The first drawer held a number of pages written in Maggie’s neat copperplate script. They appeared to be drafts of articles meant for publication in the Ladies’ Gazette, covering everything from ton gossip to the latest fashions from France.
Ophelia knew from her own time writing for the Gazette that one’s assignments varied from month to month, and sometimes with one’s own interests. Because Maggie was trying to write more serious pieces—against the wishes of their editor, Mr. Carrington—she’d spent some time researching the conditions in the various private asylums that had begun cropping up across the nation as the public institutions grew overcrowded. And she’d also looked into the unwed-mother problem. Of the pages she looked at now, one was a profile of a home for unwed mothers in London, one detailed the true plight of babies who through no fault of their own ended up in the poorhouse, and a third told the story of a mother and her two children as they tried to escape from a vengeful husband and father.
Were these the notes that Maggie had told her to look for? Gathering them up into a pile, Ophelia folded them and hid them in her reticule.
As for the articles themselves, it was clear from the letters attached to them that Maggie hadn’t attempted to convince Mr. Carrington to publish these.
But why? It was true that he hadn’t been particularly encouraging to them about leaving their lighter fare behind, but both Maggie and Ophelia had agreed that they would keep at him until he either gave in to their persuasion, or sent them to another newspaper with his blessing. Neither of them was comfortable approaching someone else without Mr. Carrington’s blessing, since a word from him could blackball them from the newspaper business altogether.
A look in the next drawer proved answer enough.
Letter upon letter reviled M. Grayson for purveying “filth and gossip,” “rank untruths,” and “dirty secrets” in the pages of a respectable publication like the Ladies’ Gazette. Clearly Maggie and Ophelia weren’t the only ones who wished the Gazette would focus on something besides gossip.
Could it have been one of these letter writers who convinced George to have Maggie sent away? Someone who felt strongly enough about the content of Maggie’s columns would be able to paint quite a picture of her wrongdoings. And perhaps George had grown tired of his wife reporting on the latest on dits from his own peers. It can’t have made life easy for him socially.
Not wanting to leave the letters for George or his father to find, Ophelia stuffed them into her reticule as well.
She was just turning away from the desk when the door leading into Maggie’s bedchamber opened, revealing a plain woman who had obviously been weeping.
“Oh, miss, it’s that awful,” the normally taciturn Miss Hopkins said, her eyes bright with tears. “Mrs. Grayson won’t be able to sleep a wink in that dreadful place. Who could be so wicked as to have her taken up like that?”
Touched by the girl’s obvious affection for her mistress, Ophelia led Hopkins to a chair near the fire.
“That is just what I intend to learn, Hopkins,” she said to the other woman. “Has there been any indication that your mistress was having any trouble with anyone? Letters that upset her? Or perhaps more fights than usual with her husband?”
But the maid shook her head. “There were complaints, of course. But Mrs. Grayson didn’t pay them any mind. She said that was the cost one paid for writing for a public paper. She didn’t take them seriously.”
Just because Maggie hadn’t felt threatened by them didn’t mean that the letter writers hadn’t posed a threat, Ophelia thought grimly.
“Has she had any unusual visitors of late? Perhaps someone who upset her?”
At that, the maid looked down at her hands for a moment. “There was one lady who paid a call a few weeks ago.”
When she didn’t continue, Ophelia pressed her. “And what about this particular lady made her stand out?”
Hopkins pursed her lips. Then, as if she’d made a decision about something, she said, “This lady—Miss Altheston, her card said—was as fidgety as a chicken in a room full of cats. She was quite pretty, and when I brought Mrs. Grayson her card, my mistress stared at it for a full minute before she bid me to bring her in. Like she was trying to decide if it was worth it.”
“Worth what?” Ophelia asked.
“I’m not sure I know, miss,” said Hopkins. “But it was clear that her first instinct was to send her away. Why she decided to let her in anyway, I don’t know. But they were closeted together for nearly a quarter of an hour.”
