“Lady Arabella, you do great credit to your family, as well as Lord Rockingham. However, you are but a woman, driven by obstreperous emotions, incapable of understanding such intricacies of the mind.” Swanborough shook his head, and something within her snapped. “I demand that you return to Sanderstead, at once, in fulfillment of the marriage contract.”
“How dare you patronize me.” Her jaw set, she could abide by the rules of polite decorum no longer. With the wind of conviction in her sails, she advanced, evading her father’s attempt to stay her, and grasped the duke by the lapels of his coat. “Have you any idea what your ignorance of Lord Rockingham’s state may have wrought? You may have done more damage to his overall health than the war ever could have.”
“While I appreciate your loyalty to Lord Rockingham, I must let knowledge and reason guide my actions, given I must preserve the dukedom.” Swanborough grabbed her by the forearms. “Now, you will come with me.”
“As you were.” Beaulieu drew a flintlock pistol and took careful aim. “Else I will put a lead shot between your eyes, rank be damned. Although I am partial to my life of relative comfort, I will not hesitate to pull the trigger, so you will stand down, or you will die.”
All hell broke loose in the foyer, and the gathering descended into chaos, as her father shouted recriminations, and the Ainsworth staff challenged the duke’s personnel. Beaulieu thrust Patience to the rear, and the Mad Matchmakers surrounded Swanborough and Arabella.
“Wait.” Arabella wrenched from the duke’s hold and took a position to Lord Beaulieu’s right. “Pray, let me speak.”
“I will hear you.” Swanborough shifted his weight and jutted his hip. “But I will not forget this, Ainsworth.”
“Neither will I, Swanborough,” Papa replied between gritted teeth.
“Gentlemen, please.” Arabella stood in the middle of the fray, and it dawned on her there was only one option. As her Anthony sacrificed himself for her, she had to sacrifice herself for him. Then she faced the duke. “I will make you an honest bargain. If you allow me to see Lord Rockingham, for myself, I will return to Sanderstead, without protest.”
“That is out of the question.” The duke narrowed his gaze. “An asylum is no place for a lady.”
“What about Lady Rockingham’s appointed representatives, given I agree with your assertion?” Still bearing the weapon, Beaulieu inched forward. “Lord Greyson and I can journey with you, to Lord Rockingham’s location, and verify he is in good health, as you claim.”
Infuriating silence fell on the foyer, and the duke stared at the floor.
“No.” He shook his head. “I fear any disruption could impair his treatment.”
“Your Grace, I carry Lord Rockingham’s heir.” At Arabella’s proclamation, the duke stumbled back and his mouth fell agape. “If you wish to see the babe, you must yield to my demand, and I beg you to listen to reason. Yours is not a fait accompli. You can alter your course. If Anthony approves of your tack, I will not protest.”
“Y-you are with c-child?” he sputtered. When she nodded, he pressed a fist to his mouth, and his gaze darted, back and forth. Then he pinned her with a lethal stare. “I accept your offer, and we depart at once.” To Beaulieu and Greyson, the duke said, “Gentlemen, let us away.”
Beaulieu pocketed his pistol and turned to her. Taking her hands in his, he lowered his chin. “On my life, we will not return without Rockingham.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sunlight filtered through the bars on the window, casting peculiar shadows on the floor. Outside, a bird swooped and soared in the cloudless, azure sky. The pond that once served to soothe his troubled soul now inspired naught but terror. Propped in a corner, and chained in a chair, Anthony stirred from a much-cherished dream and clung to the vision of Arabella as his only salvation.
In the days since he was enclosed in the makeshift cage that confined him, he had not eaten. Shaw ordered that Anthony was to have no food, in further punishment of his refusal to admit he was insane and to submit to the doctor’s therapy. But temptation beckoned with each passing hour, and he grew weary of the pain.
Left to wallow in his own waste, moved only to be plunged into the cold waters of the lily pond, he began to question his own humanity. Violent hallucinations filled his mind, conjuring all manner of vengeful fates he would exact on Shaw, inflicting agony without mercy. That might have been the most impactful result of Shaw’s torture, the disturbing images and the lust for blood, and Anthony wondered if he would ever find peace, again.
