Good Dukes Wear Black (3 page)

Fortunately, Ophelia had long ago resigned herself to the fact that handsome men, for all that they might be pleasant to look at, were rarely worth the trouble.

Just look at what poor Maggie had had to endure at the hands of George Grayson.

No, she thought, stepping back into the crowded ballroom, she was quite happy not to let her mother see her in the Duke of Trent's company.

She valued her freedom far too much to dangle after a man like that.

 

Two

“This is excellent prose, Miss Dauntry.”

Ophelia couldn't stop her smile of satisfaction at the compliment from her editor, Mr. Edwin Carrington. She'd worked hard on her piece for this week's
Ladies' Gazette
and was pleased to know he had noticed.

“Thank you, Mr. Carrington,” she said from the doorway of his office in the cramped quarters of the newspaper. “I thought my readers might appreciate hearing about my own trouble mastering the French knot. It can be quite difficult for a beginner.”

“And that's just the sort of personal touch I appreciate about your columns, Miss Dauntry.” His smile was genuine, though Ophelia could tell that he was ready to get to the next in the stack of stories on his cluttered desk. Running a newspaper wasn't an easy business and Ophelia knew from her time with the
Gazette
that Edwin gave it his full attention.

Before he could dismiss her, however, she broached the topic that had actually brought her to her editor's office. “Did you have a chance to look at my piece about the orphan problem in the East End? I know it's not the sort of thing we normally print, but I thought perhaps…”

His sigh at her words told Ophelia all she needed to know.

“It's not that your story is bad, Miss Dauntry,” he said, his gray eyes kind as he gathered another set of pages. “It's just that the
Ladies' Gazette
isn't that sort of paper. I've tried to tell both you and Mrs. Grayson as much, but you both keep coming to me with these kind of pieces. I greatly fear that I will lose both of you to one of the larger London papers soon.”

Before she could respond, Ophelia felt her friend Maggie Grayson step up beside her. Both ladies moved farther into the office to stand side by side in front of Mr. Carrington's desk.

“But we could make it that sort of paper, could we not, Mr. Carrington?” Maggie asked with a reassuring squeeze of Ophelia's arm. “It's just a matter of a piece here and there about more serious issues. Ladies do not wish to always be wrapped in cotton wool, you know. And I believe they would appreciate hearing about things that are happening right here in their very own city. Some of them have very deep pockets indeed and might dip into them to help some of those unfortunates who live in those parts of London the genteel usually avoid.”

Mr. Carrington's handsome face twisted with genuine unhappiness. “I do understand what you both are saying,” he said, running a hand through his light brown hair. “But I have to think about the bank balance. And unfortunately, our advertisers do not like change. Perhaps sometime later we can revisit the issue, but for now, I'm afraid the answer is still no. Besides, I believe in that asylum story you've been begging me to publish, Mrs. Grayson, you are very clear about the ties between one asylum in particular and the Lords of Anarchy.”

Maggie's gaze sharpened.

This was the first Ophelia had heard about the link between the Lords of Anarchy and an asylum. Had Maggie refrained from mentioning it because of Ophelia's connection with Trent? Why would she when her own husband was a member?

Her thoughts were interrupted, however, by her friend's reply to their editor. “I do understand that you would refrain from drawing the wrath of a group like the Lords of Anarchy, Mr. Carrington. I believe they have any number of powerful men counted among their number. But sometimes it is necessary to cross powerful people in order to get the truth out in the open.”

“It's not so much fear, Mrs. Grayson,” Carrington replied, “though I am quite abashed that you would think me such a coward—as knowing where our audience lies. We appeal to ladies who are looking for a bit of escape from the realities you both speak about in these stories I've rejected. They do not wish to hear about filthy urchins without enough food in their bellies. Nor do they look to the
Ladies' Gazette
for descriptions of what it's like to be held against one's will in a madhouse. They come to us for gentle commentary from trusted friends—you two—that they can rely upon to help them with their needlework, or to divert them with a bit of gossip. I am sorry, but the answer is still, it must be, no.”