“And when she left?” Ophelia had at first thought the young lady might be the subject of a story, but now she wasn’t so sure. The way the two had interacted sounded personal.
“Yes, but not before my mistress had the carriage called around for her. And had the coachman take her back to wherever it was that she came from.”
“You didn’t ask the coachman about it?” Ophelia found it hard to believe that the maid, who was so forceful in other matters, would have let the matter pass without at least attempting to find out.
“Oh, I asked him,” Hopkins said sourly. “But he wouldn’t tell me. Said the mistress told him to keep it to himself.”
That the coachman had chosen to remain loyal was unusual, but not unheard of. And Maggie had inspired loyalty in her other servants as well.
“And what did Maggie do then?”
“She went back to whatever she’d been doing before. And we never spoke of it again.”
Ophelia shook her head. She wished Maggie were here to ask about the mysterious Miss Altheston. But then again, if she were here there would be no need to ask.
Setting aside the mysterious Miss Altheston for the moment, Ophelia asked Miss Hopkins one final question. “I know you do not wish to speak ill against your master or mistress, Hopkins, but what about Mr. Grayson? Have there been any more arguments than usual between them? Or something that you may have overheard that might shed light on why he would have her sent away?”
But Hopkins shook her head mournfully. “I’ve tried and tried to remember if there’s been anything that I might have seen that would show that Mr. Grayson was thinking of such a thing, but there’s nothing. If anything, it seems like they’ve been getting along better than ever.”
Which had been Ophelia’s assessment as well—with the exception of the fight at Trent’s ball.
Can that have only been last night? It felt like a lifetime ago.
“I thank you for your candor, Hopkins,” she told the maid aloud. “I am going to try my best to find out what happened to your mistress. If it is necessary, can I come to you again, to ask for assistance?”
The maid nodded vigorously. “She’s a good mistress. And she doesn’t deserve to be locked away in a place like that. As soon as you can get her out of there—or if you learn they’ll allow me in to tend her—let me know. I’ll do whatever I can to make her comfortable.”
With a grim nod at the maid, Ophelia said, “I’m sure she’ll appreciate your loyalty, Hopkins.”
* * *
When Ophelia met Trent again in the entryway, she would have spoken but for his subtle shake of the head.
Silently they left the house, and as Trent handed her into the curricle, Ophelia schooled herself against her visceral response to his touch. How could she possibly feel this degree of attraction for someone she barely knew? It was absurd.
Then there was the fact that though he seemed to be as keen on finding Maggie as she was, he was the leader of the Lords of Anarchy, who despite Trent’s denials surely had something to do with her friend’s incarceration.
“I didn’t want whatever it is you were going to say to be overheard by anyone in the house,” he said once he’d taken the reins in hand and they were on their way. “Something is definitely amiss in that household and I do not yet know who we can trust there.”
“So you agree with me that it is Sir Michael who is responsible for Maggie’s removal?”
“I didn’t say that,�
�� Trent said with a glance in her direction. “I do believe that Sir Michael isn’t overly fond of Mrs. Grayson, but his surprise at what happened in the hat shop seemed genuine. And he certainly disliked the fact that it was carried out in such a public place. If he were going to have your friend confined to an asylum he’d have made quite sure it happened away from the watchful eye of polite society.”
“So that leads us back to the Lords of Anarchy then,” she said. She might find Trent disarmingly attractive, but she refused to tiptoe around his connection with the driving club.
“What precisely is it you suspect the club of having done?” he asked with a raised brow. “I can assure you that since I’ve become its leader the membership has engaged in nothing more sinister than a group drive to Brighton and a fencing tournament this morning.”
“Perhaps that is just what you want me to believe so that I do not alert the authorities to your club’s ties to Dr. Hayes.”
Trent had just steered them into the traffic on Bruton Street, but with a curse, he pulled the horses to a stop just a few doors down from the Grayson town house. Once they were at a standstill, he turned to face her.
