Good Dukes Wear Black (5 page)

Wrenching open the front door himself, he blinked to adjust his eyes to the sunlight and saw Miss Ophelia Dauntry was indeed standing there.

Or perhaps swaying there would be a better turn of phrase.

“Your grace,” she said, lowering her handkerchief from where she'd been dabbing at her forehead. “I apologize for the intrusion, but…”

And he realized several things simultaneously.

First, that she did indeed look disheveled. Her gown was dusty and torn on the sleeve, and her hat, which must once have been quite pretty, was crushed and hanging down her back by the ribbons.

Next, that she was swaying because she was, in no uncertain terms, about to succumb to a very splendid faint.

And third, and most disturbing of all, the reason she had been dabbing at her forehead was that there was quite a large cut there, which was bleeding profusely. As he well knew head wounds were apt to do.

All of these things flitted through his mind even as he watched the intrepid Miss Ophelia Dauntry begin to crumple.

Then he did what any gentleman worth his salt would do.

He caught her.

 

Three

Ophelia returned to awareness slowly. Inhaling the delicious scent of bay rum, she snuggled in a moment before she realized there was something very wrong with this situation.

Her memory of that morning's contretemps came flooding back, and just as her eyes flew open she realized she was clasped against a hard, sweaty, male chest.

Desperate to get away, she cried out, “No!” and shoved both hands against her captor. Recalling a lesson in fighting off an attacker from a male cousin, she twisted in the hopes of getting her legs low enough to kick him in between the legs, but the man who held her proved too strong.

“Be still,” he said, wrestling to regain control of her. “Miss Dauntry, be still.”

The voice was familiar to her, but in her frenzy to get away, the speaker's identity did not dawn on her. Knowing that if she did as he asked she would likely be taken away to the madhouse just as her friend had been, she raked her fingernails over his exposed neck and was rewarded by a curse.

“Damn it, you hellcat, will you stop?”

And unfortunately, that was when she realized to whom the voice belonged.

The Duke of Trent, who she was unhappy to see was glaring down at her even as he carried her through an opulent drawing room.

“Yes,” he said, as if in response to her silent question. “It's me. Trent.”

Before she could apologize he lowered her to an overstuffed settee and stepped back, his hands on his hips as he surveyed her from head to toe.

And she took the opportunity to look back.

The duke was not dressed for company that was of a certainty.

He was in his shirtsleeves, and he wore buckskin breeches but no boots. It was obvious he'd been engaging in some sort of exertions for his dark hair, which he kept shorter than was fashionable, was glistening with sweat. Ophelia had always thought him to be an intimidating man, but she'd never guessed just how much more so he would be in dishabille. Through the fine lawn of his shirt she was able to see the contours of his muscled chest and the hard strength of his arms.

She felt a blush rise in her cheeks at the memory of being clasped in those arms.

But a glance at his angry gray eyes was enough to banish the memory.

“Here,” he said curtly, handing her a pristine white handkerchief. “Your head is still bleeding. It is likely the reason you fainted.”

At the mention of it, her wound suddenly began to sting like fire. Wordlessly she took the cloth from his hands and raised it where she could feel the trickle of blood.

“May I?” he asked quietly, indicating that he would like to approach her.

Mortified at her behavior earlier, Ophelia nodded and sat quietly while he examined the cut.

She had known coming to Trent for help would be difficult but it hadn't occurred to her that she'd so thoroughly manage to embarrass herself.

“I don't think you'll need stitches,” he said curtly, his face uncomfortably close to hers, “but it definitely needs to be cleaned. I'll have someone send for the doctor.”

His mention of the doctor brought her out of her momentary fog.

“No,” she said quickly, recalling her purpose in coming here. “We don't have time. And besides, I came here for answers. Not medical treatment.”

But she made no move to rise, because even as she said the words she knew that she was in no condition to do so. Her legs were shaky and she wasn't even standing on them yet.

