weight of the world were now on his shoulders. “What should I do with you?”

  “You should let me go. Oliver will find me and then you shall be arrested and hang for what you have done.”

  He tsked. “Such fervor in your words. Do you really think that idiot you call a husband will be able to find you? I’ll tell him you left when you discovered you were not married.” He smiled. “You are, you know. Did you truly think your father such a dunce that he would not have been certain?” He looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “Does no one in this world have any intelligence at all?”

  “Why would you spread such lies? Why would you tell Oliver such a thing if it were not true?”

  He tilted his head as if commiserating with her confusion. “I had to make him see how wrong it was of him to have married you. You will taint the bloodline of our great title. You don’t have a drop of blue blood running through your common veins. But I do.”

  Even as her mind told her how foolish it would be to challenge him, Rebecca could not stop her tongue. “It is not your title,” she said. “And since I am married to His Grace, whether you like it or not, I outrank you. You will—”

  He backhanded her, making her head snap back, and she crumpled onto the thin mattress, pain exploding in her jaw. She tasted blood, her teeth having cut the inside of her cheek at the blow. Never in her life had anyone, ever, committed a violent act on her person. When Winters took a step toward her, she cringed and scooted away from him.

  “Stop, Your Grace,” Molly said. “She don’t know nothing. Let her go. You can keep me if you like. I won’t make any trouble.”

  Winters stood over the two women, his control, momentarily lost, back. Tugging at his sleeves with a small frown, he said, “I cannot to do anything at the moment. My brother will no doubt soon discover his wife is missing and go looking for her.” He smiled grimly. “He cannot find you. No one knows about this dungeon but me.”

  “I found it,” Rebecca said, holding a hand to her throbbing jaw.

  His brows furrowed briefly, as if that troubling thought had not occurred to him. “Then I shall have to make certain Oliver does not find it, shan’t I?” He moved toward the door and stopped. “It may be some time before I’m able to return. As a matter of fact, Oliver demanded that I leave Horncliffe. If he insists, I daresay I won’t return. I do hope you are not hungry.”

  With that, he grabbed the lantern Rebecca had used to find her way there, opened the door to their cell, and departed, pushing the heavy door closed behind him and locking them in.

  Chapter 12

  Tears filled Rebecca’s eyes but she dashed them away. Even though her jaw hurt terribly, she refused to allow herself to slip into despair. She dared not think that the woman sitting next to her quietly weeping had been in this room for ten years. Surely, Oliver would find her soon. But what if he did have Winters removed from Horncliffe? How long could they last without food? She wished Oliver had heeded her concerns about Mr. Winters, though in her wildest imaginings she would not have thought even he capable of such villainy. Now, she must rely on keeping her wits and pray Oliver would find them.

  Despite her determination, she could not help but think Molly had felt very much the way she did now—full of hope that someone would hear her cries. But all they would hear would be the ghost of Horncliffe.

  “I could hear you.”

  Molly looked up with a look of utter hopelessness. “What do you mean?”

  “For years, people have heard you, but they thought it was a ghost. Your ghost. Mr. Winters had a statue of a maid erected in the garden to frighten the rest of the staff. They actually believed the duke had turned you to stone. The statue was proof of it.”

  Molly thought on this a bit. “But that don’t make sense. How could I be a ghost if I was a statue?”

  Despite their situation, Rebecca laughed. “I don’t know. All I know is that whatever noise we make, it needs to be decidedly unghostlike. And it needs to be loud.”

  “It’s hopeless. I screamed my throat raw for days and no one came. I know my mum and dad must have looked for me, must have demanded to know where I was.” Molly worried at the band on her wrist, then let out a small gasp. “Your Grace, look.”

  Rebecca looked down to see the small lock that held the manacle on Molly’s wrist had sprung free. Apparently, the key had worked, after all. With shaking hands, Molly quickly took off the lock and opened the manacle, letting out a sound of pure joy. “Oh,” she said, looking at her poor, chafed wrist. She rubbed it softly, and looked at Rebecca with a smile. “I’m free.”

  “Not yet,” Rebecca said, taking the heavy chain in her hand. “But I think I’ve found something that we can use to wake this house up.”

  When Oliver entered his room, he stopped in confusion. Where was his wife? He’d expected to find her in bed waiting for him, her hair neatly plaited, with a welcoming smile on her face. It had been a long and wearing day and he wanted nothing more than to pull her against him and fall to sleep.

  Then he recalled her mentioning sneaking down to the kitchen to gather something to eat. He’d thought she’d meant to bring the food back to their room, but perhaps she’d stayed in the kitchen and eaten her fill there. He had half a mind to join her, but he found he was too tired to bother.