Just when he feared he had reached the limits of his sanity, just when he prepared to yield, Arabella saved him. She may not have been present in person, but she was with him in spirit, and he never lost hope. With renewed courage, he prepared for the daily sessions that devolved, without fail, into unqualified savagery.
And Shaw accused Anthony of lunacy.
“Rockingham, how do you fare?” Thomas asked with a sad smile.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Anthony cleared his sore throat. Dying of thirst, he resorted to drinking some of the foul pond water and retched uncontrollably the previous day. Of course, since he’d had nothing to eat, there was nothing to vomit. “But I believe I am becoming accustomed to sleeping upright. It is rather convenient, because you expend no energy getting out of bed. You should try it, sometime.”
He chuckled, which reduced him to a coughing fit.
“Easy, major.” Charles stretched upright and yawned. With his brow a mass of furrows, the infantryman frowned. “While I am relieved to see you are still alive, you cannot continue on this path, and I am prepared to rebel, whatever the cost.”
“No.” Given the iron collar about his neck, Anthony could not even shake his head to discourage his newfound friends. “Pray, I beg you, do nothing, else I will pay for it. We must have faith in my wife. She will come for me, and I will see you released and Shaw punished. I swear it on my firstborn.”
“Major, I know you want to believe that we will be rescued, but it is not going to happen.” Henry stared at his hands. “No one is coming for us, because no one cares about us.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t even think that.” Anthony struggled in vain against his cage. “You have to have faith, or Shaw wins.”
“That is the problem.” Henry wiped his eyes. “I have no faith, major. I have only despair and the realization that we are never leaving this place. If I had any shred of hope, it vanished when the guards carried you in here, imprisoned in that hellish contraption. Now, all I feel is fear. Deep-seated dread.”
“Please, for my sake, do not give up.” Anthony stretched out his dirty feet and licked his lips, when he spied a morsel of bread, which Thomas had attempted to toss into Anthony’s mouth at dinner, yesterday. “We must hold the line, for a little longer.”
“The major is right,” Charles said with a curt nod. “We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. If he believes we will be liberated, despite being locked in cage, unable to recline, eat, or relieve himself in the piss-pot, should we not support him?”
“Perhaps, we delay the inevitable.” Thomas sighed. “Sooner or later, Rockingham will have to come to terms with reality. He must face facts.”
“I’m sorry, Thomas, but you are wrong.” Anthony sought pretty words and phrases to reassure the wounded veterans. “Every day you spend above ground is cause to hope.”
“What makes you so certain?” asked Henry. “How do you know you are not mistaken?”
“Because I know my bride.” Anthony recalled Arabella’s declaration, freely given, that sorrowful night in Weybridge. “She loves me. She told me so, when last we met, and nothing will stop her from finding me.”
The telltale rasp of the keys signaled the arrival of the morning meal.
The usual two guards entered the chamber, carrying three trays. The larger brute, who often expressed enjoyment of Anthony’s pain, placed the customary bowl of porridge and hunk of bread at the foot of Henry’s bunk.
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Instead of collecting the food, Henry scooted toward the end of the bed, picked up the tray, and swung at the attendant’s head. Charles followed suit, striking the hulk of a man just under his chin. A melee ensued, with Thomas employing the chain that secured him to choke the thug.
The smaller fiend shouted the alarm, and two additional henchmen charged the fray. An aide punched Henry, rendering him unconscious. Another villain slammed Charles’s head into the floor, and he collapsed. The first blackguard strangled Thomas, until the wounded warrior fainted.
“Grab fancy pants.” The scoundrel slapped Anthony, hard. “Shaw has something special planned for him.”
The chain at his neck loosened, and Anthony stood. Steeling himself for another session of torture, he marched alongside his captors, in silence. At the painfully familiar door to Shaw’s office, Anthony stepped aside, and the guard turned the knob and pushed open the oak panel. Inside, Shaw sat at the front edge of his desk.
To the right, a new addition to the room brought Anthony to a halt, but the sizable swine shoved him to stand at center. A long, narrow table hugged the wall, and a latch and panel marked one end, with a bucket situated beneath, on the carpet. He had seen something similar employed, in the torture rooms, by counterintelligence officers, and suspected he might not live till dusk.
