The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) by Devlin, Barbara (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📕

“Rot you, Beaulieu. I know precisely where to commence the fight.” With renewed purpose, Arabella collected her thoughts and plotted her bearing with lethal precision. She would retrench. She would strategize. And she would win the day. “Well, that is if I can convince my parents of Shaw’s ultimate goal, because Swanborough told my father I would be permitted to return to the city, after giving birth. Without proof, he might never believe his friend deceived him.”

“My lady, I have Dr. Shaw’s letter.” From a small haversack, Emily produced an envelope. “When he asked about it, I explained that I threw several ruined sheets of stationery in the refuse, when I cleared the blotter, and I must have tossed his correspondence, by mistake.”

“Oh, Emily, I could kiss you.” Arabella unfolded the crisp parchment, and her skin crawled when she read Shaw’s intentions. “Heed my words, Lord Beaulieu. This travesty will not stand. I shall bring down hellfire and brimstone on the Duke of Swanborough, the likes of which he has never known, and he will rue the day he took my husband from me. I swear on the life of my unborn child, I will win justice for Anthony.” Lowering her chin, she inhaled a deep breath. “When I am done, the whole of London will know my wrath.”

Chapter Sixteen

A dull ache throbbed in Anthony’s head, as he stirred and opened his eyes. Resting on his back, he gazed at the ceiling and noted cracked and chipped plaster. Confused, he clung to remnants of his memories, which came to him in bits and pieces that made no sense. The imprisonment at Sanderstead. The nefarious Dr. Shaw. The hard drive to Weybridge. The agony in Arabella’s expression, when he bade her farewell. Images flooded his consciousness, and he sat upright and surveyed his surroundings.

Once white walls now sported countless yellow stains and marks. A rustic, stone floor covered in muck provided the source of a stomach-turning stench. Wrought iron bars blocked the window and reinforced the door. Eerie screams echoed from beyond his room. One thing was certain. He was no longer confined at Sanderstead.

After Beaulieu departed with Arabella and Emily, Anthony confronted Shaw and his men. It went about as well as he expected. For a while, he led them on a merry chase throughout Weybridge, given he could sprint and dart, on foot, between buildings. Eventually, the villains ran him aground and took him prisoner.

While Shaw demanded Anthony reveal Arabella’s whereabouts, he refused, and the doctor did exactly as Anthony predicted. Shaw ordered his men to pursue Beaulieu’s rig on the road to Shepperton. And then someone struck Anthony from behind, and his world collapsed into a black vortex.

He could only pray his wife made it to London, safely.

When he tried to move, an odd heaviness pinned his ankle, which had been shackled to the wood frame of a rudimentary bed. There were four, in total, all of which bore a single occupant. The men appeared to sleep, and he stilled to avoid disturbing his neighbors, because he knew not whether they were friend or foe. He scooted to the edge of the mattress, and the hefty chain scraped and clanked.

“You are awake.” The party in the next bunk rolled onto his side, the worn structure creaking beneath his weight. With visible injuries in various states of healing about his face, the stranger saluted. “Welcome to hell. I am Charles Lumley, fifty-second Light Infantry. A mortar blast took both my legs at Waterloo.”

“Henry Whetham, thirty-second Foot,” stated the wounded individual directly across from Anthony. Like Charles, Henry evidenced signs of abuse. “Lost my leg at Quatre Bras.”

“Thomas Pulteney, twelfth Light Dragoons.” He dipped his chin, and Anthony noted the black eye. “Although I am physically hale and whole, I am told I suffer brain fever from prolonged exposure to battle.”

“So what brings you to Little Bethlam?” asked Charles. “Or should I inquire after who brings you to the British Army’s dirty secret?”

“Little Bethlam?” Anthony reflected on the name but could recall no past reference. However, he knew of its namesake, a notorious asylum built atop a sewer that often overflowed into the building. The patients confined in squalor, provided naught but piss-pots and left to wallow in their own excreta, with no suitable food or clothing. Doctors who traded in lunacy to amass a small fortune, never helping anyone but themselves. “I have never heard of such a place.”

“That is because the only ones familiar with it are those locked within its walls.” Henry snorted and rolled his eyes. “As well as our jailers and the blackguard that has the nerve to call himself a doctor, George Shaw. From what I have learned, Shaw has the favor of some powerful lords with deep pockets. He holds us prisoner and drains our families of their money, promising we are much improved but not quite well enough to rejoin society. If only our relations pay for additional therapy, he guarantees he can cure us of our ailments.”

“The man ought to be charged with crimes against humanity.” Anthony pondered Shaw’s arrogance and temper. “I have no doubt he is dangerous, and one of the first actions I will take when I am free of this place is to see him brought to justice.”

“Watch yourself with Shaw, because he has gained formidable power. The Parliamentary Committee on Madhouses entrusted him with both quiescent and severely disturbed patients during the rebuild of Bethlam.” Thomas shivered and hugged himself. “He loves his water torments, and he has a real taste for them. I believe hurting others gives him pleasure. Rumor has it he killed three soldiers in the lily pond, in the garden, but no one cares about us. Underestimate him at your own peril.”

“We have met, and I do not doubt you.” Anthony cursed the villain. “He convinced my father that