Once she’d have scoffed at the suggestion that her father would support her through her quest. But many things had changed, including her status as a penniless and friendless widow. Now she was openly acknowledged as the wealthy heiress, Lady Grace Marlow. Even poor Josiah’s name had faded into oblivion. The thought made her sad, as if her husband was the same failure in death that he’d been in life.
But Josiah’s ghost was a pale insubstantial shadow. Its melancholy whispers were inaudible beneath her clamoring anxiety for Matthew.
“Grace, I’d rather you waited in the coach where you’ll be safe.” Kermonde clutched a leather strap as the vehicle lurched into another pothole.
This argument had gone on for weeks but Grace had remained obdurate. After so many months receiving secondhand news or no news at all, she needed to see Matthew with her own eyes. Her only concession to her godfather was that for discretion’s sake, she’d agreed to wear a mask and keep silent. The world must never discover Lady Grace Marlow had been mistaken for a common harlot.
“Francis, let the chit be.” Her father pressed her hand then let her go. “We’ve gathered more men than Wellington had at Vittoria. Can’t you see she’s set on having her way?”
Behind Kermonde’s luxurious equipage traveled a dozen horsemen and two coachloads of armed retainers. Bringing up the rear, another carriage contained two royal physicians. King George had been furious when he learned of Matthew’s ordeal. The late Lord Sheene had been a great friend, advising him on his art collection. What had clinched His Majesty’s interest, though, were the brilliant botanical articles. Thank heaven she’d stolen them.
How her father had changed, that he was prepared to defend her so openly. Behind the mask, tears prickled her eyes. But the warmth was fleeting. Fulfilling as her reunion with her mother and father was, her thoughts never strayed far from Matthew. She wanted to look into his eyes. She wanted to hear his deep voice with its undercurrent of wry amusement. She wanted his scent. She wanted to touch him. Only his physical presence would silence the demons howling in her heart, insisting she couldn’t save him.
She was exhausted and elated and worried and frightened. She bit her lip as dread rose to choke her. Could they edge so close to victory and still fail?
She sat up straight and uncurled fingers that had tightened into stiff claws in her skirt. She must be strong. For Matthew. For herself.
The carriage turned toward the gates and she braced herself for what was to come.
“Where did the bitch go?”
Matthew didn’t bother lifting his head to answer his uncle. I don’t know had worn down through repetition. He sagged in his shackles, resting the weight on his arms to ease his aching legs. He was tired, so tired.
Soon, they’d release him from the chains that bound him to the garden room wall. Only to tie him to the table where he could catch a few hours’ sleep. The pattern had become horribly familiar since Grace’s escape.
And she had escaped. His uncle still sought her but after all this time, Lord John must know she was long gone.
That thought alone sustained him. Somehow she’d eluded her pursuers. Even the legendary Bow Street Runners had admitted defeat. Thank Christ, once she’d got out, she’d realized Matthew was beyond help. He’d been sick with worry that she meant to mount some futile rescue attempt and willfully place herself within his uncle’s reach.
“You’re a fool, boy,” Lord John said coldly from the armchair set before his chained captive. His voice was the sole thing in the room that was cold. Matthew wore only a shirt and light trousers. Still, he sweated profusely in the greenhouse atmosphere.
After four months, he should be inured to the stifling heat. But he lived for the hour in the morning and the hour in the afternoon when they let him exercise outside. That and three meal periods a day constituted his allotment of freedom. He cooperated to keep his strength up. In eight weeks and two days, his promise to Grace ended and he’d kill his uncle. What happened afterward, he didn’t care.
“The slut has forgotten you, taken another lover.” Lord John rested his hands on the top of his stick.
Matthew told himself that he hoped Grace had found someone else to care for. And knew himself a damned liar. Corrosive jealousy burned him at the idea of her in another man’s arms, of another man touching that silken skin, bringing her to sobbing pleasure.
That other man was a lucky devil. To be free. Luckier still to be with Grace.
Matthew must have failed to hide his reaction. His uncle laughed low and salaciously and his fingers tightened over the smooth yellow knob. “She’s a peach, isn’t she? Sweet as honey. And quick to spread her legs.”
Matthew didn’t respond. The taunts were too familiar.
“When we find her, I’ll try her myself before I give her to Monks and Filey. And my other men.”
Matthew raised his head and glared at his uncle. If hatred could kill, Lord John would be in his grave instead of brushing an invisible fleck of dust from his heavy brown velvet coat sleeve.
His uncle still mused on what he intended to do to Grace. “Perhaps I’ll let you watch. To revive fond memories. I might even permit you a slice before we finish her.”
Sour loathing rose like vomit in Matthew’s throat but he clenched hard against it. He must appear docile, beaten, or Lord John would never release him. And he must be free to kill.
From experience, Matthew knew this inquisition could continue for hours. His uncle called on the estate at erratic intervals to question him. Although he must by now admit nothing, not exhaustion, not pain, not anger, would make Matthew reveal what he knew.
“Of course, there is another way, nephew.” His uncle checked his fingernails as if discussing the weather. “Tell me where she went and you’ll have her back in your bed quick as a snap of your fingers.”
“I don’t know where she is,” Matthew said in a voice rusty with disuse, although he knew it was fruitless to reiterate his ignorance.
He changed the angle of his body to ease the strain on his arms. His lank hair flopped around his face. For four months, his daily grooming routine had been restricted to a shave and a quick wash in a basin. He knew his uncle’s strategy was to break his spirit, but that didn’t make him any happier to know he looked the worst kind of ruffian. Since recovering his wits, he’d been fastidious about his appearance. Dressing like a gentleman had been a gesture of defiance against the shrieking specters of madness, captivity, and hopelessness.