Secrets of an Accidental Duchess

by Jennifer Haymore

  Chapter Sixteen

  Olivia awoke in a comfortable bed with gentle bands of sunlight streaming over the covers. She turned over with a soft “mmm,” and closed her eyes.

  Then she remembered. Her eyes popped open, and she scrambled to a sitting position, noticing about a dozen things at once. She was dressed only in her chemise. She was in a strange, sunny bedroom, and there was a woman—a maid—sitting in a chair by the bed smiling pleasantly at her.

  Olivia yanked the blanket to her chest, hiding her near nakedness. “Where am I?” she squeaked.

  “Why, you’re in London, ma’am.”

  “But where?”

  “In Lord Fenwicke’s house.”

  She looked around the room frantically. “Where are my clothes?”

  “They’re in the clothes press, ma’am. I’m to help you dress for breakfast.” The woman stood and disappeared into a small closet, emerging after a moment with the dress Olivia had been wearing last night. “It had a wretched tear in it, but I’ve mended it for you.”

  Olivia was too stunned to thank the woman, who was grinning at her. One of her front teeth was missing. She laid the dress across the foot of the bed and went to fetch Olivia’s petticoats and stays as Olivia sat, frozen. This felt… unreal. Like she was in someone else’s dream. This wasn’t really happening, was it?

  “Come along then.” The woman gazed at her expectantly.

  Warily, Olivia slipped out of bed and walked toward the maid. She was silent but tense as the woman helped her to dress.

  Fenwicke would be here somewhere. He wanted something from her… besides her body, perhaps. Why her, when he could have his choice of willing women? She’d noticed how other ladies gaped and batted their eyelashes at him. He was widely considered a desirable man.

  Then why her? Could it have something to do with Lady Fenwicke’s escape to Lancashire?

  Or, perhaps, Max’s disappearance? Fenwicke clearly knew far more about her relationship with Max than was appropriate.

  The maid had led her to a chair before a dressing table and, with efficient strokes, began to comb and style her hair. Olivia sat still, scanning the items on the dressing table—all the items she’d had in her possession last night, including her reticule and jewelry—as she tried not to stare at the ugly bruise marks on her neck in the mirror. Fortunately, while the neckline of her red satin opera dress was very low, the maid arranged Olivia’s lace shawl to cover most of the marks.

  Acquiescing to the maid’s ministrations was a practical decision—if there was one thing the three eldest Donovan sisters had in common, it was practicality. She had a much better chance of escaping if she was fully clothed, after all. She couldn’t be running about in London in winter clad only in a shift. Either she’d freeze to death or be caught, deemed a lunatic, and sent to Bedlam.

  “There you are, ma’am. You’ll be looking fresh and pure for the master, won’t you?” The maid gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  Olivia looked in the mirror to see the woman giving her that gap-toothed smile. “May I go outside? I require some air. I… I tend to faint—like I did last night—if I am kept indoors for too long.”

  “Aye, well, you’ll have to take that up with the master. He’s waiting for you in the breakfast room.”

  “I see,” Olivia said, her voice breathy with fear. Perhaps, though, she’d find a way to escape between this room and the breakfast room.

  That thought was quashed, however, as soon as the maid opened the door. There was a burly, frightening-looking guard standing just outside the room, and when the maid turned to lead her down the corridor, Olivia saw another enormous man standing at its end. She had no doubt they’d been posted for her benefit. To prevent her from trying to run away.

  Her knees felt weak and wobbly, but she squared her shoulders and stood tall and walked with as much strength as she could toward her fear.

  A part of her assured her nothing bad would happen. She’d had enough bad things happen to her in her life. There was her father’s death, her illness, her sister’s drowning. She’d had absolutely no control over any of those events. But something told her that although she might not hold the lion’s share of control in this situation, she held a little. A mouse’s share, perhaps. Mice weren’t powerful, but they held just enough to run… and sometimes to escape.

  That thought made her straighten her spine, made her keep walking with a little more determination.

