A Lady Unchained: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Two

by Felicia Greene

  ‘If I had summoned a doctor, he would have wished to know her name and address. It would be an invitation to the worst kind of gossipers to run rampant.’ Arthur shook his head, his eyes fixed on Lydia’s face. ‘Her reputation would have fallen beyond redemption. Especially if my name were in any way linked to hers.’

  ‘You are no rake, Mr. Weeks.’ Catherine spoke softly. ‘Your reputation is considerably better than the former reputation of my husband, on the occasion of our first meeting.’

  ‘Your husband is a duke. I am no-one at all.’ Arthur turned to James, bowing slightly, making the difference in their positions felt. ‘The two states are not comparable.’

  That, thankfully, appeared to nip the conversation in the bud. The carriage continued in silence, Lydia stirring only once or twice, before coming to a halt outside the Holt townhouse.

  ‘Oh, goodness.’ Catherine’s voice rose in quiet alarm. ‘They appear to be going out. Their carriage is ready—Lydia did not tell me that they would be leaving the house.’

  ‘Perhaps she did not know. We must hurry.’ James looked at Arthur, his tone becoming more guarded. ‘Best that you stay here, no? As you said—you do not wish your names, or your faces, to be connected in any way.’

  This was agony. Pure agony. What was worse, of course, was that the man was right. Arthur’s presence would be a source of curiosity, of gossip—with Catherine, and James, it would be different. They knew Lydia already.

  He only knew Lydia in private. Not in public. As the carriage door opened, James jumping nimbly out and hailing the astonished Holt family, Arthur felt a piece of his heart splinter.

  ‘Lydia.’ He knew he shouldn’t use her Christian name. Catherine, to her credit, deliberately ignored him. ‘Lydia. You are home now. You will be with your family.’

  Lydia’s eyelids fluttered. With a soft, defeated sigh, she appeared to shake her head before falling back into her swoon.

  Arthur looked out of the window. The Holt family looked nothing like Lydia—or rather, felt nothing like her. They shared her features, but not her vibrancy.

  He looked into the eyes of the man who had to be Lydia’s father. The man didn’t appear to register his presence at all; his eyes slid over Arthur’s face with a chilling lack of recognition.

  Arthur was no-one.

  No-one at all.

  Everything was far too bright. Lydia winced, trying to turn away from the candle-light, wondering why she felt cold and hot at the same time.

  She was burning. Trapped in ice. Where was Arthur? She had felt so wretched as she swooned, so guilty, but he had held her as if she were something precious…

  The blanket was rough on her skin. She pulled at it ineffectually, trying to stop the painful chills that ran through her skin whenever she moved, but it was to no avail. Panting, wishing she could curse, Lydia lay still.

  She was thirsty. Horribly thirsty. Why was there no maid nearby—where was Eliza, or Martha? Someone should be here; someone with a cup of water, a smooth hand for her burning head…

  There was someone. Heavy, cold footsteps sounded on the floor; Lydia winced again, trying to lift her hand to cover her eyes.

  A dark figure bent over her. Her father; her father’s face, transfigured with anger. A rage so great that Lydia, too weak to move away, felt tears dampening her cheeks.

  ‘You were not with Alice Marks.’ Her father’s voice, like a hammer-blow on her ears. ‘You lied to us. You made us look like fools. I will not be made a fool of by a woman. Not least by my own daughter, who has proven once again her unfitness for a respectable life. What if Winchester had heard of this?’

  Her mother’s voice came from the shadows; Lydia strained to see her, but couldn’t. ‘My love, she is sickening for something, you cannot be too harsh—’

  ‘This is not the time to presume to judge my conduct.’ Her father turned, speaking to Lydia’s mother in a tone normally reserved for dogs. ‘She is sick because her physical state has finally reached the level of her moral decay. This is the Lord’s judgement.’

  Her mother was silent. Lydia, more tears coming, found her silence more painful than any words.

  ‘We are already late for dinner at the Stevenson household. The maids have been given the evening off—I believed there was no use paying them to stay in an empty house.’ Her father leaned closer, the light in his eyes zealous and unpleasant. ‘I see no reason to have them back. I also see no reason to miss a pleasant evening in respectable company, purely because the rotten apple in the bushel has decided to roll home. I also see no reason why I must delay our trip to Surrey, as planned.’