  Instead, he undressed, taking care to neatly fold his clothes—his new valet had been horrified by the way he’d been treating his clothing—and climbed into bed to wait for his wife. He was bone-tired and wished this entire day had never happened. Another man might have reached oblivion by drinking; Oliver had always found solace in sleep. He fell into a deep slumber within minutes of his head resting on his pillow, knowing he would awaken when Rebecca climbed abed.

  Oliver woke with a start, sensing something was wrong. He reached beside him and was slightly disturbed to find the bed empty next to him. “Rebecca?”

  Silence met him. Could she have returned to her own rooms? Without bothering to put on a robe, Oliver strode to their connecting door and walked in without knocking. The moon shone brightly, illuminating her bed. Her empty bed. Still, Oliver walked up to it to be certain. How strange.

  “Rebecca?”

>   His cat rubbed against his shins, purring loudly, and he absently bent to give the tabby a pet. “Where is our duchess?” he asked.

  Going back to his own rooms, he raised the gaslight just enough to see a clock that sat on his wardrobe, and his blood ran cold. It was just past three in the morning. Something had to have happened.

  His heart racing, Oliver quickly donned his spectacles, then threw open his door and began running toward the kitchen. Had she cut herself? Choked? Fallen down the stairs? His bare feet slapped on the cold marble floor as he ran toward the kitchen, silently praying that he would find her safe. Perhaps she’d eaten and fallen asleep at the table?

  But when he reached the kitchen, he found it empty with no signs that anyone had been there. Turning up the gaslight, he looked in the large basin where the dishes were washed. Knowing Rebecca, she would have put her dishes there. It was empty. Furrowing his brow, he left the kitchen, a nagging worry beginning to hit him. It was the middle of the night; where could she be?

  While Horncliffe was a large and rambling home, all those who resided there did so in the west wing. This was where the tower was, the bedrooms, the portrait gallery and library. He doubted Rebecca would have wandered to the other wing, so he confined his search to those rooms he thought he might find her. Perhaps she had gone into the library for a book and fallen asleep on a settee? While it seemed unlikely, he simply had no other explanation. Surely she was there. He smiled, picturing her curled up before the fire, an opened book by her side as she slept.

  But when he reached the room, it was dark; no fire was lit in the grate, and the chill would have certainly made Rebecca retreat. Still, he raised the gaslight just enough so that he could see beyond the shadows and frowned when he realized that the library, too, was empty. Could she have gone to the tower room? For what purpose?

  Real fear began growing, like some virulent disease spreading through his body. She’d been so upset earlier, but surely she would realize that he would make everything right again. She had promised him, after all.

  Oliver ran to the tower, taking the curving stairs two at a time, shouting her name as he went, only to find his room precisely as he’d left it. His heart hammering madly in his chest, fear clogging his throat, he went via the passageway back to his rooms, crazily thinking he might find her lost within the dark and narrow halls.

  “Rebecca!”

  Only silence answered his call. When he made it back to his room, he looked again, in his suite and in hers, hoping that while he’d been off searching for her, she had returned. But she had not.

  “Mr. Winters,” Oliver shouted, as he left his room and headed for the other man’s suite. “Mr. Winters!”

  Upstairs, he could hear the sound of servants opening their doors to see what the commotion was. Mr. Starke appeared wearing a nightcap and gown, his eyes bleary from sleep. “Your Grace, whatever is the matter?”

  “The duchess is missing,” he said. Those words, said aloud, made his heart feel as if it had turned to a block of ice.

  “Certainly not,” Mr. Starke said, though the look of concern on his face was anything but comforting.

  “What is wrong? What has happened?” Winters called from down the hall.

  “Rebecca is not in her rooms, nor in mine. She went down to the kitchens earlier to find a bite to eat, but she was not there either. I’ve searched this entire wing.”

  Darlene came out into the hall, her brown hair in a long braid down her back. “Surely she’s in her room, Your Grace,” she said, pushing by the others in the hall.

  “I fell asleep. She was going to the kitchen to fetch something to eat, but it appears she did not. That was four hours ago. Four hours.” He felt like screaming and would have if he thought it would have made Rebecca appear.

  “Your Grace. A word.” Darlene stood in the hall, her expression unreadable, and Oliver’s blood turned to ice. He followed the maid into his wife’s room, dread filling him.

  When they were inside, Darlene looked back to be certain no one had followed. “Her dresses are gone. The ones she brought with her. At least some of them. And her bag is gone too, Your Grace.”

  The implication was clear. Rebecca had left in the middle of the night without saying good-bye, without allowing him to…

  “No. She would not do that. Rebecca would never leave me without at the very least telling me she was doing so.”

