The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  At least the child is not seeing this, she thought while being led away. However, I would have liked to say goodbye to her.

  Then the rear door of the office opened, just as they were about to enter the main hallway.

  Through the door walked Mary-Anne’s nightmare from the past. Someone she had not ever though to see again. Someone she had ran from, ran for her life and escaped. Now it seemed there was no way out. She was trapped.

  Julian Bastable.

  The gluttonous animal of a man that had abducted her from London. The wretch that had stalked her for months. The devil that had assaulted her and sought to corrupt her soul and claim her as his own.

  Suddenly it seemed as if it all had been one sick jest. Everything. From her escaping his huge hands that stormy night and running from him through the forest. As if he had trapped her here and waited, waited for the perfect time to strike. Like he had set it all up, down to the moment of his entry, that second.

  “I am sorry, has the Duke gone?” he asked with subtle coyness.

  “Mr. Bastable, I must apologize, we have caught a thief among our staff. This is most embarrassing.”

  “A thief!” Julian exclaimed, clapping his hands together with glee. “What an eventful evening!”

  “The Duke has retired, I am afraid,” Thomas struggled against Mary-Anne as she began to pull away. She would not be his prisoner again.

  “I see she means to escape,” Julian joked. “Do you mean to press charges?”

  “We do,” Thomas answered. “There are men on Bow Street suitable for such tasks.”

  “Well I am in fact on the way to London myself,” Julian offered, drawing nearer.

  Mary-Anne pulled desperately, yanking away, but Thomas held her firmly. He was surprisingly strong for such a thin man.

  “I would be happy to escort her in your stead. My coach is already waiting. I have contracted your other man, Mr. Chase, for the ride, as my coachman could not be convinced to stay around. Mr. Chase should be prepared outside.”

  “Well,” Thomas seemed to think about it. If Mary-Anne could scream, she would have howled like a Sicilian funeral wailer, or like a cornered wolf, or somewhere in between.

  Instead, she cried inside as Julian’s large hand clamped down over her shoulder. His grasp was iron and unflinching, pinning the whole of her left shoulder motionless.

  “That seems most reasonable of you,” Thomas conceded, seeing how strong Julian was compared to him. “I am sure the Duke would thank you for your service.”

  “It is no trouble at all, none,” Julian nonchalantly waved his other hand, then took hold of Mary-Anne’s other arm.

  She was stuck, captured, and confined.

  “I think I can manage from here. I’ll file it under the Rutland estate,” he began to steer her towards the front door as if she were on a dolly. The front doors loomed ahead, and she struggled against his strength.

  She kicked out and down, refusing to walk, trying to injure his shins. In response, he lifted her by her forearms, pinning them to her torso, and carried her towards the waiting coach.

  No! No! No! She screamed inside her head, struggling against his fierce grip. Yet there was nothing she could do. She was powerless and bursting with despairing anger.

  “All set, Mr. Chase?” Julian cried up to the coachman. The storm was beginning to break out in its first lashes of hard winds and spurts of rain.

  “All set, sir!” he called back through the howl of the gusts. “Though this weather will set us back!”

  “We go! Mr. Chase! We go!” Julian exclaimed, wrestling Mary-Anne into the coach.

  Mary-Anne tried to brace herself against the side of the carriage, kicking out, refusing to go through that door.

  Still, in she went, thrown haphazardly against one of the seats, and banging her brow on the edge of the seat.

  Mary-Anne’s vision blurred as the pain spread down her face, screaming out. Her eyes sprouted tears from the impact, and she flailed around, trying to make sense of what was up and what was down.

  Julian slammed the coach doors behind him, sinking into the seat across from her and causing the whole coach to settle a bit on its axis.

  “Drive, Mr. Chase! Drive!” Julian shouted. He sounded like an overjoyed child, Mary-Anne thought in her temporary haze.

  The rain pelted down on the coach windows, the wind battered against the canopy, and Mr. Chase’s carriage rolled slowly down the winding path, leaving the Rutland manor.

  Chapter 35

  Neil had shut himself up in the east drawing room.

  In what seemed all of an instant, his world had collapsed into a belabored pit of sorrow and shame. He was furious with himself for not seeing this before it was too late, with Mary-Anne for her overwhelming deceit, with Thomas for forcing a confrontation, and with the world for playing spiteful games with him. He was angry that Mr. Bastable was here. It was embarrassing, devastating even. He would have Thomas send the merchant away. He could not think of business at a time like this.

  Nothing made any sense to him at all. He had finally started to reach out into the world, to feel the sensations it had to offer. It was a new age for him, he had thought, and with a perfect new companion to share the way with.

  It could not be further from the case. He was betrayed so thoroughly and to such an extent that he promptly decided to never leave the safety of his house ever again.

  As he came to this conclusion, he began sobbing uncontrollably. He felt like a failure, like a broken man who had tried to fix himself and only made the damage worse.