  They… they could not leave her here, alone, for two days. She could not move. She would die of thirst, of hunger; of the fever creeping through her bones. Lydia tried to shake her head, but it felt as if she was weighted to the pillow.

  ‘Martha will come at six tomorrow, as usual. I will hear no hysterical nonsense concerning this course of action from them, if they wish to keep their places.’ Her father paused. ‘We will see one another soon enough. If you are in a healthy state, I will look upon it as evidence of God’s grace. If you are not… well. It is still grace, of a kind, to be called to the bosom of one’s Heavenly Father.’

  He couldn’t mean it. He couldn’t. Lydia heard the sound of her mother’s weeping, as if from very far away.

  ‘Think upon your sins, daughter. I shall refrain from kissing you, for fear of contagion.’ Her father nodded. ‘Think upon your sins.’

  His heavy footsteps sounded again. Lydia watched him walk away, followed by a clinging grey shadow that had to be her mother.

  ‘Help.’ She whimpered it to the empty house, the dark room silent in response. ‘Please help.’

  With a soft guttering, a drop of wax falling to the floor, the candle flame died.

  Footsteps. Distant, firm footsteps. Lydia opened her eyes, the room swimming as she gathered enough energy to cry out—but her throat was so dry, so horribly painful, that all she could do was croak.

  She was no longer burning. The fever was broken, then—that was a blessing. But she was so weak, dangerously weak, too weak to cry…

  Arthur. A small, stubborn part of her, a part that defied both illness and logic, knew that Arthur Weeks would come for her. He would never have knowingly let her be abandoned; Lydia knew, with the certainty of the desperate, that Arthur Weeks would rather die than have her in pain.

  He had held her, spoken to her, as if she were the most important person in the world. She had to hold onto that, cling to it with all her strength, if she were to emerge from this with her sanity intact.

  She had to attract the attention of the owner of those steady, reassuring footsteps. Even if her throat was too parched to shout, there had to be another way.

  The heavy candlestick on her bedside table was just within reach. Lydia peered at the glints of silver in the moonlight, taking a deep breath as she held out a trembling hand. With the last of her strength, she threw the candlestick off of the table. The loud thump echoed through the room; Lydia heard the footsteps cease below, followed by the creaking of the stairs, and let out a shaking sob of relief.

  The door opened. A wavering pool of light came from a tall white candle, held by Martha—oh, Martha, the no-nonsense maid that Lydia had never been happier to see!

  ‘Help me.’ The words came as a shivering rasp. She needed water; more than anything else, she needed water. ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh—oh, Lord! Saints preserve us!’ Martha’s shrill wail split the air; Lydia winced at the sound, still grateful beyond measure for the woman’s presence. ‘What has happened to you, my dear? What happened?’

  ‘Fever.’ Lydia didn’t know where to begin. Now that someone had found her, her grip on consciousness was growing ever more fragile. ‘Water. Please.’

  She sighed with relief as Martha set the candlestick upon the floor, hurrying back down the stairs. Lydia waited, too limp to do anything other than breathe, until Martha came runn
ing back into the room with a large glass of water. Cool water, cool, blessed water, returning her to weak but stubborn life.

  ‘Just lie here, my dear. Lie here and gather yourself. I’ll make the tincture we used for Lavender when she had her fever—you’ll feel better. You’ll feel right as rain.’ Martha crossed herself, tears running down her wrinkled cheeks as Lydia drank. ‘Oh, this is a sin! How could he have done such a terrible thing?’

  Lydia had no response. She weakly shook her head, gulping down still more water as she felt peace returning to her aching body. Her family seemed worlds away, now—she had no energy to think of them.

  She could only think of Arthur. She only wished to think of Arthur. If she thought about him hard enough, for long enough, would he come?’

  ‘Sleep now, sweetheart.’ Martha’s crabbed hand stroked her forehead, chasing away the last of the pain the fever had brought. ‘Sleep. I’ll make out the tincture, and try to think of what on earth we are to do.’

