He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the brown scotch cap he’d been wearing when he made his daring escape. It was designed so that when a prisoner placed the cap on his head, its large peak dropped down to his chin, hiding his face and identity completely, hiding everything except his eyes, which peered through two holes.
“By now they’ll have discovered that Prisoner D3, 10 escaped. Do you remember when we toured the facility with Father, right after it was built, before it began housing prisoners? Of course you do. Is that when you began scheming?”
He pointed to the brass badge on the front of his shirt—both of which he would soon give to his brother. “A man loses his name in prison. Without a name, a man is nothing. Simply nothing. Except a number. Prisoner D3, 10. Prisoner, corridor D, gallery three, cell ten. And now that prisoner has disappeared.
“Will the warder you bribed come to tell you—for I’m certain you must have paid someone off in order to achieve your end—or will he run away in fear of his actions being discovered? Either way it matters not to me, because you’ll find yourself at Pentonville before dawn, with this over your head.” He shook it.
“I know what you’re thinking. They’ll know it’s you and not me.” He laughed for the first time in years, but it was a sound void of warmth or merriment, and he wondered if it sent shivers down his brother’s back the way it did his own. If he was standing closer to the edge of insanity than he realized. “That’s the beauty of my plan. They won’t know, because they don’t know what I look like. They won’t know that this morning my hair was longer, my face bearded. Because the only time prisoners don’t wear the hood is when they’re in their cell, alone. Alone, constantly alone. We work in our cell, we sleep in our cell, we eat in our cell.
“England’s innovative separate system for reforming criminals is hell on earth, John! And you shall soon bear witness to its inhumanity. Even when we’re allowed to walk in the exercise yard with our caps covering our faces, we’re not allowed to speak. Separation and isolation are the order of the day and must be maintained. Do you know what it is to never be able to share your thoughts with another? To never share a joke, a concern, a fear, a smile, a laugh?
“I’m sharing with you the benefits of my experience. Wear your cap and hold your tongue. Don’t even attempt to tell them that you’re not supposed to be there. They won’t listen. Don’t tell them there’s been a mistake. They won’t listen.
“The only time you’re allowed to use your voice is when singing hymns in the chapel each day. Men weep at the chance to raise their voices in song.”
Robert looked at the hated cap that matched the brown of his tunic and trousers. It was during his time in the chapel that he’d managed to escape. The pews consisted of high-walled stalls, each man assigned to one. One evening Robert noticed that during prayer, when he bowed his head, he could no longer see the guards, and if he couldn’t see them…he reasoned that they could no longer see him. During those few moments, he became invisible. For weeks, he had patiently used that time to work loose the boards on the floor of his individual stall. Today he’d finally succeeded at working enough boards free that he created a small hole through which he’d squeezed himself. He’d crawled beneath the chapel until he reached the main building. There, a narrow opening for ventilation had led him to the outside and freedom.
He looked at John and again waved the cap. “You will wear it, brother, because if you don’t they’ll beat you until you put it on. Then you put it on to hide the shame of your beating. You’ll be completely alone, wondering when I’ll come for you.
“Rest assured, brother, I’ll come as soon as I determine how to prove that I am Robert and you are John. Pray that I come to a resolution quickly.”
A knock sounded on the door. Robert’s heart hammered unmercifully, almost painfully, against his ribs, while John began to struggle in earnest against his bonds, his cries for help muffled by the handkerchief. Robert silenced him further by pulling the pillow out from beneath John’s head, dropping it on his face, and pulling closed the thick velvet draperies that hung down from the canopy.
He walked to the door and spoke through it. “I am indisposed. What is it?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Your Grace, but a Mr. Matthews has only just arrived and is in quite an agitated state. He insists he must see you immediately regarding an urgent matter involving Pentonville Prison. He is quite adamant—”
“Tell Mr. Matthews that I’ll meet him at the back doorway, and see to it that no servants are up and about in that section of the house.”
“All the servants are already abed.”
Except for the man standing at his door. Good.
“Then deliver my message to Mr. Matthews and take yourself to bed as well.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He listened as the butler’s footsteps faded away. He returned to the bed, opened the draperies, yanked the pillow away, looked at his brother, and smiled. “I say, John, you have a most loyal ally in Mr. Matthews. What did it cost you to hire him to ensure Prisoner D3, 10 was never given freedom?”
Looking at his brother, during that moment, he almost changed his mind. He almost said, “Let’s talk, let’s work this out. I am the rightful heir, but I will take care of you. I’d always planned to see to your needs without question.”
But then he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His brother had taken eight years of his life. Robert had no plans to be that cruel, to leave his brother languishing in hell for that long.
But what would a few weeks hurt?
Several hours later, Robert awoke with a start, disoriented, his heart thundering. The bed was too soft, the room too large. Slowly, it all came back to him.
His escape.
His hiding in the shadows.
His creeping into the house.
His finding John, asleep, unsuspecting.