  Darlene looked at him with a mixture of pity and concern. “Yes, Your Grace.” She pressed her lips together. “But the dresses…”

  Oliver shook his head in denial. He would not believe Rebecca would do such a thing; it was unimaginable. Then again, she had been terribly upset to learn their worst fears had come true. Did she think that leaving him would be for the best? That he would somehow be grateful for it?

  “Oh, God.” The words tore through his throat, and tears filled Darlene’s eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Grace.” She worried her hands together, clearly at a loss what to do or say. She left him there, alone. He glanced around the room, fighting the despair that threatened to paralyze him. How could Rebecca have left him? It seemed inconceivable. And yet, her dresses were gone. She was gone.

  He sat down heavily on her bed and stared unseeingly at the cold grate. Soft footsteps drew his attention; Mr. Winters stood at the door, his expression one of sorrow, and Oliver fought the urge to launch himself at the man and put his hands around his throat.

  “You may not think so now, Your Grace, but it is for the—”

  Oliver stood abruptly. “Don’t you dare say it is for the best. Don’t you dare. Get out of my sight. You make me sick. This changes nothing. You are to leave at first light.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “You are correct, sir. I am murderously upset.” He took a step toward Winters and the man’s eyes widened.

  “You found her in a painting,” he said, stretching his arms out to either side, as if that explained all.

  Oliver looked at the ceiling and squeezed his eyes shut. “It matters not how I found her. It matters only that I did and that I love her.” He dropped his head and looked at the older man, not bothering to hide the raw despair in his eyes. “Do you not understand that, Philip?”

  Winters stiffened. “I do apologize, Your Grace, but I do not. If you mean to bring her back, I would suggest leaving at first light. She cannot have gotten far. The stage to the rail station does not leave until ten. You’ll have time to stop her should you choose to.”

  “Of course I choose to,” Oliver spat. “And if you believe I can wait until the morning to fetch her, you are mistaken.” He strode through the door and into the hall, where a small group of servants still huddled, discussing the excitement of the night. “Mr. Starke, order me a carriage immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oliver returned to his rooms and hastily dressed. When he found Rebecca—and he would find her—after he hugged and kissed her breathless, he just might shake her for causing him so much worry.

  “No one will hear this time of night. They’re all four stories above us,” Molly said wearily as she lay on the mattress.

  Rebecca, short of breath and exhausted from banging the chain against the stone, sagged in defeat. Truthfully, the chain wasn’t making all that much noise each time she smashed it against the wall. She had to admit that no one, especially in the middle of the night, would hear the noise she was making.

  “You’re right.” Rebecca willed away the tears that threatened. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Survive. As I have done all this time.”

  Shaking her head, Rebecca sat down on the mattress next to the other woman. “We shan’t survive if Mr. Winters is told to leave. Who will bring you food and water? Who will take your chamber pot?”

  Molly shrugged indifferently.

  Then a thought occurred to h
er. “Molly, were there ever long stretches when no one came to bring you food?”

  “That’s one thing I could count on. Every day just after nine in the morning, a tray appears in that little slot.” She motioned to the small sliding door that was part of the larger door.

  The impact of her words silenced Rebecca, horrified her, actually. If someone had been bringing Molly food, another person in this house was aware that she had been kept here prisoner for years. Knew and had done nothing. How many people in this house were complicit in her imprisonment?

  “You don’t know who? A man or woman?”

  “A man. At times he’ll cough, but he never says a word. And he never comes in.”

  “If Mr. Winters is forced to leave, perhaps whoever is bringing food will let us out? At the very least, we can plead with him.”

  Molly laughed, an ugly sound. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? Don’t you think I’ve cried and begged and sworn I wouldn’t tell a soul just as long as they let me go? They’re monsters, the two of them. I didn’t realize it wasn’t His Grace—” She frowned. “Mr. Winters who was bringing me the food at first, but I figured it out. I figured a man like that wouldn’t lower himself to bring me food.”

  Rebecca laid a hand on the other woman’s wrist. “I am so sorry this happened to you. And I want you to have faith that we will escape. My husband will find us. I know he will.”

  Her words did not appear to give the other woman hope. “For a long time, I’ve known I will die here, that no one in my family will ever know what happened to me. I can’t have hope now.” She looked up, her eyes beseeching. “Don’t give me hope. It crushes me, it makes this more unbearable.”

  Rebecca pushed back so that she could lean against the wall. As tired as she was, she couldn’t bring herself to lie down. “What time is it?” she asked.

  Molly pulled out her watch and glanced down at it. “Half past three. You’ve been here four hours.” She giggled and put her watch away. “I remember counting hours. Then days; then I just stopped counting.” She let out a sigh. “I’m tired, Your Grace. I’d like to put out the lamp and go to sleep. I don’t like it when I run out of oil.”