by Tuft, Karen
“Thank you, Gibbs.” He rose from the sofa.
His father closed his book and set it on the table next to his chair. “I believe I shall join you, Halford. Gibbs, tell the gentlemen the two of us will be with them shortly.”
Gibbs bowed and left the room.
“Who are these gentlemen?” Lady Ashworth asked Anthony.
Before he could reply, Lord Ashworth did. “Mr. Swindlehurst is our solicitor, my dear, as you may recall, and his companion, Mr. John Abbott, is an investigator with an extensive reputation.” He rose from his chair. “Which is why I wish to speak to my son in private before he meets with them. I am afraid I have been ill and in the dark for too long.” He gestured toward the door with his hand. “After you, Halford.”
When they were in the hallway with the sitting room door closed, Anthony said, “There is not much to tell that you do not already know, Father. Abbott looked into Amelia’s family background for me, and I subsequently asked him for information on the Duke of Marwood, which I am hopeful will further explain his attack on Amelia.”
The marquess nodded. “It did strike me as odd, the way Marwood placed such a monetary value on his daughter when we went through the settlements, although such practicalities are not unheard of in marriage settlements. I am curious to discover what Abbott can tell us.”
They proceeded down the hallway to the parlor where Gibbs had deposited the gentlemen. Swindlehurst was standing by the fireplace and staring at the fire, while Mr. Abbott stood looking out the window, his hands clasped behind him.
Abbott turned and walked forward when Anthony and his father entered the room.
Anthony introduced him to his father.
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Abbott,” the marquess said. “My responsibilities in the House of Lords have made me aware of work you have done for the Crown in the past.”
“I am honored, my lord,” Abbott said.
“Please be seated,” Anthony said, pulling on the bell cord. When Gibbs arrived, Anthony said, “Tea, Gibbs. Or would you all prefer something a little stronger?”
The gentlemen declined refreshments of any kind, so Gibbs left, and they settled in to discuss business.
“What have you to tell us?” Anthony asked.
“First,” Abbott said, “may I offer my condolences on Miss Clarke’s injuries? I was appalled at the news and would wish her a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you, sir,” Anthony said. “I shall pass your sentiments along to her.” He did not wish to discuss Amelia’s injuries with these men; he was more interested in learning about the perpetrator of them. “What light can you shed on Marwood’s actions and motives?”
“As to that,” Abbott said, “there has been gossip for some time that the duke’s finances are in a shambles, near the point of ruin, in fact.”
For the Duke of Marwood to be in financial peril explained much. It also meant the duke had been grossly negligent, considering the number of properties he owned. “How could this happen?” he asked. “Gaming?” Some men were known to wager an entire estate on a hand of cards.
“Partly,” Abbott said. “But not entirely. The duke had several large investments fall through, leaving him with a massive amount of debt. Even with the income from his estates, word has it that it will take years for him to find his way clear.”
“What kinds of investments?” Anthony asked.
“Shipping, mostly. Merchandise from the Far East and the West Indies. Problems with the French and Americans caused some of his losses, pirates and bad seas the rest. Bad luck all around. He has been doing everything he can to raise capital, not all of it aboveboard, if you catch my drift. Nothing proven as of yet, but there are those who have their suspicions.”
Anthony’s father remained silent, frowning at the news.
“His investments were excessive and in risky ventures, offering unrealistic rates of return,” Mr. Swindlehurst said. “A few of my clients invested in those same ventures, but because they were more cautious, they suffered fewer ill effects. Unfortunately the Duke of Marwood risked more than he could afford to lose.”
“He bankrupted himself,” the Marquess of Ashworth said, his fist clenched on the arm of his chair. “Then he attempted to sell his daughter, his own flesh and blood, to the highest bidder. The very idea is appalling.”
“And when that did not work, he took out his frustration on an innocent young woman,” Abbott said.
“Precisely,” the marquess said. “He is a profligate gambler on all levels and a bully of the worst sort. He should be held accountable, although I doubt the lords will do anything to one of their highest and most esteemed peers.”
Swindlehurst shared a look with Abbott, and Anthony knew that word of this morning’s duel had already spread through Town. “What you say is true, my lord,” Swindlehurst said. “But it would seem the Duke of Marwood has already been held accountable.”
“I imagine it is true that the loss of his fortune is a significant consequence to his rash actions.” The marquess’s brows knit together. “But I do not believe that is what you were referring to. What did you mean, then? Miss Clarke only experienced this yesterday—” His head jerked to Anthony. “What have you done?”
“I have done what any gentleman would do to protect the honor of his beloved,” Anthony replied smoothly. “I challenged him. And I won.”
His father’s face went ghostly white. “You dueled? This morning?” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Good heavens. And you are well? Of course you are well; I can see that you are. But the duke. He is not?”
“He is alive, Father,” Anthony said. “Rest easy. The constables will not be arriving on our doorsteps to take me away in chains. And I would do exactly as I did all over again, whether the constables were planning to show up afterward or not.”
“Duels are risky business, Halford,” his father said. “Promise me no more duels.”