The warder arriving just after midnight to let the duke know that Prisoner D3, 10 had escaped. Knocking John unconscious with a good solid punch had gone a long way toward appeasing his anger at the time, but now the fury was roiling through him again, and he worked hard to squash it. It had been festering for far too long. He’d used it last night, used it to exact his revenge.
He’d always thought revenge was supposed to be sweet. He was surprised to discover that it tasted bitter. He shook off the guilt. He’d given John what he deserved. It was only fair, and he’d be damned before he’d feel guilty about the actions he’d taken—although truth be told, he’d already been damned, twice over by his brother’s cruelty.
Lying still, he listened to his own rapid breathing, his heartbeat thrumming between his ears. Then the sweet song of a lark. Outside the window. Was that what had awakened him?
Relaxing his taut muscles, he inhaled deeply, a fragrance so pure that if he were a sentimental man he might have wept. But he feared whatever tendency toward sentiment he might have once possessed had been brutally stolen from him.
Still he could appreciate the scent of cleanliness and the comfort brought by a soft, feather mattress beneath his back. Tonight he intended to enjoy the feel of a soft, warm woman beneath his body. Tonight he would indulge in all the vices he’d been denied by his brother’s calculating schemes. Denied through no fault of his. It was an aspect of this entire untenable situation that nagged at him.
Had he done something to deserve his brother’s unjust treatment? He’d committed no crime, harmed no one. He’d gone to school, studied hard. He’d learned manners, etiquette, and protocol. He’d been prepared to step into his father’s shoes when his father left this earth—which he’d assumed would be after a long life—but until that precise moment he carried out his duties and responsibilities with the proper decorum expected of the heir apparent.
He’d been an exemplary firstborn son. Was it his striving to make his parents proud that had turned John against him? Or was it simply his entry into the world first? It was hardly something over which he’d ha
d control. Come to think of it, he’d had no say in a good part of his life. Obligations were thrust upon him, and duty dictated that he accept and meet them head on, never shirking his responsibilities.
And yet he’d been unjustly punished and found himself in the untenable position of having to prove who he was and taking some recourse to ensure that he managed to hold on to the dukedom. He had little doubt that John would attempt to usurp him with some sort of treachery, and the next time he intended to be prepared. He’d not be caught unawares again.
He stretched his muscles—relishing the luxurious sensation of silk gliding over his skin—shoved his hands beneath his head, and stared at the canopy above his bed while the first fingers of dawn spilled into the bedchamber. He’d left the draperies at the windows and those around the bed pulled aside. He wanted nothing denied him. And he had such grand and self-indulgent plans for his first day and night as the Duke of Killingsworth.
A steaming hot bath with sandalwood soap. Followed by warm towels rubbed briskly over his entire body.
Clean clothing.
A hot, hearty breakfast while he read the Times.
A leisurely walk through London.
A brisk horse ride through Hyde Park.
A carriage ride.
Another meal.
Another bath.
More clean clothes.
And then a night of revelry to celebrate his newfound freedom.
A bottle of the finest wine.
A cigar. Perhaps a hand of cards.
And then a woman. A beautiful woman. With voluptuous curves and hair like satin. He would know at last what it was to bury himself deeply inside a woman, to become lost in her warmth and softness as his body reached for release.
Tonight he would have it all, after being denied everything for so long. He would take her again and again and again, until he was replete, exhausted, unable to move.
He would do the same tomorrow night. And the next. He had a youth denied to make up for. And then he would see to his dukedom.
But first he would see to his manhood.
He’d known a moment of worry that his plans would unravel when he’d carried his unconscious brother to Mr. Matthews. He’d recognized the warder as one of the more brutal ones. The guard had recognized him only as the man who had paid him. Matthew’s fear had been palpable as he’d stammered his profound apologies for the prisoner’s escape, and Robert was left to wonder if it was more than coins that had made the man serve as John’s henchman. Matthews had been only too willing to accept Robert’s explanation that the prisoner had come here to cause him harm, and once again he was to be returned to Pentonville and held as before.
A prisoner without the promise of freedom.
Another niggling of guilt pierced the contentment of the morning, and Robert pushed it aside. He’d not be denied this day, no matter how selfish. He deserved it: the drinking, the womanizing, the sating of his long-denied body, the self-gratification. As long as John kept his mouth shut and his cap covering his face, he’d survive exceedingly well until Robert determined the best manner in which to prove the truth of what had transpired.
The door leading from the bathing room into the bedchamber opened, and Robert held his breath. His next test was descending upon him with rapidity. He’d once theorized that servants didn’t truly look at their masters, but kept their eyes averted or downcast. If his theory was proven correct, he would be fine. If false…well, he’d had worse things to worry over.
The servant quietly entered the room. His valet. Or more precisely, his brother’s valet. And he suddenly realized that he was in a spot of trouble because he didn’t recognize the man. He was tall, slender, held himself well, and while he appeared to be relatively young, he was balding, the top of his head reflecting the sunlight streaming into the room.
Robert had expected Edwards, who had once been his loyal valet, to still be serving his brother, but as he pondered the situation it made sense that Edwards had been let go. The man might have had the ability to detect subtle differences in the heir apparent, and while he might have held his doubts to himself, it was probably a chance John had been unwilling to take.