“Miss Dauntry,” Trent said through gritted teeth, “if you truly believe that I or any other members of the Lords of Anarchy are in cahoots with this Dr. Hayes, then I would suggest that you allow me to drive you home at once so that you are not subjected to the same sort of treatment as your friend. Because not only would your allowing me to drive you through town be dangerous, it would also be foolish. And I do not believe, despite your putting your trust in me this morning, you to be foolish.”
As he spoke, Trent lowered his head so that they were face-to-face. He was so close, in fact, that she could smell the sandalwood of his cologne. Her heartbeat quickened, though out of genuine fear or something more dangerous, she couldn’t have said.
And once she’d comprehended his words, she realized he had a point. If she did truly believe he and his club were responsible for Maggie’s predicament, then it would be foolhardy for her to put herself so fully in his power.
“When you put it like that,” she said in a resigned tone, looking down to avoid his too-knowing gaze, “then I suppose it doesn’t make sense for me to be here with you.”
“No, it does not,” he said with a shake of his head. “I do not know how many times I must assure you that I had nothing to do with this business, but I will not do so again. And if we are to work together, then I must ask you to stop suggesting it.”
He turned to look out over the horses, then, and Ophelia heaved a sigh of relief.
“I do not mind telling you that it’s been difficult enough to take on the leadership of the club given the crimes of its previous presidents,” he said conversationally as he once again steered the curricle onto the street, “but thus far you are the only one who has accused me personally of being up to no good. If you were a man I’d have called you out.”
Ophelia blinked. She hadn’t considered her accusations in that light. She’d only thought to prod him into some sort of admission. Mostly because she felt as if he were a good enough man that he would do the right thing eventually.
“I suppose it is a good thing I am not a man, then,” she quipped, hoping to lighten the mood. But if anything that only seemed to annoy him more.
“You certainly are not,” he said with a scowl as he prodded the horses to more speed.
An awkward silence lingered between them as Ophelia considered how to get the conversation back on track.
But Trent spoke up first. “Now, back to the Grayson household. I do not believe Sir Michael had anything to do with his daughter-in-law’s removal to the asylum. Did you learn anything from Mrs. Grayson’s maid?”
Grateful to get back to business, Ophelia spoke up. “Not from Hopkins, but I did find some curious things in Maggie’s desk.”
Quickly, she told him about the anonymous letters criticizing Maggie’s columns, as well as her notes for the articles about asylums and poorhouses.
“So, we’ve only to contact every anonymous letter writer, every asylum, and every poorhouse in the greater London area,” Trent said with a sigh. “That should be no trouble at all.”
“I think we can safely confine ourselves to one asylum in particular for the time being,” Ophelia said dryly. “Especially since it is the only one we know has a connection with Maggie. And besides that, I did have Hopkins pack a few of Maggie’s belongings for me to take to her.”
“Then by all means,” Trent said, “let us take ourselves to the Hayes clinic. I have a mind to meet this Dr. Hayes, at any rate. It seems to me that it must take a very confident man indeed to send someone to the madhouse on the basis of only a loved one’s word. Because unless your friend consulted him and did not tell you, that is precisely what happened.”
“Not unless she did so in an effort to interview him for her article about madhouses,” Ophelia said firmly. “And I saw nothing in her notes that indicated such a meeting had taken place.”
“I do wish we’d found George at his father’s house,” Trent said, and from this angle, Ophelia saw that his jaw was clenched. He must feel his friend’s role in this affair troubling, she thought.
“Perhaps his signature was forged,” she offered, for the first time considering that Maggie’s husband might indeed be entirely blameless in the matter.
“Perhaps,” Trent agreed, turning to glance at her in thanks. “But his disappearance this morning from my home, coupled with the fight with his wife last night, seems to point in the opposite direction.”
“Then I hope for your sake he is innocent,” Ophelia said.