“I doubt I will find myself in another situation like this one,” Anthony said. “And so you have my promise.” He paused, watching as his father fought to maintain his composure, knowing he had wounded him with his actions. He was the man’s only surviving son and heir. His parents had been through too much already.
But he had to say what needed to be said. “With one caveat, however, Father. I will not be constrained from defending those who are dearest to me. I hope that is satisfactory to you.”
He placed his hand over his father’s, which was clutching the arm of the chair. It was the hand Anthony had grasped as a toddler learning to walk, the strong, muscular one that had taught him to shoot and ride a horse. Now that hand was heavily veined. In a softer voice, he continued. “I have experienced enough bloodshed for one lifetime. It is not my desire to see any more—only as a very last resort.”
The Marquess of Ashworth nodded his agreement, and Anthony sensed that he had proved himself to his father in some vital way. “I understand, son. And well done.”
“Ahem,” Swindlehurst said, interrupting them. “I believe Mr. Abbott has further information that may be of some interest to you, Lord Halford. Regarding the circumstances of Miss Clarke’s birth.”
Anthony kept his hand on his father’s, suddenly needing his support instead, and both men turned to listen.
Abbott steepled his fingers. “The parishioners of Little Brenchley were very keen to learn their beloved Miss Clarke was betrothed to an earl, the heir of a marquess.” His eyes twinkled. “Once they knew I was working to assist her devoted fiancé, they were more willing to open up and share what they knew.
“The Reverend Clarke and his wife, it turns out, tried unsuccessfully to have a child of their own but, despite this, were always among the first to welcome each new baby into the parish. They were generous, bringing baskets of food and good cheer, and never let their own lack of good fortune dampen the joy of the occasion. I was
quite moved, I tell you, listening to the people speak, and everyone had a story to tell of the vicar and his good wife.” He stopped speaking for a moment, seeming to collect his thoughts.
“About Sarah Clarke,” he finally continued. “It seems the villagers knew she was from a poor family and had been a scholarship girl at school. So while she had the manners of a lady born, she understood the people of the parish in a way her husband did not, kind as he was. They loved her for that and were grieved when she passed away.”
“Amelia will appreciate knowing these things about her parents,” Anthony said, though he was trying not to be impatient while Abbott got around to the salient points.
“One day,” Abbott said, “Sarah left the village and was gone for several weeks. A few villagers swore they had seen a stranger, an older woman, arrive at the vicarage beforehand, but no one thought much of it at the time. The Reverend Clarke only said she had gone to visit friends, and there was no reason not to believe him.
“Nearly two months passed before Sarah returned home, however, and when she arrived, she had a newborn with her: Amelia. It is not an uncommon thing, you know, to raise the child of a family member or friend as one’s own, so no one thought anything more about it. They were happy for the Clarkes, and the little girl was the apple of their eye.”
“Were you able to learn anything at all about Amelia’s natural mother?” Anthony asked.
Abbott shook his head. “No. It was never spoken of, you see, and soon enough people forgot Amelia was not even the Clarkes’ own flesh and blood. If you will pardon my bluntness, your lordship, perhaps it is best to leave the final mystery alone. Amelia Clarke was well loved by the vicar and his wife. That is more than many folks can say.”
“It seems that may be our only option anyway, after so much time. Thank you, Mr. Abbott, Mr. Swindlehurst,” Anthony said, feeling disappointed, nonetheless.
The two gentlemen took their leave.
Once they were gone, Anthony’s father turned to him again. “A duel, Halford?” he said, back to the topic he obviously considered most important.
“Father—”
“I know, I know.” The marquess waved a weary hand at Anthony. “I heard your promise. Allow that I am still recovering from my initial shock. I was only beginning to think I might actually live for a while longer yet, and then I learn of this duel.”
“I am truly sorry about that part of it,” Anthony said. “Although not the actions I took for Amelia’s sake.”
The marquess rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “Had I not capitulated to Marwood’s demands for a large marriage settlement—”
“Father,” Anthony interrupted. “The duke’s problems were of his own making. Any settlement he made in Lady Elizabeth’s behalf would not have been sufficient to salvage the financial ruin he created for himself.”
“I suppose you are right.”
“Now, with your permission, I would like to see Amelia.”
“Of course you would. Be gone with you, then.”
Anthony rose, setting a hand on his father’s shoulder and squeezing it briefly. “Thank you, Father.” He crossed to the door and opened it, eager to assure himself that Amelia was on the mend.
“Anthony?”
“Yes?” The marquess had used his name, not his title, and Anthony’s heart quickened at its sound.
“You are a man of strength and character, and I could not be more proud.”
Anthony closed the door behind him and stood there in the grand hall, his hand still on the doorknob, fighting back tears.
* * *
Somewhere in the back of Amelia’s mind, swimming along with the dream she was having, was the cheerful sound of humming.
She cautiously opened one eye and squinted. Between the strands of hair that fell across her face, Amelia could see Jane opening the curtains of her bedchamber, the resulting sunlight painful. She snapped her eye shut so she could adjust to the brightness of the room. Her brain was foggy, and her limbs felt heavy. “Jane,” she croaked.
“Oh, miss, you’re awake!”