His refusal hung in the air for a moment before Ophelia felt compelled to speak up.

“Thank you for reading the piece anyway, Mr. Carrington,” she said, reaching out to take the sheets she'd carefully copied from her draft the evening before.

“Now, I wish you will both drop this formal business and call me Edwin,” he said with a smile that was a bit sunnier. “We're like a family here. At least I feel as if we are. Perhaps you both feel differently.”

It was something he'd brought up before, but despite her admiration for her editor, Ophelia wasn't quite ready to drop the level of formality between them. Edwin Carrington was a handsome single man. And he was her employer. She needed that last bit of distance between them, if only for her own sake.

Maggie, on the other hand, felt no such compunction. “Very well, Edwin,” she said with a bright smile. “Now I believe we will leave you to your work. Ophelia and I promised ourselves we'd go hat shopping after we turned in our stories. And I've got my eye on a very pretty bonnet in the shop down the street.”

“Good morning, then, ladies,” he said as they turned to leave.

“Good morning, Mr. Carrington,” Ophelia said over her shoulder.

She heard his sigh as she and Maggie shut his office door behind them.

Once they were on the street, she spoke up. “Do you think it's a good idea to become so familiar with Mr. Carrington, Maggie? Especially after your husband's accusations?”

But Maggie threaded her arm through Ophelia's and made a noise that sounded remarkably like a snort.

“You let me worry about my husband, my dear,” she said firmly. “I hardly think allowing Edwin to call me Maggie will lead to any sort of romantic liaison. We are friends. Just as you and I are friends. It would be absurd if you made me address you by your title all the time.”

“Not in my mother's circles,” Ophelia said wryly. She knew just what was expected of her as the eldest daughter of a gentleman, but she really did wish that she could go through life with the same ease of manner as Maggie did. Despite the fact that her father-in-law was a baron, Maggie was never high in the instep or worried about her own consequence. “She is already unhappy enough that I've chosen to write for a newspaper. I can only imagine the sort of fuss she'd kick up if she knew Mr. Carrington was encouraging me to address him as Edwin. She'd likely see it as an assault on my virtue and demand that I stop writing for the paper at once.”

“Well, what she does not know won't harm her,” Maggie said firmly. “Now, let's concentrate on that delicious little chip bonnet you've got your eye on. I for one have had enough grimness to last a lifetime after all my research about madness and asylums.”

“I hate that you've done all that work only to have Edwin refuse to publish your story,” Ophelia said, still focused on the paper.

“Never you fear, Miss Dauntry,” her friend said as she opened the door of Watson's Haberdashery. “I have other options. And you do too. But now, let us focus on something pretty.”

Soon the two ladies were discussing the merits of green ribbon versus red, and silk versus grosgrain. Ophelia had gone to the other side of the shop to look at a pretty hat decorated with violets when she heard a male voice from where Maggie had been standing.

“I'm afraid you'll need to come with us, madam.”

Though he didn't say her name, Ophelia knew instinctively that the man was speaking to Maggie.

“What's this about?” she heard Maggie ask, and turning she saw that the other lady was flanked on either side by two enormous men who were clearly not gentlemen.

Setting aside the bonnet she'd been contemplating, Ophelia hurried across the shop to where the hulking men had each taken one of Maggie's arms.

“Everything has been arranged, madam,” said the larger of the two men in a placating tone. “We're going to take you to a place where you can get a nice long rest.”

“What's the meaning of this?” Ophelia asked sharply as she arrived at her friend's side.

“I'm sure I don't know,” Maggie said, her eyes wide with worry, even as she tried unsuccessfully to pull away. “Unhand me, please, sir. At once.”

“Can't do that, ma'am,” said the shorter fellow. “You're Mrs. Margaret Grayson, correct?”

Exchanging a troubled look with Ophelia, Maggie nodded. “I am, but that still doesn't give you the right—”

“Here,” the larger man said, pulling a much-folded page from somewhere within the folds of his coat. “Right here it says we're to take you to the Hayes Clinic.” He pointed at the page with a beefy finger.