Six
The Hayes Clinic was located in a relatively secluded area of Richmond on Thames, far enough away from any nearby residences that it was afforded some degree of privacy from its neighbors.
As Trent steered the curricle up the long drive, Ophelia gazed toward the large edifice at the end, curious for a glimpse of the place where Maggie was being held. But from her vantage point she could see only grass and trees and what appeared to be the sort of bucolic scene one would expect in the countryside.
“What have you heard about the Hayes Clinic?” Trent asked as they passed through the sheltering trees.
“Very little,” she replied with a sigh. There had been only a mention of the Hayes Clinic in Maggie’s notes and nothing that would give her any indication of what sort of reputation it had. She’d never heard tell of a particularly happy asylum, but surely they weren’t all horrible.
For Maggie’s sake she hoped this one wasn’t.
“I’ve visited a few former officers at such places in the past few years,” he said, his jaw tight. “They are not uniformly horrific. Perhaps none are what we would wish them to be, but some at least attempt to keep their … inhabitants busy with industry and occupation.”
“What does that mean precisely?” Ophelia asked. “Industry and occupation?”
“Just that they aren’t locked away in solitary rooms, left to their own devices,” Trent said. “I believe every occupant has a task in the running of the household—at least those with the ability to take them on do.”
“Enforced labor then,” she said grimly, trying to imagine what it must be like for Maggie to be locked away against her will. Expected to carry out some rudimentary household chore along with her other inmates—all the while knowing she didn’t really belong. It must be hellish.
“I suppose it is, yes,” Trent said with a nod. “Though that needn’t be a bad thing necessarily.”
But Ophelia could hear the strained optimism in his voice. Clearly he was trying to sound cheerful for her sake. What must he have seen at the asylums he’d visited? she wondered. Suddenly she was glad that she hadn’t ventured here alone.
When Trent pulled the curricle to a stop, a groom stepped forward to take the reins. So the place must be accustomed to receiving daily visitors then, Ophelia thought with some relief.
This time w
hen Trent reached up to lift her from the carriage, Ophelia steeled herself against the odd exhilaration. And soon she was on his arm as they approached the very ordinary front door of what appeared to be a medium-sized country house, with a brick façade and cheerful windows overlooking the front drive.
“The Duke of Trent and Miss Ophelia Dauntry to see Mrs. George Grayson,” Trent told the mobcapped nurse who answered their knock.
“I’m afraid there’s no visitors without you speaking to the doctor first,” she said with a quick curtsy. Opening the door wide, she gestured for them to follow her inside. She led them to a small antechamber that was plainly but cozily furnished, with a comfortable-looking sofa and a few wingback chairs and a fire burning in the fireplace.
When the door closed behind their guide, Ophelia began to pace. The walls were not particularly thick and they were able to hear the sounds of conversation, shouting, moans, and singing from various locations throughout the house. Since the nurse hadn’t seemed to think there was anything untoward going on, Ophelia had to assume that the cacophony was a regular occurrence in the house. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine just what it would be like to know she wouldn’t be able to leave when their visit was done. It was not a pleasant thought.
“I wonder if the men who took your friend this morning are here,” Trent said, from where he stood looking out the window. “I should like to have a word with them.”
“So should I,” Ophelia said, shuddering, unable to forget the hulking brutes who had overpowered Maggie. “Especially the one who gave me this bruise. Not to mention what they must have done to poor Maggie.”
Manacles were surely not very comfortable.
The door opened then and they both turned to see a tall, thin man dressed in a finely tailored suit of black.
“Your grace, Miss Dauntry,” he said with a deep bow. “I am Dr. Charles Gideon. To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
“We should like to pay a call on one of your patients, sir,” Ophelia said before Trent could speak up. “Mrs. George Grayson. She was taken up by two of your men at the behest of Dr. Archibald Hayes this morning. Against her will, I might add.”
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