  ‘Do—do not worry.’ Lydia murmured the words, not knowing if what she said was remotely understandable. The sentence came out as a strange, malformed jumble. ‘Mr… Mr. Weeks will organise everything.’

  ‘Do not try to speak, dear.’ Martha clearly hadn’t understood a word. ‘Sleep now.’

  Lydia, feeling safer by the minute, obeyed.

  The next frenetic day in London dwindled into a cool, sad evening, rain waiting on the horizon. Arthur moved over the dark cobblestones as the sun set, quiet as a cat, his heart in his mouth as he searched for Lydia’s townhouse.

  He shouldn’t have considered coming here at all. He definitely shouldn’t have waited until dark at the Cappadene Club, tension filling him like thick black oil, before summoning a carriage and speeding here at once. He had always known the address—Lord, he should have forced himself to forget it. Forced to stop thinking of the house-number, burned in his heart like a brand.

  No. He should have insisted upon staying. The Holt family had seemed so frighteningly different from Lydia herself. The father had something about him that Arthur didn’t like, a coldness. A darkness.

  He should have taken Lydia to his own house, his own rooms, and summoned a doctor immediately… but those were the actions of a suitor. A husband. And as much as he hungered for that kind of claim, somewhere deep within him, Arthur had been forced to remember his place.

  Remembering his place had lasted roughly fifteen hours. As soon as night had begun to fall, the Club silent on its usual day of closure, Arthur had let his better intentions fall by the wayside.

  The only client that had required dismissal had been Marcus Bennington, part-owner of the Club. Bennington appeared to have taken a shine to one of the newer girls who had come to work at the Club. So much of a shine, in fact, that he had reserved every working hour she had for his own personal use.

  Arthur, shaking his head as he paced along the street, knew he would need to talk to the young baronet about mixing business with pleasure. As soon as this—this madness, this obsession, was resolved.

  It couldn’t be resolved. Could it? He had felt this way about Lydia Holt ever since her first letter. Ever since he had first seen her face, her body. Arthur, sending a silent prayer to whatever benevolent deity happened to be listening, begged for his panic to lift as soon as he saw her.

  Someone would let him in. A kindly footman, or a maid. He would climb a tree if he had to. All he needed to see was Lydia safe and well, in the bosom of a loving family.

  Here it was. Her house, standing quiet. Arthur let out a hoarse sigh of relief.

  Slipping around the side of the house, wincing as he stepped into an unexpected puddle, he quietly knocked at the door of the servant’s entrance. To his surprise, it opened almost immediately.

  An elderly woman stared at him. Her hands clutched at her apron as she whispered furtively.

  ‘You don’t look like the law. Are you a Bow Street man?’

  ‘No. I’m not a Runner.’ Arthur looked carefully at the woman’s face; there were tear-tracks on her cheeks, faint but visible. ‘I am looking for Miss Holt.’

  ‘Oh, sir.’ The woman’s face crumpled; Arthur’s heart sank. ‘I do not know what to tell you. I fear that—that something terrible has occurred.’

  Panic filled Arthur in an instant. He stepped quickly over the threshold, taking off his coat as the woman began to babble.

  ‘I already sent word to the other staff, telling them to stay away. We can’t have gossip here—we’ll all lose our station if he hears talk. Oh, but how could he have done it—how could she have done it? Her own mother!’

  Arthur took firm hold of the woman’s shoulders, stilling her tongue with a look. ‘Where is Lydia? Is she—she cannot be—’

  ‘They couldn’t have known the fever would break, sir! They couldn’t have.’ The woman began to weep. ‘For all they know, it could have been cholera.’

  ‘Tell me she lives.’ Arthur resisted the urge to shake the woman. ‘Please.’

  ‘She lives, sir.’ The woman nodded as relief broke over Arthur like a wave. ‘But it is destiny’s work, and no other. Her father and mother left her here alone, taking her sisters with them. I was not meant to come here until the morning, but I came back last night—my sister asked for tea, and I keep a small portion of it here—’

  ‘Alone?’ Arthur let go of the woman’s shoulders. His anger came so quick, so hot, that he feared harming her. ‘Her family left her here alone, without a doctor? Without anyone to take care of her?’