  The maid led her into a small, dim, but perfectly presentable breakfast room. Lord Fenwicke was sitting at one end of the small table, and there was a place set—obviously for her—on the other.

  Fenwicke rose. “Ah, good morning, Miss Donovan. Please sit down. May I offer you some chocolate?”

  The maid ushered her to the chair and firmly pressed her into it.

  She looked up at Fenwicke, who was still standing, his brows raised as he awaited her answer.

  “No chocolate, thank you,” she murmured.

  She went through the motion of smoothing her napkin over her lap, because it was something to do other than acknowledge Fenwicke. However, when she looked down at the elegant plate of food a footman laid in front of her, her stomach churned violently. There was no way she’d be able to eat.

  She gazed at the plate bleakly, swallowing hard against nausea, wondering if she looked as green as she felt.

  Fenwicke, however, dug right into his food. “You slept well, I hope?” he asked between bites.

  Slowly, she raised her head until her gaze clashed with his. His expression seemed jovial this morning, but there was an assessing, calculating darkness in his eyes that made her want to leap out of the chair and sprint out of this room.

  “I slept,” she said flatly.

  He nodded and took another bite, then chased it with what looked and smelled like coffee. He eyed her over the rim of his cup. “I heard you have only recently come to Town.”

  “Correct,” she said in a clipped voice.

  “I don’t suppose you heard from my wife before you left Stratford House?”

  She hesitated, but then the lie flowed out easily. “No. In fact, I hadn’t seen her for several weeks.”

  “Really? Ah, well that’s unfortunate.” Fenwicke set his coffee cup down. “I asked you to join me for breakfast because I’d like to strike a bargain with you.”

  “A bargain?” she repeated, her voice sounding dull and hollow. Perhaps he was going to try to force her to tell him where Lady Fenwicke was. But she wouldn’t tell him that—she couldn’t. If Fenwicke found Lady Fenwicke and Jessica… no. The thought of what he might do to them made her shudder. She couldn’t give them away, even to save herself.

  “Don’t fret so, my dear. I can see the panic written on your face. Don’t worry—we needn’t discuss Lady Fenwicke any further. Rest assured, I have other means of locating my darling wife.” He smiled, and nothing had ever struck her as sinister as the curve of his thin, pale lips. “But I do find myself in possession of something that you want. Something that might surprise you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He laughed. “Have faith, Olivia. I happen to know it’s something you want.”

  “What is it?”

  Fenwicke took his time. He took a bite, chewed it in a leisurely fashion, took several sips of his drink, then set his cup down again.

  Finally, he said, “Maxwell Buchanan, the Duke of Wakefield.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have him.” Fenwicke took a bite, a sip, and patted his napkin over his mouth. “Completely at my mercy. And you, sweetheart, are to determine his fate.”

  Oh, God! She’d been right—the evil man had something to do with Max’s disappearance! She struggled to maintain her composure. “Is he well?” Her voice, miraculously, sounded calm. Even serene.

  “Yes, he is quite well.” Fenwicke smirked. “Though he is doing his best to provoke me to change that.”

  “Where is he?”

  “
Close,” Fenwicke responded easily. “In fact, he’s here. In this very house.”

  Olivia swallowed hard. She was gripping her legs so tightly that she was certain her thighs would be covered with bruises.

  Max was alive. He was here. If they could join together against Fenwicke… Together, they could do anything. They could escape from this madman.

  Fenwicke laid his fork down and leaned forward. “He’s in a less comfortable position than you.” He smiled. “I like him less than I like you, you see. I tend to spoil those I like.”

  Olivia stared blandly at him. She wanted to claw his eyes out. She had never truly hated anyone, until now.

  “I have him locked tight somewhere. Trussed up, in a cold, dark room in my cellar. I’ve denied him the modern conveniences as well as food and water. This afternoon, I am going to ask him for something, and if I know him well—and I do, mind—he’ll refuse yet again. Then, I’m afraid I’m going to have no choice but to resort to even more unpleasant consequences.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. Even if she ran—even if she escaped from this horrible place—she’d be leaving Max behind.