“I see you are interested in my recent acquisition.” Shaw pushed from the desk and neared. “It is so rare to find a remnant of war that I can implement in my work, and I am most anxious to give it a try. What say you, Lord Rockingham? You never cry out when I administer treatment. You never make a sound, and I consider you a most unique challenge. Eventually, you will give me what I want. I wonder if that will happen, today.” To the attendants, he said, “Put him on the table.”
Anthony stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster with his eyes. It was a mundane task, but it kept him calm. The bastards tied down his legs with leather straps at the ankles and another belt across his torso, despite the fact he remained locked in the makeshift cage that kept him immobilized. An additional binding stretched across his forehead, pinning his head in place.
“So, who is going to run the buckets?” Shaw inquired of his henchmen. “I will require a steady supply of water.”
“I’ll do it.” The diminutive guard raised a hand. “I have no stomach for this.”
“All right.” Shaw doffed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. Then he hovered over Anthony. “Comfortable, Lord Rockingham?”
Anthony kept his gaze transfixed, overhead.
“Still no comment.” Shaw tsked. “Let us see if I can loosen your tongue.”
The evil doctor fiddled with a latch, and a panel dropped at an angle. Shaw covered Anthony’s face with a cloth, and then there was water. A deluge that filled his nose and mouth, and he fought to breathe.
“Ah, at last, we provoke a reaction.” Shaw chuckled. “You fight against your restraints but do not favor me with plea for mercy. What a pity.”
Another torrent threatened to drown Anthony, but he refused to yield. When Shaw snatched the cloth from Anthony’s face, he spat at his tormentor.
“That was unwise, Lord Rockingham.” Shaw leaned over and whispered in Anthony’s ear, “You will scream, or you will die.”
“Go to the devil,” he replied, knowing it could mean his doom.
Shaw resituated the cloth, and a veritable flood engulfed Anthony. He struggled to no avail, gasping for air, but he only swallowed more water. When he thought it a lost cause, that he would perish and never see his beloved Arabella again, the flow suddenly ceased.
With his face uncovered, he coughed and sputtered, vomiting water, as the belt at his legs loosened. Dazed, he could scarcely make out a silhouette, and the unknown individual helped Anthony sit upright. He blinked his eyes, and then it was as if he was thrown into the present, and he thought he imagined his father, upbraiding Shaw. At last, Anthony’s vision cleared, and he discovered Beaulieu and Greyson supported him.
“I must be dead.” Anthony convulsed and regurgitated water. “I prayed for an angel and I got you two. Tell me, are you really here, or am I dreaming?”
“Dreaming of me?” Beaulieu chucked Anthony’s chin. “You must be mad, and I am relieved to see your sense of humor survived, unscathed.” Beaulieu’s expression sobered, and he half-hugged Anthony. “Thank god, we found you.”
“Your bride will be happy to see you.” Greyson grinned. “She put up quite a fight and challenged your father, on your behalf.”
“Of course, she did.” Anthony laughed.
“What is the meaning of this affront?” Holding a handkerchief to his nose, Anthony’s father wagged a finger at Shaw. “You were supposed to help my son, not kill him.”
“Your Grace, my methods may be crude, but they are effective.” Shaw shuffled his feet. “With a little more time—”
“Are you out of your mind?” Father glanced at Anthony and winced. “I wouldn’t house my best hound in this facility. Gather my son’s belongings and give him a bath. I am taking him home.”
“Father, they sold my personal effects.” Anthony sat still, while Beaulieu and Greyson unfastened the rivets and iron bars. “And they stole my signet ring.”
“Is this true?” Father lowered his chin and favored Shaw with a look that reduced many a man to a shuddering mass of flesh, and the doctor fared no better. When Shaw nodded the affirmative, Father narrowed his gaze. “Where is the ring?”
“Actually, Your Grace, it is a simple misunderstanding.” Shaw retreated and then ran to his desk. From a drawer, he produced the item in question. “Here it is, safe and sound. I thought to preserve it for Lord Rockingham.”
