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

I needed to be institutionalized, and he may have been persuaded by Shaw’s manipulations. Following my recent marriage, Shaw took my wife and I hostage, with my father’s blessing. It was only by a stroke of good fortune she was able to escape. Must confess I may have made it easy for my father to be prevailed upon by an unscrupulous doctor. I should have shared my experiences with my family. I should have told them what I witnessed and how the recollections impacted me. Instead, I shut them out, but I have to believe my father’s intentions were honorable. At least, I would like to think my father acted in good faith.”

“I am in a similar position.” Thomas averted his stare. “I was engaged, and my fiancée and I planned to wed this Autumn. But the visions that plagued me frightened my lady, and her father reneged on our contract. After that, my grandfather had me committed.”

“I am more sorry than I can say.” Anthony had much in common with his bunk mates. The violent representations he could not control. The imaginary enemy waiting to pounce. The nightmares. The cold sweats. “I know what it is like to be suspected of madness. To be punished for that against which you cannot defend yourself. To be called other, because you lack, when your only fault is that you answered the call of duty.”

“So, you served?” When Anthony nodded the affirmative, Henry arched a brow. “Therein lies part of the problem. Shaw did not, and he hates us for it. He punishes us for our principles and his lack thereof. The man is more brutal than any officer of my acquaintance, and I knew Picton.”

“When His Majesty issued the war cry, I purchased a commission. I rode with the fifth Cavalry Brigade, seventh Hussars.” Anthony glanced at his stump and frowned. “Lost my arm at Waterloo.”

“The Hussars?” Charles whistled in monotone. “You must be well-connected. What is your name?”

“I am Lord Anthony, Marquess of Rockingham.” The three patients glanced at each other, surprise marking their expressions, and in concert returned their scrutiny to Anthony. It was then he realized he was garbed only in a dingy cotton gown, the same as the others, and his state of undress must have undermined his credibility. “I concede it appears I am not so well-connected as you believe. What happened to my clothes?”

“They take them.” Henry smacked a fist to a palm. “When I was admitted, I was stripped of all personal items. Just as they take everything from us. Our dignity. Our freedom. Our humanity.”

“Your belongings will probably be sold. Shaw is a greedy bastard, and he will do whatever he can to make your confinement as miserable as possible.” Thomas inclined his head. “I beg your pardon, but are you really a nobleman?”

“He is, indeed,” Charles answered and smiled. “Must admit I didn’t recognize you, at first, Major Bartlett. In here, we all begin to look alike. That was a devil of a charge at La Haye Sainte. But I thought your elder brother held the title.”

“He did.” The tattered red coat, riddled with holes and singe marks, the mangled remains, almost unrecognizable, flashed before his eyes. Anthony shuddered and blinked. “John was killed at Waterloo. And the fifty-second’s rout of the Garde should go down in history, although Wellington did not give you proper credit.”

“Commiserations and my thanks. There is enough glory to go around, and Wellington’s oversight in his report does not negate what we accomplished.” Charles arched a brow. “I beg your pardon, but how did you end up here? That is to say, you were born into wealth and privilege. You are heir to the dukedom of Swanborough. Your family can afford the best medical professionals and treatment. Why, on earth, would they deliver you into Little Bethlam, where no one knows we exist? Where there is no salvation. There is no hope. There is only never-ending pain.”

“It is doubtful your families know what you endure. I suspect they wanted to help you. In that respect, I suppose my story is much like any other.” Anthony shrugged, even as Charles’s words cut him to the marrow. “My father thinks me mad, because I am often beset, through no fault of my own, by nightmares and assailed by unpredictable images of battle. In hindsight, I never welcomed his support. In my struggles with memories of the carnage, I shut him out. I excluded everyone, preferring to suffer in silence.”

Yet Arabella forced her way into his heart and soul, offering unfailing strength and understanding. He envisioned her, as she slept in the early morning hours, so cherubic in slumber. The way she splayed her arms, welcoming him when he made love to her. And her kisses. Ah, her kisses, which could banish the darkest thoughts from the deepest crevices of his mind.

“Who is not after surviving war.” Henry punched his pillow. “Despite what Shaw claims, I submit we are not mad. We evidence symptoms of army life. We spent years on guard for enemy combatants hell bent on trying to kill us. We subsisted on meals comprised of fare no sane person would call food. We left our loved ones and all that was familiar to us to journey to the Continent, where we camped in conditions unfit for man and beast, fighting on lands that were not ours to own. And we are blamed because we exhibit lingering effects of the horrors we witnessed.”

“In that I cannot argue.” In that moment, Anthony remembered he was not alone. “You remind me of my friends.” He sat upright. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I promise you ours is not a lost cause. Even now, there are those working to free us, and I will not leave here without you. This I pledge on my honor as a gentleman.”

“I would have it on your word, as a soldier.” Thomas narrowed his gaze. “I have known no gentleman