Trent dropped to a crouch beside the sofa, and as if he sensed her despondency, he gentled his voice. “What in the dev … heavens happened to you? Were you in an accident? Did someone strike you?”

And to her horror, Ophelia felt tears spring into her eyes. She might have been able to withstand brusqueness. But Trent's concern was too much for her flayed nerves.

Taking a deep breath, she regained her composure and related the story of what had just happened in Watson's hat shop.

“I made them show me their writ,” she said after she'd finished, “and it looked quite official.”

“And who did that to your head?” Trent asked, still frowning. “And tore your gown?”

She didn't miss the way he scanned her, as if trying to determine whether she'd been injured in ways that weren't visible to the naked eye. Despite their brief acquaintance, she sensed he was angry at the notion and only waited for her confirmation to set off after the culprit.

For someone like Ophelia who had grown up in a household of women, such protectiveness was utterly foreign. And, if she were honest, a bit heartening.

But, she reminded herself, he was the leader of the Lords of Anarchy. And likely knew already why Maggie had been taken.

Attempting to sit up and adjust her clothing into a better semblance of order, she downplayed what had happened. “I foolishly attempted to latch onto one of the men's arms and was flung into one of Mr. Watson's shelves for my troubles,” Ophelia said. “I assure you I'm quite well now.”

“I don't call fainting in my doorway from loss of blood quite well, Miss Dauntry,” said Trent, his mouth tight with anger. “And I don't tolerate men who commit violence against women. No matter the provocation.”

He was still close enough that Ophelia could see the tiny lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. As if he'd spent a great deal of time squinting at the sun. Or glaring at foolish ladies, she thought, realizing what he'd just said.

“I hardly call trying to rescue my friend provocative behavior, your grace,” she said, sitting up straighter, ignoring the throb of the cut on her forehead. “They had no right to take her away. No matter what that piece of paper they waved around said. And certainly not with the assortment of implements they had on hand. Two strong men had no need of rope and manacles to subdue her.”

Trent's dark brows drew together. “And did they use them?”

“Of course,” Ophelia said with a scowl. “Well, the manacles at any rate. And when she fought back, they used their fists. That is when I attempted to intervene. I couldn't stand by and just let them take her away. Even if no one else was willing to do something, I was.”

He was silent for a moment, as if imagining the scene for himself.

“And if you are so opposed to violence against women,” she said, her voice sounding strident to her own ears, “then perhaps you can tell me why the Lords of Anarchy are connected to Dr. Hayes and his clinic in the first place. And why George Grayson, a member of your club, would have his own wife taken there. If it's because of the article Maggie was writing, you will be happy to know that our editor, Mr. Carrington, had chosen not to publish it. So George Grayson's little stunt was pointless.”

As she spoke, Ophelia saw Trent's brows draw together and his smooth jaw clench. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, however, a kitchen maid entered carrying a tray of tea and a platter of assorted biscuits.

As if suddenly aware of how close he was to her, Trent rose from his position beside the settee and took a seat in the chair opposite. The only hint of his impatience was the slight tightening of his lips as they watched the maid set out the tea and cups and plates on the small side table.

When she was gone, he leaned forward. Not waiting to see if Ophelia was able to, Trent himself set about pouring for both of them and despite her objection put two spoons of sugar in her tea. “You've had a shock,” was all he said as he handed it to her, then set a plate piled high with biscuits before her.

As she began to sip, he rose and tugged on the bellpull. When a footman responded, he requested a small basin of warm water, basilicum powder, and bandages.

When he was seated again, the duke said, “Your wound seems to have stopped bleeding for now, but I'll take a closer look at it once you've had time to calm down.”

Ophelia waited for his response to her accusation like a prisoner awaiting a sentencing.

Finally, when he made no move to address her words, she snapped, “I realize that you think something like this is beneath your notice, but I am quite prepared to take this story to my editor. I feel sure that he will wish to let all of London know just how the Lords of Anarchy treat those who cross them.”