At the mention of the Hayes Clinic, Ophelia's stomach dropped. She knew all too well that the inhabitants of Dr. Archibald Hayes's hospital for the mentally unstable were made to suffer. Maggie herself had related the horror stories to her as she researched them for her story about madhouses.

Surely that was no coincidence.

Ophelia knew instinctively that Maggie was in real danger.

“May I see your writ, please?” Ophelia asked the nearest of the two attendants, hoping her brisk tone would cow them for a moment.

Wordlessly the man handed the page to her, which she read aloud. “‘By direction of Mr. George Grayson, I hereby authorize the bearers to take charge of Mrs. Margaret Grayson, she being insane and a danger to herself and others, and convey her to the Hayes Clinic'. Signed by A. L. Hayes, M.D.”

On hearing the words, Maggie's eyes widened and she paled. “George did this?”

Ophelia's heart broke for her. But she knew where the real blame for this debacle lay—with the Lords of Anarchy. Trent might have said he was going to root out the bad elements of the club, but his support for Grayson last night had shown he wasn't serious. If public shaming of his wife hadn't gotten Grayson kicked out, why should he fear having her kidnapped would have consequences for his membership?

Whether he knew what his men were up to or not, Trent was the club's leader. He was responsible.

He might be the close friend of Leonora's and Hermione's husbands, but Ophelia knew better than to trust him. Not when Maggie's life was on the line. And not when the Lords of Anarchy had shown themselves to be open to violence and even murder in the past.

Leopards, she knew from experience, didn't change their spots.

Stepping in front of her friend, Ophelia drew herself up to her taller-than-the-average-lady height. “Insane?” she asked them, adopting the air of a dowager duchess facing a defiant underling. “Mrs.Grayson is no more insane than the man in the moon. Leave her be this instant.”

“Can't do it, miss,” said the man nearest her. “Orders is orders and if this here paper says Dr. Hayes says she's insane, then she's insane.”

“Let me see that paper, then,” said Mr. Watson, the owner of the haberdashery, who along with his clerks had been watching the scene with wide-eyed interest. With a shrug the beefy attendant took the paper from Ophelia and handed it to the shop owner.

Putting on his spectacles, Watson scanned the paper and looked up apologetically at the women. “It does look official, Mrs. Grayson. Though I don't think you look any madder than Miss Dauntry does.”

“See here, miss,” said the talkative attendant, “we've got our orders and if we don't get back before too long we're going to get in trouble. We'll take good care of your friend.”

Even as he said the words, the other fellow had gone behind Ophelia, and by the time she turned, he'd already put her friend's wrists in irons.

“Unhand me,” Maggie said, trying and failing to pull away. “This is absurd! My husband would never do this! Go see him if you don't believe me!”

“Wait,” Ophelia said, alarmed at how quickly they'd got round her. “You can't do this. It isn't right!”

But the two men ignored her pleas and began marching Maggie toward the door, where a crowd of gawkers had gathered to watch the show.

“Why don't you help me stop them?” Ophelia demanded to them. “Can't you see she's being taken against her will? That writ could be a forgery for all we know.”

“No offense, miss,” said a man dressed in a military uniform near the door, “I don't know the two of you from Adam's cat. Maybe this lady is insane. I've heard of Dr. Hayes and he's a Harley Street specialist. Happens he knows what he's talking about.”

Even as he said the words, Ophelia felt the hopelessness of her argument. These men didn't know them. And clearly logic wouldn't sway them.

As the men hauled Maggie toward the door, her friend cried out, “Find my notes, Ophelia. There must be something in them that will settle this.”

But even if she did find something in the notes, Ophelia knew that if she allowed the men to take Maggie it would be that much more difficult to get her away from them later.

Desperate, she grabbed hold of one of the kidnappers, and pulled with all her might. But to her frustration, he only flung her off like a giant swatting a fly. In fact, he threw her back with such force that she flew into a shelf where an elaborate display of ladies' boots had been stacked, which tumbled down as she hit it. The heel of one boot caught her in the forehead.