  No. She wouldn’t go anywhere without him. Not now.

  “Don’t worry about that. I have a guard posted, Olivia. If you run away, he’ll just sit you right back down. So… no reason to waste your time trying, hmm?”

  She turned back, staring at her lap, at her hands clenched over her thighs.

  “Look at me.”

  Her heart raced. She didn’t look at him—couldn’t, not without retching.

  “He’s angered me greatly. For so many reasons, but I won’t get into those now—except for the one that upsets me the most.” Fenwicke’s voice was quiet and grave. “He stole you from me, Olivia. I shall never, ever forgive him for that. And I think he needs to pay a very, very high price for distressing me so thoroughly, don’t you?”

  Olivia swallowed hard. She gripped her legs and focused on breathing. She heard Fenwicke’s words and understood them, even though each one twisted her insides tighter and pushed her closer to the edge of her control.

  “Don’t you want to hear the bargain I wish to make with you? Don’t you want to save your handsome duke?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Look at me.”

  She pried her eyes open and slowly raised her chin until she faced him. His figure swam and danced in her blurry vision.

  “It’s very simple, sweetheart,” he said in a smooth, low voice. “Spend one night with me, and I’ll release your duke.”

  Her mind worked frantically.

  Fenwicke grinned. “I want you willing. I think it’ll be more fun that way, don’t you?”

  She couldn’t look at him a second longer. She closed her eyes again.

  “I want you in my bed, lovely Miss Olivia Donovan. I’ve wanted you for a long time. You know that.”

  She tried to breathe, tried to calm her racing heart.

  “Can you deny wanting me? You were affected by me, when we first met, weren’t you? Admit it.”

  She dug her nails deep into the muscles in her thighs.

  “One night with me, Olivia. One night of pleasure that will surpass anything you could ever dream of experiencing with Wakefield. One night, and then you’ll both be free.”

  “One night…” The blackness edged her vision again, but this time she fought against it. She needed to think, to reason. She needed to save Max.

  “Yes. One night. With you naked under me, taking me, crying out my name—”

  She took a deep, strengthening breath. Then she raised her chin and stared at him with narrowed eyes.

  “I’ll do it. If it means you’ll free Max, I’ll do anything you want.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Max’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton. His wrists had begun to bleed—he could feel the stickiness of the blood as it oozed onto his hands.

  His stomach growled, he was growing a scruffy beard, and he stank, but those were the least of his problems. He’d go mad if he was forced to stay in here much longer. There was nothing to do. Nowhere to go. The room was small and cold. There was nothing beyond the steady burn of the lantern, and the chaise longue, and the musty, enclosed odor of the place.

  One could only think of how many ways to kill someone for so long. It felt like he’d been imprisoned for years, but Max guessed this was only the fourth day… or night. It was difficult to be certain—there was no distinction between day and night down here. The sounds of the house above him gave him the only clues as to the time of day. Everything became quiet and peaceful in the latest hours of night.

  He heard the scraping sound of the bolt being drawn, and though his heart pulsed, speeding up the sluggish blood through his veins, he didn’t move from his slumped position on the chaise longue.

  It was probably Fenwicke come to taunt him again. God help him, but even that sounded far more appealing than sitting here alone for hours on end, with nothing but one’s own increasingly violent thoughts for company.

  It was Fenwicke, unsurprisingly. Also unsurprising, his hired brutes hovered in the doorway.

  Max didn’t bother to look at the man. “What do you want this time?”

  “How rude.”

  Max glanced up, raising a brow. “I’d kill you with my bare hands if I had the use of them.”

  It was then that he noticed the odd scratch marks on Fenwicke’s cheek. It looked like the man had been attacked by an angry cat. It wouldn’t surprise Max that a cat would dislike Fenwicke. Animals seemed to sense the evil in things.

  “Well, I have news for you,” Fenwicke said, “but if you’re going to be so disagreeable, perhaps I should save it for another time.”

