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

the unknown individual helped Anthony sit upright. He blinked his eyes, and then it was as if he was thrown into the present, and he thought he imagined his father, upbraiding Shaw. At last, Anthony’s vision cleared, and he discovered Beaulieu and Greyson supported him.

“I must be dead.” Anthony convulsed and regurgitated water. “I prayed for an angel and I got you two. Tell me, are you really here, or am I dreaming?”

“Dreaming of me?” Beaulieu chucked Anthony’s chin. “You must be mad, and I am relieved to see your sense of humor survived, unscathed.” Beaulieu’s expression sobered, and he half-hugged Anthony. “Thank god, we found you.”

“Your bride will be happy to see you.” Greyson grinned. “She put up quite a fight and challenged your father, on your behalf.”

“Of course, she did.” Anthony laughed.

“What is the meaning of this affront?” Holding a handkerchief to his nose, Anthony’s father wagged a finger at Shaw. “You were supposed to help my son, not kill him.”

“Your Grace, my methods may be crude, but they are effective.” Shaw shuffled his feet. “With a little more time—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Father glanced at Anthony and winced. “I wouldn’t house my best hound in this facility. Gather my son’s belongings and give him a bath. I am taking him home.”

“Father, they sold my personal effects.” Anthony sat still, while Beaulieu and Greyson unfastened the rivets and iron bars. “And they stole my signet ring.”

“Is this true?” Father lowered his chin and favored Shaw with a look that reduced many a man to a shuddering mass of flesh, and the doctor fared no better. When Shaw nodded the affirmative, Father narrowed his gaze. “Where is the ring?”

“Actually, Your Grace, it is a simple misunderstanding.” Shaw retreated and then ran to his desk. From a drawer, he produced the item in question. “Here it is, safe and sound. I thought to preserve it for Lord Rockingham.”

“Dr. Shaw, although I doubt you are an actual doctor, I was wrong to think so highly of you, and that is a mistake that ends here.” Father snapped his fingers, and his footmen stood at attention. “I hereby withdraw all financial support, and I shall report you to the proper authorities when I return to London. But until that time, I demand you terminate patient therapy until further notice, when qualified specialists can assess those still housed within these walls. For now, your services are no longer needed.”

“Wait.” Exhausted, Anthony dropped to his knees, on the floor, and Beaulieu and Greyson lifted Anthony to one of the Hepplewhite chairs. “I cannot depart without freeing my friends, and they require medical attention, after they intervened on my behalf. We must help them.”

“We will do so.” Greyson brushed hair from Anthony’s face. “Right now, you are our primary concern. Have you looked in a mirror, of late?”

“No.” Anthony examined his bruised wrist. “And neither have I eaten in two days. As of this moment, I could feast on my own toenails.”

“How appetizing.” Beaulieu wrinkled his nose. “First, you require a bath and a fresh set of clothes. We cannot take you to your wife in this condition.”

“Promise me something.” Anthony studied the countless cuts and scrapes to his legs. “Do not allow Arabella to see me like this. I would not traumatize her, given her delicate condition.”

“I would argue there is nothing delicate about your bride.” Beaulieu snickered. “Now, let us get you into a tub of hot water, and then we journey to London.”

“To London.” Anthony anticipated a heartfelt reunion, but he would delay until the majority of his wounds healed and he regained some weight. “Take me away, my friends.”

With that, he stood—and promptly fainted.

*

Darkness filled the drawing room, and a maid lit a candelabrum, illuminating the chamber in a soft, saffron glow, as the sun set on the day after the terse exchange with the Duke of Swanborough, and Beaulieu and Greyson departed, in search of Anthony. On the sidewalk, Londoners scurried in all directions, carrying packages and going about their business, blissfully unaware of the dark cloud that enshrouded her home.

With Warrington acting as a disinterested arbiter, Patience played cards with Lord Michael, Papa sat in his comfy chair and perused the latest copy of The Times, and Mama embroidered. Stationed at the window, where she lingered for the past three hours, Arabella remained on guard for any sign of the ducal traveling coach, her hopes dashed every time a hack or a town carriage drove past.

“My dear, please, sit down.” Mama patted the empty space beside her, on the chaise. “You will wear yourself out, and that is not good for the babe. Worrying will not make them magically appear.”

“Mama, if I do not stand, I fear I shall explode, because the suspense is killing me.” Arabella paced and hugged her belly. Countless possibilities haunted her waking hours, and she had to do something to expend the nervous energy that threatened to rip her in two. “I must know what happened to Anthony, and I cannot rest until I am apprised of his fate.”

“What if he is content in his position?” Papa inquired in a soft tone. “What if Dr. Shaw is not the villain you portray? Have you considered that?”

“I have, Papa.” In reality, she had thought of little else, but she trusted her instincts, and she knew, without doubt, that Shaw was the most heinous libertine. “If Lord Rockingham is convinced he is where he belongs, if he is happy, I will not interfere. But I will accept no one’s word but Lord Rockingham’s.”

“And what of the bargain you struck with Swanborough?” Papa lowered the paper and frowned. “Do you intend to honor your promise, because I am not sure I can allow it.”

“I suppose I shall decide when it is time.” She reflected on the possibilities and resolved that, no matter what, she would never permit Shaw anywhere near her or her child. Indeed, she would renegotiate the terms of her agreement with the