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

audience, but I wager he will listen to his lifelong friend. Their comradeship is the stuff of legend, and from whatever angle I approach our situation, your father is the only person with legal standing to protest Swanborough’s actions. With Rockingham institutionalized, your custody should revert to your father, per the marriage contract, but he will have to challenge the duke, in court, or so I suspect. My solicitor will have more to say on the matter.”

“Papa will not fail me.” If she said that enough she just might believe it. Old alliances died hard, and her father often toed the line, especially when Swanborough wanted something. And the duke wanted her. “After all, his blood runs in my veins.”

When the luxurious equipage turned onto Oxford Street, she stretched her legs and tugged the hem of her sleeves. Still wearing the lavender wool traveling gown, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She would have preferred to change into something more suitable to greet her parents, but Beaulieu refused to stop except for necessary conveniences.

The coach traversed Grosvenor Square and veered onto Upper Brook Street. With palms resting on her thighs, she inhaled a deep breath. She revisited her well-rehearsed lines and methodically arranged her arguments. The rig slowed to a halt before her family home, and a footman placed a stool and tugged the latch.

She should have waited for assistance, as would a proper lady. Instead, she hiked her skirts, in a scandalous display of her calves, and leaped to the sidewalk, leaving Beaulieu and Emily in her wake. She ran up the entrance stairs and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she gritted her teeth and pounded her clenched fist on the oak panel, which at last opened.

“My lady.” A bleary-eyed Travers responded, as he pulled on his black jacket. “Pray, come inside.”

“Where are my parents?” She pushed past him and stomped into the foyer. “Are they awake?”

“Arabella?” Mama peered from the landing and belted her robe. “What are you doing here? Is Lord Rockingham with you?”

“You do not know?” Tears welled, and Arabella sniffed. She did not want to cry. “Have you not heard, or did Papa lie to you, too?”

“I beg your pardon?” Papa appeared, just behind Mama, and they descended to the first floor. “What is the meaning of this? Why have you brought Lord Beaulieu and a stranger into our home at this hour?”

Well-composed charges and rebuttals, based in logic, always her ally, traipsed her tongue. Instead, she marched to her father and pummeled him. She beat her father for the husband she loved. She fought for her unborn babe. More than anything, she let her fists speak for her, pouring all the fear and anger from her hands, that he might know how much he hurt her.

“Arabella, control yourself.” Papa caught her by her wrists, so she resorted to kicking his shins. “Will you cease your outlandish behavior, and tell me why you behave like a berserk mare.”

“How could you do it?” She wrenched free. “How could you betray me, so completely?”

“I don’t understand.” Papa motioned to Travers. “Wake the household and prepare tea, in the drawing room.”

“Oh, no.” Arabella shook her head and bared her teeth. “You will not negotiate your way out of this, Father. After what I have endured in these last months, you will face me and the consequences you wrought.”

“Arabella, calm yourself.” Her father raked his fingers through his hair. Once her hero, her champion, he seemed so small in the cold light of day. “Sit down and tell me of what you believe I am guilty.”

“You greet me with easy smiles and polite hospitality.” When Beaulieu tried to draw her to the sofa, she shrugged from his grip. “Are you so certain of your innocence? You knew of Swanborough’s plan for his son. You told me of it, prior to the engagement.”

“Of course, I did.” Papa eased into an overstuffed chair. “I would never lie to you. And, as far as I know, the terms have not changed. Lord Rockingham is to receive the best of care, and you are to be housed, as befits a marchioness, in London.”

“Anthony spoke with his father prior to our marriage. They settled their disagreements, or so we thought.” She paced before the windows overlooking North Audley. So many times, they gathered in the comfortably appointed room, she could navigate it with her eyes closed. The soft scent of lilac, which her mother favored, teased her nose. She admired the chaise upon which her father sat and read many a Christmastide story. Everything evoked fond memories, but she found no comfort. “En route to our honeymoon, we were taken captive by a disreputable doctor named Shaw.”

“What?” Mama rushed to Arabella’s side. Taking her by the hands, Mama met her stare. “I thought you were in Brighton.” To Papa, Mama said, “My lord, did you know of this?”

“I was assured that my own father supported Swanborough’s scheme.” Arabella narrowed her stare. “What say you, Papa? Did you or did you not consent to my imprisonment?”

“I…I—that is to say, I’m not sure.” Papa opened his mouth and closed it. Then he stood and glanced at Emily. “Who is this person you have brought into my house?”

“She is Emily, my lady’s maid.” Arabella flicked her fingers, and the dutiful servant came to stand beside her. “She has proof of Swanborough’s nefarious plot.” She accepted the letter from the maid. “In this correspondence, written in Shaw’s own hand, he confirms the duke’s intent that I remain at Sanderstead, even after delivering a child. There was to be no London residence. And my husband has been taken I know not where.”

“There must be some mistake.” Papa blinked like an owl. He paced and then halted. He pointed and then waved at no one. “Swanborough is my oldest and dearest friend. He has been a brother to me from the cradle. He would never deceive me.”

“Swanborough is the worst of libertines.” Beaulieu squared