  Perhaps Fenwicke had purchased some instrument of torture he planned to try on him to induce him to sign the counterfeit confession. That was the next step, Max was sure of it. He gave Fenwicke a nonchalant shrug, as if he didn’t care whether the man came or went.

  Fenwicke clasped his hands together. “Well, I might be too eager, but I’ve a lovely surprise for you.”

  Max was certain he wouldn’t be surprised. Still, he braced himself.

  “In the form of a lithe, lovely young thing.”

  “A woman,” Max said flatly. What the hell?

  “Not just any woman, my friend.” Fenwicke’s lips curled. “Miss Olivia Donovan.”

  Max jumped to his feet. “Where? Is she here?”

  God, please let her not be here. Please let her be safe… shopping on Regent Street with Lady Stratford, perhaps, or tucked into an armchair reading, or sipping tea with her aunt…

  “She is here.” Fenwicke’s smile broadened. “And she knows you’re here, too.”

  The thoughts roiling in Max’s brain instantly calmed. He took a menacing step toward Fenwicke, noting that his men came to instant attention. These weren’t dolts. If he attacked, they’d be on him in a second.

  “What did you tell her?” he growled.

  “That you’re in dire circumstances.”

  Max narrowed his eyes.

  “That I just might kill you.”

  Max let out a hissing breath.

  “That she is the only one in the world who can save you.” Fenwicke chuckled. “Such a biddable girl, isn’t she?”

  “Shut your mouth, Fenwicke.”

  Fenwicke didn’t fear Max like he should, though. He didn’t shut his damn fool of a mouth. “So very pretty. And delicate, isn’t she? Like a bird. I could snap her bones as easily as I could break a toothpick.”

  That was it. Max lunged, aiming to wipe that sneer off Fenwicke’s face. Without the use of his fists, he head-butted Fenwicke, landing a hard blow right on Fenwicke’s cheek. Fenwicke’s head snapped to the side and back, and Max was tossed backward by God knew how many men.

  He struggled. Kicked and fought, and he fought dirty like they’d taught him. He managed to knee one of the men between the legs, taking him out of commission, bu
t another came to take his place, pinning Max’s arms down.

  Heavy force threw him on the cement floor. He went down with an umph, the impact sucking the breath from his lungs. And then they pinned him, four men at his shoulders and legs. As much as he struggled, he couldn’t move. Clenching his teeth, he looked up at Fenwicke, who hovered over him, holding his damaged cheek, blood dripping from between his fingers. Max had no idea if he’d caused a new wound or reopened the scratches that had already been there.

  It suddenly hit him: the scratches… those were Olivia’s work.

  God, if Fenwicke had hurt her, he’d kill the man, no matter what it took.

  “You’ll regret that, Wakefield,” Fenwicke said from between clenched teeth.

  Max didn’t respond.

  “Your pretty little lady is prepared to do anything to help you out of here, did you know that? So she and I made a little bargain. She’s upstairs right now, preparing.”

  “For what?” Max growled.

  “I’ve provided her with some provocative garments for our upcoming night together,” Fenwicke said simply. “In my bed.”

  Fury, hot and sharp, and unlike anything Max had ever known, arced through him. He twisted, breaking free from the men grasping his shoulders, and wrenched his legs out of the other men’s holds. He fumbled for balance, managed to get himself into a lunging position, and once again went for Fenwicke, this time for his gut.

  He barreled into Fenwicke’s stomach with all the force and power of his anger, and Fenwicke, taken completely off guard, went flying. His back slammed against the cellar wall and he crumpled to the floor.

  But the other men were on Max again. He fought with everything he had, but his opponents were four strong and well-fed men, and he didn’t have the use of his hands.

  It took them a while, and by the time it was over, they were all sweaty and bruised. One of the brutes’ eyes was already swollen shut, and blood was running down Max’s chin from a cut in his lip. His wrists screamed in agony from the stress he’d put on them during the fight, and blood flowed freely to his fingertips, hot and wet.