But if she was hoping to provoke a confession from him, she was sorely mistaken.

To her annoyance, he merely raised one dark brow and tilted his head. As if trying to figure her out.

“I can assure you, Miss Dauntry,” he said, setting his teacup gently down on its saucer, “that I have no knowledge of any ties between the Lords of Anarchy and this Dr. Hayes. Or his clinic for that matter. You must understand that I've only been the president for a few weeks. And as you know, the previous leadership was … ah…”

“Shot dead by Lord Freddy Lisle?” she finished for him. “Do not look so alarmed. It's not as if Leonora didn't tell me the whole story.”

“It just isn't something that I would think suitable talk for a lady,” he said with a shrug. “Though it sounds as if you and your friend Maggie know quite a bit about the goings-on of the Lords of Anarchy. Perhaps more than I do, which I don't mind telling you is troubling.”

“Because it's so unladylike?” she asked sweetly. Really, she was quite tired of being told not to worry her pretty little head over serious subjects. It wasn't as if she were incapable of understanding what went on in the world.

“Because I'm the president of the damned club and I know nothing of this business,” he snapped. Then immediately apologized. “I beg your pardon. It's just that this club has been a nuisance since the moment I decided to take leadership of it.”

“Then why do you stay with it?” she asked, curious.

“Because it's only been a few weeks,” he said with a shrug. “And I have hopes that the new members I've recruited will have an impact on the way the club behaves as a general rule. That will take time, however. And your friend, it would appear, doesn't have much of it before she is subsumed into the bowels of this Hayes Clinic.”

“No, she doesn't,” Ophelia said, reminded that there was more to this than just her own petty annoyance with Trent. “I was so useless to her,” she said once she'd set her cup down. “I might as well have been a small child for all the help I rendered her.”

“You can hardly blame yourself for being unable to thwart two large men with experience and tools at their disposal,” Trent said, brushing biscuit crumbs from his hands. “I'd have been more astonished if you'd succeeded. But that doesn't mean that you were useless. You've a good eye for detail. And I have little doubt you can describe them both accurately.”

When the maid arrived with the warm water and bandages, Trent rose to take them from her, and moved to sit beside Ophelia on the sofa.

“To distract yourself,” he said matter-of-factly, “perhaps you can tell me about them now.”

And while her heart beat fiercely in her chest at the nearness of him coupled with the instinct to flinch every time he neared the wound on her forehead, Ophelia described them. “One was quite large. Like a prizefighter. His hair was light brown and long, held back with a bit of leather. His clothing was surprisingly well made. I'd have expected someone employed in such a position to be impoverished, but judging from the shine on his boots, I don't think he was.”

“Go on,” Trent said as he gently probed the edges of the cut with his fingers.

Ophelia closed her eyes, both to picture the men in her mind's eye, but also to avoid staring at the duke's strong jaw. “The other was shorter, but also wider. And his boots were not as fine as his friend's. And he smelled of onions.”

Once he was finished wiping away the blood, she felt him sprinkle the basilicum powder over the cut. “And what precisely did this writ they presented say?”

She thought back, picturing the flourished script as it had appeared on the page. “‘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.”

Before she had even finished, Trent pulled away from her. Ophelia opened her eyes to see him scowling. “What is it?”

“You never said your friend's married name,” he said, rising to stride over to the bellpull once again.

“So you will refuse to help me because George Grayson is a member of the Lords of Anarchy?” she asked, drawing the obvious conclusion. “I might have known you'd side with him.”

“Miss Dauntry.”

“I mean, it should hardly be surprising to me at this point in my life, considering just how many times I've seen men stick togeth—”

“Miss Dauntry!”

At his sharp tone, Ophelia's eyes widened. “What is it?” she demanded, her arms akimbo. “Do you wish to tell me to take myself off now that you've learned just who is my friend's husband?”