Amelia could sense Jane moving toward the bed, so she tried again to open her eyes. They felt unnaturally heavy, but at least the sunlight was not as bad this time around. “How long have I been asleep?” she asked.
“Nearly three days, miss. The doctor said if you are not in too much pain when you wake up, you can bathe, so long as you are careful. Would you like a nice warm bath, miss?”
Amelia cleared her throat and brushed the hair away from her face with her hand. Her skin felt tight and sore across her shoulders . . .
Her sense of awareness began to return, pushing her dream further from her consciousness and restoring some hazy memories—the Duke of Marwood on horseback, a whip, terrible pain. Anthony’s reassuring voice. “A bath would be nice,” she said finally. “May I have a glass of water first?”
Jane hurried over to pour her a glass and helped her sit up enough so as not to spill. Amelia gulped thirstily.
“Would you like more?” Jane asked as Amelia handed her the empty glass.
“No, thank you.” Suddenly, Jane’s words connected. “I have been asleep for three days?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes, miss,” Jane said. “The London doctor here said you would be better off with taking the laudanum for a few days. The salve has been doing its job, thank goodness, and we have been taking right good care of you, miss. Even the doctor was surprised at how fast your back is healing.” She gave Amelia a cheerful smile. “So today you are to have laudanum only if you think you need it.”
Amelia carefully maneuvered herself around until she was sitting upright and gingerly raised her arms and twisted her back. She could feel some soreness, but it wasn’t too painful.
Jane helped her shift to the edge of the bed and then to her feet. When she could see that Amelia was steady, she said, “I’ll go set up your bath, then. And don’t be taking off any clothing until I am here to assist you. Doctor’s orders.”
“Thank you, Jane.” Once her maid left the bedchamber, Amelia carefully eased off the bed and made use of the chamber pot and then slowly walked to her dressing table. What she saw in the mirror made her gasp and then giggle. She couldn’t help it.
She looked like a mummy from her neck to her hips. Great, long bandages had been wrapped around her, over her shoulders, under her arms, and covering the tops of her drawers. She angled herself to catch a glimpse of her back. Winding bandages held a large, thick linen pad in place over her wounds.
“I want to see what they look like,” she said to Jane about her wounds when the maid returned, stacks of towels in her arms.
“Your wounds? Is that wise, miss?” the girl asked, chewing on her lip with worry. “Perhaps I should see what Lady Ashworth thinks.”
“Never mind,” Amelia said. She was still too fuzzy-headed to make a fuss over it, and there would be other opportunities.
A tub had been set up in Amelia’s dressing room and was now filled with warm water smelling of lavender. There was a small bench next to it, and Amelia sat there so Jane could remove her bandages before she slipped gradually into the soothing water.
She soaked for a few heavenly minutes and then washed herself, leaning forward at one point so Jane could gently wash her back and her hair. When they finished, Jane rinsed Amelia’s hair with a pitcher of clean water and then brought a large towel that had been hung near the fire to wrap around Amelia, along with a smaller towel for her hair.
When Amelia was dry, Jane brought her dressing robe and laid it over the back of a chair. “Wait just a moment, miss, and I’ll get the salve,” she said and walked back into her bedchamber to the dressing table.
Now Amelia would look.
Holding the towel closed in front of her, Amelia eased it down in back so she could see most of her wo
unds, welts that crisscrossed her back from her neck to her hips. Some were beginning to fade slightly while a few were still red and raw looking.
“They look much better than they did, miss. I was ever so sad when I saw them. I should not have left you to go into those woods. They say it was a duke who did it to you. In all my life, a duke! But Lord Halford, he vowed to make things right, and from what I heard tell, he’s done just that. If you’ll sit down, miss, I’ll apply the salve to them,” Jane said.
Amelia nodded and sat as Jane opened a medicinal-looking jar. Working around the towel, she delicately applied the salve to Amelia’s entire back, being particularly careful on a few tender spots that made Amelia grit her teeth.
“Sorry about that, if it hurt, but they really are getting better. No infection, and that’s a blessing. The doctor doesn’t think you’ll have much scarring—maybe a small bit, is all. Hopefully they won’t show too much when you’re wearing your nice evening gowns and such.”
“I’m sure he’s right, Jane,” Amelia said, hoping to reassure her. “When you have finished with that, I think I would like you to use as thin a bandage as possible, if you can manage it.”
Eventually, after much coddling and care from Jane, Amelia was dressed and feeling almost normal, if a bit worn out. She longed to see Anthony. She seemed to recall his presence in some of her laudanum-filled dreams. She had heard his voice speaking to her, telling her she was safe, urging her to get well.
She wasn’t sure what to do with herself now. She felt rather like a carnival attraction, that all eyes would be on her when she emerged from her bedchamber, eager to see the woman who had been whipped.
Better sooner than later though, she decided resolutely.
She took a deep breath, grimacing as her filled lungs made her clothing press a little too snugly against her back, and then she opened the door.
Anthony was waiting for her just beyond, his arm raised as though he was preparing to knock on the door. He smiled at her, looking more handsome than ever. She went to him gladly, throwing her arms about him and hugging him tightly to her, and he kissed her, his hands framing her face.