  Neil cried into his hands and sank to the floor. He cried into his arms hugging his legs, and there he cried even harder.

  He cried and rocked back and forth until he felt a small hand on his arm.

  Neil looked up through his bloodshot eyes to see the delicate face of his daughter, looking down into him.

  “Kaitlin, dear,” he sobbed, wiping his face in his sleeve.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?” she asked innocently. Her face was lit up in the light of the flickering oil lamps, and her face held the complexion of worry and concern.

  “It is nothing, child,” he brought himself to a sitting position, embarrassed that his daughter had seen him in such a way. “What has you out of bed, hmm?” he was shelving his sobs for sniffles, drying his face repeatedly.

  “I heard shouting,” she replied, casually swinging her body back and forth the way a child does.

  “Where is Betsey?” Neil inquired. The governess should have stopped Kaitlin, but she never seemed able to control the child’s will.

  “She can’t catch me,” Kaitlin puffed out her chest proudly.

  “No, I suppose she cannot,” Neil tried to touch the tears from his eyes.

  “Why are you crying? His daughter asked.

  “Oh, it is nothing,” Neil said, taking her up in his arms and rising from the floor. He held his daughter by the window as the rain pelted down with vigor.

  “Is it a storm?” Kaitlin asked, nestling into the crook of his arm.

  “Yes, dear, it is a storm,” Neil answered, bobbing her up and down a bit.

  “Can Miss Emily come tuck me in?” Kaitlin requested, looking up at her father with big eyes.

  “I’m afraid not, child,” Neil choked back more tears. Of all the people she had to ask for.

  “Why not?”

  “She had to leave.” Neil whimpered, the tears welling back up. Go away, don’t let her see you cry.

  “It’s alright, Papa,” Kaitlin whispered into his ear. “Why are you sad?”

  “I’m not sad, child,” Neil tried to reassure her.

  “Yes, you are,” Kaitlin shot back with the honesty of a child. “Where did Miss Emily go?”

  “London,” Neil cried.

  “Is she coming back?”

  “No, child,” Neil whispered back. “She will not be coming back.”

  “Bring her back!” Kaitlin urged, grabbing onto Neil’s collar. “Bring
her back, Papa!”

  “I can’t,” Neil cried. “It is too late.”

  “No, it is not!” Kaitlin insisted. “You said she’s going to London! You can go to London!” You go to London sometimes!” she was banging on his chest with her little fists, violently protesting the turn of events.

  “I can’t, child,” Neil was crying over Kaitlin’s back, looking into the storm outside. A flash of lightning lit up the sky while the rain lashed down, and Kaitlin grabbed Neil’s clothes tighter.

  “Yes, you can!” she shouted into his armpit. “And if you don’t, you will be sad forever!”

  Neil felt as if his world was compressing at his daughter’s words. He had not even given Mary-Anne a chance. Thomas had just whisked her away. Something in his daughter’s words rang true.

  If he didn’t go after her then, he would languish in eternal conflict over if she was truly guilty. Who would have framed her? There was no time for such questions. He needed to see her, to truly judge the situation, to read what she had to write.

  But he could not. She was gone. The storm raging outside was not fit for any sort of vehicle. There was no catching up. She was gone, disappeared.

  “Papa will go to London tomorrow,” Neil resolved. “And see if I can’t bring her back, alright?”

  “Alright,” Kaitlin sighed. “As long as you bring her back.”

  * * *

  Oliver woke in the grass. His face was wet, his clothes were wet, and his hair was soaked.

  On the top of his head, pain radiated outwards from a large, goose- egg-sized lump. He was disorientated at first, rubbing on his injury and trying to sort out how he had arrived on the grass outside the manor.

  As he tried to patch it together, bits and pieces began flooding back. Then it came to him, Julian Bastable’s evil face sneering at him before everything went black.

  I am a bloody fool, Oliver cursed at himself, hauling his body up with the support of the railing.

  This has all gone terribly wrong, he thought. I must find the Duke. He will know what to do. And if he gives me to the law, then so be it. I have done wrong. He will make this right.

  Oliver hobbled up the few stairs and pushed himself into the manor. Touching his face again, he realized that blood was coming from his brow. He reckoned that he looked quite the fright and hoped that he did not encounter a stray servant.

  Oliver was a touch out sorts from the blow. Each step seemed to fall in a place that he could not predict, despite his best efforts to aim his feet.

  He clomped through the manor, unsure where to look when Thomas saw him cascading through one of the servant entrances in the dining room.

  “Master Hanson!” Thomas declared, his mood was already dire, likely from the whole theft episode, Oliver thought. “What are you doing?” Thomas pressed. “Are you bleeding?” he asked, drawing closer.

  “The Duke!” Oliver cried out. “I have to speak with the Duke!”