“Dr. Shaw, although I doubt you are an actual doctor, I was wrong to think so highly of you, and that is a mistake that ends here.” Father snapped his fingers, and his footmen stood at attention. “I hereby withdraw all financial support, and I shall report you to the proper authorities when I return to London. But until that time, I demand you terminate patient therapy until further notice, when qualified specialists can assess those still housed within these walls. For now, your services are no longer needed.”
“Wait.” Exhausted, Anthony dropped to his knees, on the floor, and Beaulieu and Greyson lifted Anthony to one of the Hepplewhite chairs. “I cannot depart without freeing my friends, and they require medical attention, after they intervened on my behalf. We must help them.”
“We will do so.” Greyson brushed hair from Anthony’s face. “Right now, you are our primary concern. Have you looked in a mirror, of late?”
“No.” Anthony examined his bruised wrist. “And neither have I eaten in two days. As of this moment, I could feast on my own toenails.”
“How appetizing.” Beaulieu wrinkled his nose. “First, you require a bath and a fresh set of clothes. We cannot take you to your wife in this condition.”
“Promise me something.” Anthony studied the countless cuts and scrapes to his legs. “Do not allow Arabella to see me like this. I would not traumatize her, given her delicate condition.”
“I would argue there is nothing delicate about your bride.” Beaulieu snickered. “Now, let us get you into a tub of hot water, and then we journey to London.”
“To London.” Anthony anticipated a heartfelt reunion, but he would delay until the majority of his wounds healed and he regained some weight. “Take me away, my friends.”
With that, he stood—and promptly fainted.
*
Darkness filled the drawing room, and a maid lit a candelabrum, illuminating the chamber in a soft, saffron glow, as the sun set on the day after the terse exchange with the Duke of Swanborough, and Beaulieu and Greyson departed, in search of Anthony. On the sidewalk, Londoners scurried in all directions, carrying packages and going about their business, blissfully unaware of the dark cloud that enshrouded her home.
With Warrington acting as a disinterested arbiter, Patience played cards with Lord Michael, Papa sat in
his comfy chair and perused the latest copy of The Times, and Mama embroidered. Stationed at the window, where she lingered for the past three hours, Arabella remained on guard for any sign of the ducal traveling coach, her hopes dashed every time a hack or a town carriage drove past.
“My dear, please, sit down.” Mama patted the empty space beside her, on the chaise. “You will wear yourself out, and that is not good for the babe. Worrying will not make them magically appear.”
“Mama, if I do not stand, I fear I shall explode, because the suspense is killing me.” Arabella paced and hugged her belly. Countless possibilities haunted her waking hours, and she had to do something to expend the nervous energy that threatened to rip her in two. “I must know what happened to Anthony, and I cannot rest until I am apprised of his fate.”
“What if he is content in his position?” Papa inquired in a soft tone. “What if Dr. Shaw is not the villain you portray? Have you considered that?”
“I have, Papa.” In reality, she had thought of little else, but she trusted her instincts, and she knew, without doubt, that Shaw was the most heinous libertine. “If Lord Rockingham is convinced he is where he belongs, if he is happy, I will not interfere. But I will accept no one’s word but Lord Rockingham’s.”
“And what of the bargain you struck with Swanborough?” Papa lowered the paper and frowned. “Do you intend to honor your promise, because I am not sure I can allow it.”
“I suppose I shall decide when it is time.” She reflected on the possibilities and resolved that, no matter what, she would never permit Shaw anywhere near her or her child. Indeed, she would renegotiate the terms of her agreement with the duke. “But you have my solemn vow, I will not bring disgrace on our family.”
“Arabella, you are a Gibbs, and we are made of sterner stuff. Swanborough can go to the devil before I surrender you on the altar of genteel protocol.” Papa scooted from his chair and stood. She faced him and he caressed her cheek with his thumb. “We will weather whatever scandal erupts from this ordeal, because I am disinclined to relinquish you to Swanborough, so the choice is not necessarily yours. You should know I shall carry many regrets to my grave, but the disservice I did to you and Lord Rockingham will haunt me into the hereafter. I should have trusted you. Worse, I should have trusted my own instincts, because I knew, deep down, there was nothing wrong with Rockingham.”
The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Page 28