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

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.” Emily curtseyed. “But I know people, and Shaw is a no-good silk snatcher.”

“Please, one at a time.” Papa rubbed his eyes. “I am scarcely awake, and I will not have you besmirch the name of my friend, when he has done naught wrong.”

“But he has, Papa. Do not take my word for it.” Arabella offered the correspondence, which he accepted. “Read it for yourself.”

Her father unfolded the parchment and moved near a candlestick bearing a single taper, and Mama peered over his shoulder. As he perused the missive, he squinted. When he furrowed his brow, she stepped forward.

“It is all there for you to see.” She fought a lump in her throat, and the blasted tears resurfaced. Her chest tightened, as her heart bled for her father, because she never wanted to hurt him, but she had to save Anthony. “Do you deny involvement in this dastardly enterprise?”

“I deny nothing and own to nothing.” Papa pressed the backs of his knuckles to his mouth. Again, he scanned the dispatch, his gaze darting back and forth. “Yet, I cannot reconcile the instructions documented herein with what I was told.”

“Do you suspect me?” Arabella held a clenched fist to her bosom. “Do you accuse me of falsehood, Papa?”

“N-no. That is to say—I don’t know what to think.” Transfixed, he wiped his furrowed brow and licked his lips. For a pregnant moment, quiet fell on the impromptu gathering, but the tension grew thick as the London fog. “I would speak with my daughter, in private.”

“Lady Rockingham, please, check your temper,” Beaulieu whispered and cupped her elbow. “I know you are upset, and you have every right to be, but we need your father’s support, if we are to get Rockingham back.”

With nary a reply, she nodded.

Mama stepped forward. “But I want—”

“Am I not the master of this household? I said I will speak with my daughter, alone.” With a flushed face, Papa grabbed Arabella by the arm and stomped to his study. With a swift push, he thrust her across the threshold and slammed the door shut behind him. When a reproduction of an oil portrait of Hans Holbein fell from its mount, she started. Papa eased into his high back chair and sighed. “All right, my girl. Out with it, and I will have the whole, ugly truth, no matter how unsavory.”

“Papa, what I detailed in the drawing room is what happened.” She neared the large desk, where her father always meted punishments, when she was a child, and perched on the corner. It was a familiar position, designed to grant her the advantage, because her father could never discipline her. “We were ambushed in our traveling coach. En route to Brighton, we discovered the doors were locked. The rig delivered us into the custody of Dr. Shaw, where we have been held, all these months.”

“Why didn’t you write me?” Papa tapped his fingers to the blotter. “I could have traveled to meet you and provided reassurance.”

“Are you not listening to me?” She smacked her open palm to the desktop. “We were denied contact with everyone. We were locked in our bedchamber, under guard, unable to move about as we pleased.” Again, she slapped the desktop. “Did you know of the duke’s plan? Were you privy to his double-dealings?”

“I swear to you, I did not know of any endeavor that involved kidnapping my own daughter, else I never would have agreed to the marriage.” Papa reached for her, but she withdrew. He winced and sucked in a breath. Then he pushed from the desk and stood. He walked to the window and flung back the heavy drapes. For a while, he gazed at the sky, a watercolor of vivid blue, pink, and yellow, signaling the dawn. “But I was aware of Swanborough’s intent to remove his son to an asylum, for treatment. It was for his own good, or so I was told, and I had to protect you.”

“Papa, you hosted Lord Rockingham in our home.” She tugged on the sleeve of his robe, but he steadfastly refused to look at her. “He shared our dinner table. We broke bread together. Did he strike you as mad?”

Again, unending silence.

“No, he did not.” Papa turned and searched her face. With his finger he traced the curve of her jaw. “You have grown into a woman, overnight, but I recall, with fondness, so many afternoons spent in reflection about some trivial scientific discovery. It has been my honor to nurture your inquisitive spirit. I should like, very much, to hear your assessment of Lord Rockingham. If I trust anyone’s judgement in regard to the man’s character, it is yours.”

“You wish me to plead on his behalf?” When Papa indicated the affirmative, she steeled her spine and swallowed hard. “Lord Rockingham is the kindest, gentlest man of my acquaintance. I had not known him more than an hour when I determined he needed my support. He convinced me, during our courtship and brief engagement, that he suffered no mental defect. Indeed, he is human, Papa. He witnessed unspeakable horrors, at war. I submit, only an insane person could be exposed to such carnage and remain untouched. Unfeeling. It is the very symptoms upon which the Duke of Swanborough casts aspersions that mark Lord Rockingham as sane.”

“You care for him.” Mouth agape, Papa recoiled. “You have formed an attachment with Lord Rockingham.”

“I love him, Papa. He owns me, body and soul, and there is more.” She pressed a hand to her belly. “I carry his heir, and I shall go to my grave before I allow the Duke of Swanborough to take my babe from me.”

Papa stumbled backward and fell into a chair. Resting elbows to knees, he cradled his head. With no acknowledgement of her, he stood and strode to his desk. From a drawer he pulled a few sheets of stationery. He snatched the pen from the inkwell