And this unknown valet might notice subtle differences in today’s duke as compared with yesterday’s. Mainly that today’s duke hadn’t a clue as to his valet’s name.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” the man said as he crossed the room.
“Good morning.” Robert cursed beneath his breath. The words had come out hesitant, unsure, not at all the tone usually rendered by a man in control, a man to whom deference was given by virtue of rank if nothing else.
The valet suddenly stopped in the center of the room as though aware that something was terribly amiss. He looked at the bed—not so much the man lying in it—the windows, then quickly at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and Robert wondered if the servant was feeling the room close in on him as Robert was. Robert should have held his tongue, kept his silence.
“I’m not accustomed to the draperies already being pulled aside,” the servant said. “You must be anticipating the day.”
“Indeed I am.”. The truth was easily spoken. It was the first time in years that he’d awoken and actually looked forward to the day ahead.
“I’ve had your bath prepared.” The servant walked to the wardrobe, opened the doors, and began gathering items.
Robert contemplated lying abed a bit longer, perhaps even having breakfast brought to him on a tray, but the amount of food he planned to eat was best handled by a sideboard. He slid out from beneath the covers. Standing in a nightshirt he’d confiscated from a drawer, with his bare feet on the floor, he suddenly felt exposed.
The servant had yet to take a full measure of him, and when he did…
He was a duke now. Closing his eyes, he drew on the memories of his father’s commanding voice. His father had never left any doubt as to who was in charge, even before he inherited the dukedom from his father. Self-assured, confident. Robert simply had to follow his father’s example and teachings now. He felt calmness descend over him. He could do this. He would do it. He opened his eyes.
“I should like to take a ride in the park this morning,” he said. “See to having my horse readied.”
The servant turned slightly, his brow creased to such an extent that it seemed to roll his balding pate forward, and Robert easily determined that he was hesitant to speak.
“What is it, man?” he demanded to know—impatiently, as his father had when a servant was slow to respond.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I’m not certain you have time for a ride this morning.”
“Whyever not? Is there some pressing appointment that can’t be put off?”
“Only your wedding, Your Grace.”
Chapter 2
Now that the moment had actually arrived, Torie Lambert wished that it hadn’t. An unfortunate realization that she could hardly reconcile with the excitement she’d felt only last night as she’d prepared for bed. For months she’d been eagerly anticipating her wedding to the Duke of Killingsworth. The problem as she saw it now was that she was no longer certain she was anticipating the marriage. A strange notion indeed, but there you had it.
With a sigh, she started at her reflection in the cheval glass while her lady’s maid fluttered around her like a butterfly that couldn’t quite determine where to alight, touching up Torie’s dark brown hair, adjusting the wreath of orange blossoms that held the veil of Honiton lace in place, tittering about how lovely she appeared on this most special of all days.
Torie couldn’t deny that it was a special day, which was the very reason that it seemed incredibly odd to find herself suddenly filled with such doubt. Her engagement and the upcoming wedding were the talk of London: how she, an untitled landowner’s daughter, had managed to snag the most eligible—not to mention very nicely titled—bachelor among the peerage. They gossiped about the affair as though she’d done something special, and for the life of her, s
he could think of nothing exceptional she’d done other than smile at the duke and carry on conversations that, for the most part, seemed to delight him.
She was incredibly fond of Killingsworth, but what did she truly know about him? He was exceptionally good at charades, was a fine dancer, and enjoyed long walks. Ah, yes, and he was undeniably handsome. Not that she thought a gorgeous face was a quality to take into account when selecting a husband, but it certainly didn’t hurt matters that he was incredibly pleasing to gaze upon.
He had the most astonishing blue eyes, and while they seldom sparkled with merriment, as he was a decidedly serious fellow, they did make her feel special when he gazed at her with such intensity that oftentimes she would blush beneath his scrutiny. He never revealed what he was thinking at times such as those, as if he might be embarrassed by his own thoughts, and she often wondered if he was thinking about the same thing as she: what it might be like to truly kiss each other.
He was so terribly proper, had never kissed any part of her other than her glove-covered hand—not even when he’d asked for that very hand in marriage—and yet tonight…well, tonight he might very well kiss a good deal more with no material to separate his lips from her skin.
She warmed at the thought of such intimacy and wondered if perhaps that was the source of her unease. The realization that very soon she would become embarrassingly intimate with a man she liked extremely well, but didn’t love. Or at least she didn’t think she loved him. Shouldn’t love be all-consuming?
Of course, she’d been thinking of her wedding every moment of every day for the past six months, but she hadn’t truly been thinking of her betrothed. Had she?
She’d thought of gowns, and petticoats, and veils, and invitations, and her trousseau. She’d been so overwhelmed with the details of the wedding that she’d given hardly a thought to the particulars of her marriage or her wedding night. And now that the moment she’d worked toward was finally upon her, she felt it had arrived far too soon, before she was completely ready for so monumental a step. Quite honestly, she was scared silly.
A Matter of Temptation Page 2