  ‘Sir Reginald has always been a harsh master. Harsh, and growing worse by the year.’ The woman sighed, bitterly shaking her head as she wiped away a tear. ‘But this is a terrible thing. A crime. And all because she told them she was going to one place, and instead went to another.’ A sob escaped her. ‘A silly, girlish thing!’

  It was his fault. All his fault. If he hadn’t accepted Lydia’s invitation, if he hadn’t let his need to see her in person overcome the limits of propriety, she would never have been left in such an atrocious position.

  He had to do something. He had to make it right.

  ‘Leave. Go to your sister.’ He spoke to the woman as quietly and authoritatively as he could, summoning his years of experience dealing with clients at the Cappadene Club. ‘I will manage things here. I will take care of her.’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ The woman’s stare hardened. ‘I do not even know your name. Still less your business here. I will not be letting her, or you, out of my sight.’

  ‘It is late, and you are tired. My name is Arthur Weeks. I will furnish you with any further information you need.’ Arthur began rolling up his sleeves. ‘And without impugning Miss Holt’s honour, or my own, I must tell you that the deception was performed in order for she and I to—to meet.’

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘How am I meant to believe such wild stories?’

  ‘I do not insist that you believe anything.’ A note of pleading crept into Arthur’s voice; he was growing more and more impatient. ‘But look at me. Look into my eyes. I—I care for Miss Holt more deeply than I can possibly say.’

  The woman leaned forward, peering at him. Arthur forced himself to control his breathing, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. When she finally nodded, her stare still slow and suspicious, he let out a sighing breath of gratitude.

  ‘I won’t be going to my sister. I’ll be staying here, brewing more herbs for Miss Holt and sewing.’ She glowered. ‘If I hear anything untoward, I’ll go running for the law. I’ll get the Runners here.’

  ‘If you hear anything untoward, you can murder me yourself with an implement of your choice.’ Arthur began moving towards the door that led to the rest of the house. ‘Where is she?’

  The woman sighed. ‘Upstairs. Second on the left.’

  Climbing the stairs and finding the door was the work of a moment. Thinking of knocking, eventually dismissing the idea as unutterably foolish in the midst of such a crisis, he pushed open
the door of the bedroom.

  Lydia lay wanly on the bed. Her eyes were closed. Arthur stopped dead, aghast, sure that he had found her too late.

  She stirred. Her eyelids fluttered. Arthur’s knees buckled; he ran unsteadily to her bedside, sinking to his knees as Lydia wearily struggled to sit up.

  ‘Do not move. Do not move a muscle.’ Panic made him forceful; he paused, trying to take a full breath as Lydia looked at him. She was still so beautiful, beautiful beyond measure, with flushed cheeks and disordered hair. ‘Be still. Please.’

  ‘I… I do not wish to be still.’ Lydia’s voice was faint, but steady. Arthur risked holding a palm to her brow; it was cool. ‘I have been still for what feels like years.’

  ‘You must see a doctor.’

  ‘I cannot see a doctor. The closest doctor is a good friend of my father—he would believe anything he said.’ Lydia bent her head, sighing; Arthur moved closer, ready to catch her if she fell back onto the pillows. ‘Martha gave me a herbal drink, the one she uses for her daughters… the fever has passed.’

  She looked dejected. Defeated. Arthur, with a harsh sigh that came out as more of a growl, took her in his arms without a second thought. Her softness, the weakness of her muscles as she wrapped her arms around him, only made his rage stronger.

  ‘Do not embrace me.’ Lydia’s whisper tore at his heart. ‘I must look terrible.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘I am meant to be scandalous, with you. An exotic creature of mystery.’ Lydia paused. ‘I—I cannot bear being in an ugly nightgown, with disordered hair, and nothing approaching an air of—’

  ‘Stop.’ Arthur brought his lips to her forehead, hoping she could feel the tenderness in him. ‘Stop.’

  They embraced for several long minutes, Lydia silent in his arms, her breath slowly growing more relaxed as she rested her head against his shoulder. Arthur held her tightly, not wanting her to make any effort whatsoever, his anger at the Holt family reaching terrifying proportions.