Secret Confessions of the Enticing Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Olivia Bennet

  “Hold her!” Lady Rosaline cried, malice shining in her eyes.

  The Bow Street Runners tightened their grip on Abigail’s arms and began dragging her toward their carriage.

  “Take her to Newgate prison so she can be tried before a magistrate and hanged.” Lady Rosaline called. Abigail looked back at her, murder in her eyes.

  “You will pay for this.”

  “Where did Abigail go?” Joan asked Philip as he came to escort them home at the end of the day. He smiled at her.

  “How would I know?”

  “I don't know, I just thought she might be with you, because she hasn't been in all afternoon.”

  “Perhaps she went to spend time with her beau.”

  “Without saying a word to me?”

  “I do not know what to tell you, my dear. I haven't seen her.”

  “Is there a way that you can ascertain that she is with the Duke? I feel worried.”

  “I shall send him a message.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Percival was at the club when the note from Mr. Sinclair found him. He stared at it with a frown. He had not seen Abigail all day. He had been looking forward to calling on her this evening and perhaps gaining permission to take a walk in the park with her. Or they could take in a play if she was so inclined. He was perturbed that her parent and guardian had no idea where she was.

  He stood up, calling for his coat, and hurried out of the club at once.

  “What do you mean, you do not know where Abigail is?” He asked Mr. Sinclair as soon as he got to the shop.

  It was her mother who answered him. “She went off sometime this afternoon and I have not heard from her since.”

  “Went off where? On an errand?”

  Mrs. Thorne wrung her hands anxiously. “It wasn't and she did not tell me where she was going. She just took her cloak and left. Thought she might be meeting you and was embarrassed about it, so I didn't say a word.”

  “I haven't seen her today.”

  Mr. Sinclair stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern. “Then where is she?”

  “I suppose we could ask Claudette. She might have a clue.”

  “Where is she now?” Percival asked urgently.

  “I have no idea,” Mrs. Thorne said, seeming distressed at her helplessness.

  Percival took a deep breath. “All right, you and Mr. Sinclair go to her residence while I check at the theatre.”

  Mrs. Thorne nodded at once and began to gather her shawl. Mr. Sinclair hesitated, opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something before closing it again and picking up his cane.

  “Rendezvous at home with news as soon as possible,” he said as he held the door open for Mrs. Thorne and himself to exit. Percival nodded his agreement before hurrying to his carriage and taking off.

  They knocked to no avail at Claudette's door. The old lady who lived next door popped her head out of her house. “Dette’s not at home. She’s at the theatre at this time, doing her play.”

  “Ah, thank you,” Philip said, “we shall try there.” He and Joan exchanged loaded glances before hastening to their gig. If Percival had found her, then they would be on their way home.

  “Should we go there? Or wait for Percival to bring us answers?”

  “Something is wrong, Philip. Can we afford to wait?”

  “Heeya!” Philip said urging the horses onward.

  They arrived at Drury Lane in the middle of the play, and spotted Percival’s carriage immediately, with his family crest prominently emblazoned on it. They alighted from their vehicle and ran to the side of the building, where there was an entrance backstage. There they found Percival arguing with the bruiser at the door.

  “Duke!” Philip called and Percival turned around, looking much put upon.

  “He won’t let me pass.”

  “Guests after the show, guv’nor,” the bruiser reiterated to them all. Philip sighed.

  “Please, sir, we are here for Claudette de Plesens. She is akin to us and there has been an emergency. Please allow us to wait backstage for her.”

  The bruiser looked skeptical.

  Percival reached in his pocket and extracted a few gold coins. “We would be much obliged.” He held them out.

  The bruiser studied the coins and then the three of them. “Kin of yours, you say?”

  “Yes!” Joan cried.

  “Right, then. Ye can wait for ‘er inside. Just don’t go disturbin’ the thespians, is all.”

  “We won’t,” Percival promised, doffing his hat to the bruiser before walking past him.

  As fortune would have it, they arrived at Claudette’s dressing room at the end of the second act, which meant that she was hurrying into the room to change for the third. Joan reached out and curled her fingers around both Percival and Philip’s wrists.

  “Wait here,” she said, and then stepped into the dressing room and shut the door behind her. Philip sighed and found a wall to lean on.

  “Let us hope that she knows something.”

  Chapter 22

  Newgate

  Newgate prison was the darkest place Abigail had ever been. As soon as they arrived, they clapped her in irons and led her to a dungeon. She was bewildered at the sudden about-turn her life had taken and she wanted to weep and wail but there was no one to hear her.

