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

“You have me there.” Anthony chuckled.

The rasp of keys had everyone looking toward the door.

“Lively, men.” Charles plopped on his pillow, and the others followed suit, so Anthony took their lead. “No matter what happens, remember, it will go better for you if you yield. If you resist, Shaw will exact blood in recompense.”

The door opened to reveal two burly attendants garbed in white shirts and trousers. From a pocket, one guard produced a large key. He walked straight to Anthony’s bed and unlocked the shackle.

“Dr. Shaw wishes to speak to you.” None-too-gently, the surly ruffian grabbed Anthony by the back of the neck and threw him to the floor. “Get a move on, fancy pants.”

“There are no ranks, here.” The second thug kicked Anthony in the ribs. “We hold the advantage.”

Given Charles’s warning, Anthony held his tongue and scrambled to his bare feet. There would be time enough for retribution, after he was liberated. With a custodian at either side, he marched into the wide but dark hall. Screams emanated from all directions, inspiring a host of familiar vignettes.

His heart raced, and his ears rang with cannon fire. Enemy soldiers, bearing rifles and swords, emerged from the walls. Panic rose in his throat, choking him. In silence, he reminded himself that none of the images were real. They were a figment of his tortured imagination.

To fight the torments, he summoned Arabella’s angelic face. He envisioned the subtle bounce of her breasts as he took her. He savored the taste of her lush lips. Then she was there, by his side. Bolstering his courage. Calming his frazzled nerves. Banishing his demons.

Slowly, he emerged from the disturbing reverie and focused on breathing. On the simple act of inhaling and exhaling in a relaxed rhythm.

“This way.” The first guard struck Anthony upside the head. “If you give me any trouble, you will be lucky if you live to regret it.”

At a double door entry, the blackguard pushed open a single oak panel and shoved Anthony over the threshold. In contrast with the sparse, dirty asylum, the well-appointed office boasted rich carpets and damask wall coverings, in indigo. A hand-tooled desk held pride of place between two huge windows sans bars. At right, a side table held a crystal decanter, filled with amber liquid, and six brandy balloons. At left, bookcases spanned from end to end.

“Welcome to my lair, Lord Rockingham.” A leather high-back chair rotated to reveal Shaw. With his elbows perched on the armrests, he steepled his hands and sneered. “Have a seat.”

“I would thank you, but I doubt I could do so with conviction.” Anthony eased into one of the two matching, shield-backed Hepplewhite chairs. He shifted his weight and noted a slight tic at the corner of Shaw’s mouth. Resting his hand in his lap, he rolled his shoulders. “Perhaps you can tell me how long I am to be a guest in your dubious facility?”

Shaw nodded once, and a guard slapped Anthony across the face.

“You do not ask questions, Lord Rockingham.” Shaw glowered. “You do as I say, when I say, or you will know my wrath.” He lurched forward and slammed a fist to the blotter. “Where is Lady Rockingham? What have you done with her?”

“She is far beyond your reach, in the safety of friends who would give their life to defend her.” Anthony smiled. “You may do what you wish with me, but you should know those same friends will come for me.”

“You should hope you live that long.” Shaw threw back his head and cackled, and gooseflesh covered Anthony. Then the doctor quieted and caught Anthony in a lethal glare. “No one makes me look like a fool. The Duke of Swanborough is not privy to Lady Rockingham’s escape, and you had better pray he never discovers her little mutiny. Now, where is she?” Again, he pounded the desktop. “Answer me. Answer me, or so help me before I am done with you, you will wish you were never born.”

Anthony lifted his chin but said naught.

Shaw waved.

The first blow landed to Anthony’s stomach. The second caught him in the jaw and sent him flying from the chair. The taste of blood filled his mouth, as both attendants kicked him repeatedly. Relentlessly. Someone lifted him from the floor, only to knock him to the rug. His vision blurred, and the sound of rushing water filled his ears. At last, he drifted into merciful unconsciousness.

*

Tradesmen and milkmaids hurried about their business. Light spilled from the windows of a bakery, the smell of fresh bread wafting in the air, and a young man drove his paper delivery cart, as the coach steered through the sleepy, pre-dawn heart of the British Empire. On the sidewalk, laborers collected discarded refuse, and stray dogs foraged for food.

To evade Shaw and his men, they drove northeast from Hersham, until they reached the turnpike and the Mile End toll gate. With her nose pressed to the glass, Arabella reflected on various appeals, to sway her father, because she would need his help to free Anthony. Her heart beat in time with the steady clip-clop of the horses, and she wrung her fingers in her lap. Then she plopped into the squabs, and at her side Emily stirred.

“Are you certain your father will be in town?” Beaulieu checked his timepiece and yawned. “Most members of the ton remain in the country until October.”

“My father journeys to the city at the end of summer, without fail.” She settled her skirts and worried her bottom lip. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. She shifted her weight. “He prefers to visit his tailor and plan his agenda for the upcoming parliamentary session, without the crowds associated with the Little Season. He will be here.”

“Then let us hope he will hear our side.” Beaulieu glanced at the passing storefronts, as they navigated Cheapside, and frowned. “We will need Lord Ainsworth’s support, if we have any chance of succeeding. It is doubtful Swanborough will grant us an