  “You are not going anywhere,” Thomas urged, leaning in to look at his head. “You are hurt, did that woman do this to you? No, she cannot have the strength. Did you fall, man? Out with it!” Thomas was clearly in a snapping mood.”

  “No!” Oliver struggled from Thomas’ support, wiping the blood away from his forehead. “It was Bastable!”

  “Mr. Bastable?” Thomas blinked. “I think you are suffering from—”

  “Where is the Duke?” Oliver howled, trying again to rush past Thomas but was restrained.

  “What the devil is all the noise?” the Duke demanded, marching into the dining room. Oliver thought that he looked wretched. His face was drained and red, his eyes shot from tears, and his snarl was immeasurable.

  “It is Bastable!” Oliver shouted.

  “What?” the Duke looked at Oliver with anger but seemed to catch on that last sentence.

  “She’s not a thief, I swear it! I stole the spyglass and put it under her pillow! That Bastable threatened Lucy, he offered me money, so much money,” Oliver sank to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks, grasping at the Duke’s boots. “Forgive me,” he cried.

  “What are you saying?” the Duke seemed to lose all vigor in his voice as if he were folding inwards digesting the words.

  “He is a bad man!” Oliver went on. “He did all this just to get to her, I don’t know why!”

  “Then,” the Duke took a staggered step backward, bracing himself against the top of a chair’s back. “This has all been a charade?”

  “All of it,” Oliver sniffled, stopping his tears. “A crooked scheme.”

  “Your Grace—” Thomas began, but the Duke cut him short.

  “You swear this?” the Duke scooped Oliver up by his collar, hoisting him into the air with his hidden strength.

  “I swear!” Oliver gasped. “They can’t have gotten far! Not in this weather.”

  “I have to go after them,” the Duke murmured, looking out into the blinding rain. Thunder cracked, and lightning followed, illuminating the blip of Mr. Chase’s carriage at the base of the manor’s hill.

  “Your Grace, please, the storm – the carriage will be overturned!”

  “Hanson! Fetch the horses!” the Duke assumed the tone of his military years, barking out the orders in rapid succession. “Fast, man!” the Duke ran to his gun cabinet, flinging open the ornate doors so quickly that they flew off their hinges.

  He retrieved a pistol and rifle, and one pouch of ammunition.

  “Your Grace, wait yet a moment—” Thomas continued to try, but his words fell on deaf ears.

  Oliver ran out into the storm, sprinting down to the carriage houses. The horses inside were bucking against the thunder, and Oliver hastily threw saddles over them.

  He tightened the belt best he could, rubbing their necks and urging them to calm down. There was a lull in the thundering, and he managed to coax the animals out of the carriage house into the rain.

  Oliver could see the Duke running out of the house with a long arm, and Thomas was yelling something behind him. He wondered what the old lady thought of all this. She was probably in a fit. Poor Grandmother, Neil thought briefly.

  He handed the reins of a horse to the Duke, who vaulted into the saddle with an agility that took Oliver by surprise.

  Oliver mounted up beside him, and the Duke held out a pistol for him. Oliver had never shot a pistol and the way the rain beat off the slick barrel gave him chills.

  “Take it,” the Duke commanded. “We’re going after that bastard.”

  Chapter 36

  Mary-Anne was regaining her senses. At first, all she could sort out was the rain and wind beating against the coach’s exterior. It was violent weather, and the chilling cold helped to bring her around.

  Then she saw him across from her. The vile, pig of a man. He was grinning, ear to ear. One hand he rested on his enormous belly, neatly atop his folds of colourful sashes. The other held a shining, silver pistol, and it was pointed straight at her.

  “Waking up, are you?” Julian sneered. He took up the whole of the bench across from her. Mary-Anne tried to withdraw as far as she could into the corner, nervously reaching for the carriage door. “Ah, ah, ah!” Julian exclaimed, waving the pistol at her. “Not going to try that one again. Not this time.”

  Mary-Anne drew her hand back from the door, her eyes glued to the gun barrel. The hammer, she could see, had already been pulled back. It was ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

  “What were you doing in there? Hmm? Playing house? Thought you could get away from me?”

  Mary-Anne looked at him coldly. I will not let you win, she thought.

  “Are you really mute?” Julian inquired, raising his eyebrows. “What happened to you that night after you got away? Ha! Mute!” he laughed, throwing his head back. Mary-Anne saw a chance of a moment to grab the pistol, but he brought his chins back down too quickly.

  “Well, I suppose that just makes things easier,” he chuckled.

  Mary-Anne glared at him, all of her muscles t
ense. She was ready to spring at any moment, just waiting for the opportunity.

  “Did you ever wonder why I chose you to be my bride?” Julian asked in an innocent tone as if he were talking to a lover and not a hostage.

  Mary-Anne nodded a bit, still staring at the pistol. In the edges of her vision, she kept her eyes on the closest door. She had, in fact, always wondered what his obsession with her was. Indulging a story, she thought, would also buy her time.