  It was pitch black in the prison and she could not see a thing. She had never known such terror in her life. She could hear labored breathing nearby but did not know if it was friend or foe. So she resisted the urge to call out.

  Nobody knows where I am.

  She could feel despair like a force draining her of energy. She wanted to sink down to the ground with weakness, but—fortunately—her hand was chained to a stone pillar. She could feel the floor beneath her feet, slimy and sticky. More importantly, she could smell them miasma wafting from it, choking and rank.

  She wrapped the edge of her cloak around her face, covering her nose and mouth. She did not know how anyone could stand to be in here. She had truly been brought low.

  She thought about screaming but there was nobody who would hear and help her. She wondered if the guards would take a note for her to Percival or her mother. Would they hang her before she could find help?

  Abigail’s breath began coming in puffs and wheezes. There were black spots in front of her eyes. She could see them even in the dark. She felt dizzy and disoriented. She did not know if it was because of the smells assaulting her or if it was fear causing her to feel so.

  All she knew was that she was very close to fainting.

  “Help me,” she whispered, even as her body dropped of its own volition.

  “Careful.”

  The voice in the dark startled her. Worse, it sounded like a child.

  “There is shite on the floor.”

  Abigail restrained the urge to jump away. There was really nowhere to go. “I...feared as much,” she whispered instead.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it real quick-like.”

  Abigail turned toward the voice. “What’s your name?”

  “Tommy.”

  “Hello, Tommy. I’m Abigail. Are you here all alone?”

  “Oh no. My mother is here.”

  “Really? Where is she?”

  Tommy was silent.

  “Tommy?”

  “She won’t wake up.”

  It was Abigail’s turn to be silent.

  “What do you mean she won’t wake up?”

  “I keep shaking her and shaking her and she won’t answer me.”

  Abigail took a whiff of the air and then immediately began to cough. There were so many competing smells in the dungeon that she could not tell whether or not there was a dead body in the cell with them.

  “When did she go to sleep?”

  She heard a rustling movement and then felt a warmth down her side, just at the height of her thigh.

  “I don’t know.” Tommy sounded miserable. “I’m hungry.”

 
Abigail sighed, “I don’t have anything to give you.” She thought wistfully of the plate of honey cakes and pigeon pies she had snubbed just this afternoon. How long would it be until she could get some food? Not that she felt she could eat anything. Not in this place. But if she was going to be here for a while, then she would just have to get used to it. Besides, Tommy was hungry.

  “H-how did your mother usually get some food?”

  She felt rather than saw movement beside her. But Tommy didn’t speak.

  “Tommy?”

  “I don’t know,” he whined. “I’m hungry.”

  “All right, Tommy. Just...wait a bit. I’m sure someone will come around with bread or something. Don’t worry.”

  “Sure.”

  I can do enough worrying for both of us.

  “Madam Thorne!” Claudette turned around from touching up her face in the mirror, “What are you doing here?”

  “Claudette, something is very wrong. I cannot find Abigail. Do you know where she might be?”

  Claudette’s face became even more somber. “You cannot find her? How long has she been gone?”

  “Since sometime this afternoon. She just put on her cloak and left. Did not tell me where she was going or when she would come back. Claudette, please. Do you know anything?”

  Claudette sighed deeply. “I told her not to go alone but you know your daughter, so stubborn.”

  “Go where?”

  “The Duke’s other girl? Rosamary or Rosalind, I think she is called—”

  “Rosaline?”

  “Yes. Well, she summoned Abigail to her house. She wanted to have ‘a talk’ according to her note.”

  “When? Today?”

  “This afternoon.” Claudette stepped closer so that she could clutch Joan’s arm. “You have not seen her since?”

  Joan shook her head slowly, dread pooling in her belly.

  “These people, you just don’t know what they will do.” Claudette shook her head sadly. “I told her not to go alone.”

  “She went...where?” Percival frowned, not comprehending in the least what could have possessed Abigail to go and have tea with Lady Rosaline.

  Mr. Sinclair turned to him. “You have to find out what they did to her,” he growled.

  Percival nodded. “I will go at once. Go back to your residence. I will send news there.”

  Mr. Sinclair appeared beetle-browed. “Do not tell me what to do.”

  Percival manfully held back his irritation. He was impatient to go and did not have time to deal with Mr. Sinclair’s sensibilities. “Very well. I am leaving. Do as you please.”

  “Percival!” Mrs. Thorne leapt at him, clutching at his arm. He looked down at her hand with a raised eyebrow before turning to face her.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Send word. We will be waiting.” Her eyes were as wide and deep a moss-green as Abigail’s, beautiful, even shadowed as they were now, with fear. Percival nodded, gentling his voice.

  “I promise you, we will get her back.”

  With that he leapt into his carriage and took off, not sparing the horses. He drew up at Huntington House, flinging the reins to the waiting footman before marching up the steps and banging determinedly on the door.

  “Open up!” he shouted, even though he knew it was likely not the best way to garner the information that he needed. The butler opened the door a crack, peering out cautiously before rearing back in surprise as Percival all but pushed past him.

  “Where is Lady Rosaline?”

  “Uh, Y-your G-grace, I don’t think—”

  “I did not ask you to think. Take me to Lady Rosaline at once!”

  The butler drew himself up with dignity. “I cannot do that. She is not here.”

  “Balderdash! I demand to see her at once.”

  “What the devil is going on here?” Lord Huntington suddenly appeared at the end of the hall and began walking toward them. “Good God, Northcott, they can hear you all the way at Whitehall. What seems to be the matter? Why are you shouting for my daughter?”

  Philip was pacing up and down in the sitting room, his hand jiggling from side to side. He seemed deep in thought, and Joan decided to distract herself by finding out what he was thinking about.

  “What is it?”

  “Whatever they have done to her, they are not likely to tell the Duke about it. Especially if there is some havey-cavey business going on. If…” Phillip darted a glance at her loaded with meaning. “We might have to call in some...reinforcements.”

  Joan stiffened, shaking her head. “The Foxes, you mean.”

  Philip nodded slowly, his eyes saying more than his mouth dared.

  She dropped her eyes, “You really think that’s...necessary?”

  “I do not know what is necessary yet. But Abigail would not just disappear, without so much as a note to anyone, unless—”

  “Do not say it!” Joan lifted her palm, eyes bright with pleading, “Do not say the words.”

  Philip nodded abruptly, turning away. She knew he was thinking them even if he did not say them. Their daughter could well be dead, or on a ship to the colonies.

  It could well be too late by the time the Duke finds anything out.

  “Call The Foxes. Let them dig for what they can find,” she said, mouth pursed with determination. Her daughter needed her. This was no time for false scruples.

  Philip bowed to her, retrieved his cane, and marched to the door. He paused there to look back at her as she anxiously watched him. “I will not let you down, my lady.”

  Joan nodded once. There was nothing more to be said. She recognized a vow when she heard it.

  Percival strode down the hall, coming to a stop in front of the Earl, for the first time in his life using his height to intimidate. “What have you done with her?”

  Lord Huntington frowned. “Done with whom? My daughter? She is perfectly fine, no thanks to you.”

  Percival growled. “I have no time for these games, Huntington. What did you do with Miss Thorne?”

  Lord Huntington had the temerity to frown as if puzzled. “Who?”

  Percival grabbed his lapels, pulling his face up so they were flush against each other. “I warn you…” he spat.

  “What? What are you going to do?”

  Percival flung him away in disgust. “I will find out what you did to her. And the longer I have to look for her, the more you will pay. You and every single person in your household who helped you.”

  Lord Huntington laughed. “Listen, my good man, I do not know what has you cross as crabs. But why don't you step into my office for a glass of port and we can discuss it like gentlemen?”

  Percival would much rather have darkened his daylights but violence would not get him the information that he needed.

  So he nodded his head, following the other as he made his way to his office. He was sure now that they had done something unspeakable to Abigail and he would not leave this house until he knew what it was.

  “Now, sir, I have some fine port, or if you prefer I just opened a bottle of sherry.”

  “Nothing for me, thank you, Huntington. All I require from you is information.”

  The Earl sighed. “I do assure you, Northcott, that I have no knowledge of this Thorne of which you speak.”

  Percival rolled his eyes. “I give not a tinker's damn what you assure me, Huntington. I am well aware that Miss Thorne was here this afternoon, after which she disappeared.”

  Huntington shook his head. “I'm sure that it was very unfortunate for her but it has nothing to do with me or my household.”

  Percival nodded. “I see. Well, I will take my leave, then.”

  Percival knew that he was not going to get any more information out of Huntington. The best he could do was to make his own inquiries. Perhaps somebody close by had seen what happened. For once in his life, he thanked God for the inquisitive nature of the ton.

  Somebody is always watching.

  He took his leave of the Earl,
replaced his hat on his head, and walked out. He stood outside the door that slammed decisively behind him, hesitating about whether to go left or right. He went over his mental catalog of his acquaintances in Mayfair. He remembered that Weston’s aunt lived not two doors down from Huntington House and she was an accomplished gossip. He had turned his feet in that direction when he heard a sound from the alleyway between Huntington House and the next building.