Good Dukes Wear Black (6 page)

But if she meant to get a rise from him, she was to be disappointed.

His eyes flashed, but more from impatience than anger, she noted.

“George Grayson is at the present moment upstairs in the long gallery.”

*   *   *

“What do you mean ‘gone'?” Trent demanded when Bamfield came in response to his master's summons.

What had begun as a simple day of honest exertion for Trent and the former soldiers had turned into something out of a gothic novel, what with wives being taken up for lunacy and husbands disappearing into thin air.

Ophelia, he was quick to notice, did not look surprised to hear that George Grayson had fled. In fact, with her freshly bandaged wound and worried eyes, she looked as if Bonaparte himself arriving in their midst would not faze her.

“Just that, yer grace,” said Bamfield with a shake of his weather-beaten head. “He must have slipped out as soon as you came downstairs. He wasn't crossing swords so I wasn't paying him any attention. But when Reynolds brought up your request for Grayson, we all realized he'd been gone for some time.” The former batman looked concerned. “If'n I'd known ye were after keeping an eye on him, I'd have done it, make no mistake. But as it was, he slipped the net with none of us the wiser.”

“Not your fault, man,” said Trent with a frown, dismissing him.

Where the devil had Grayson gone off to? Clearly he'd known that his wife was going to be taken up this morning. Which was odd. He certainly hadn't spoken like a man about to be rid of a troublesome wife. Far from it. He'd seemed like a man frustrated with but still in love with his bride.

There was definitely something not quite right with this situation.

But how could Grayson possibly have known that Ophelia would come to him for counsel? Especially when Trent himself—and even Ophelia, he'd wager—had had no idea she'd do so?

As if reading his thoughts, Ophelia said, “Doesn't the long gallery look out over the drive? Perhaps George saw me approaching? As Maggie's friend and colleague, I am well known to him.”

Trent hadn't seen her approach because his attention had been on the fencing match before him, but it was possible that Grayson had, he supposed. And when Trent had been called downstairs he could have taken off in order to avoid a confrontation with Ophelia.

But he wasn't ready to admit as much to her yet.

“Perhaps,” he said, fingering the small scar on his jaw, where a bayonet had grazed him in France. “But it makes no sense to me that Grayson would do such a thing. He was remorseful about the scene last night at the ball. He even planned to apologize to her this afternoon.”

“As well he should,” she said tartly. “He was dreadful last night.”

“Which he admitted,” Trent said thoughtfully. “I simply cannot believe the man I spoke with just a half hour ago could possibly have arranged for his wife to be taken to a madhouse. He's not that good at lying for one.”

“I suppose it's possible that the order came from someone else,” Ophelia said, pinching the bridge of her nose, as if it pained her.

Noting her action grimly, Trent focused on her words. “Who else would do such a thing?”

“Well,” Ophelia said with a frown, “just that Maggie told me that her father-in-law did not approve of her low rank. And he didn't think Maggie's association with the paper was appropriate for the wife of a baronet's son. They had many arguments about it while George was away, and I think Sir Michael had hoped that George's return would mean that she would be brought to heel at last.”

“And I'm guessing because of last evening's scene that George was not as successful at that task as his father would have wished?” Trent asked.

“No,” Ophelia said with a shake of her head. “In fact, Maggie told me that he professed himself to be quite proud of her, though he had begun to grow suspicious of Mr. Carrington's relationship with her. He's the editor.”

Surely jealousy would make Grayson keep his wife close to his side, not cause an even bigger scandal by having her locked away.

If anything, if he were jealous, he'd go after Carrington and not his wife.

“I cannot imagine dinner conversation in their home is conducive to digestion,” Trent said wryly.

Ophelia laughed. “Hardly.” Then, the moment of levity passed. “We both saw what passed between Maggie and Mr. Grayson last night. It was a heated argument. But surely if he were expecting to be rid of her today he'd not have caused a scene. If anything he'd have been looking forward to her comeuppance.”

“You make a good point,” Trent said, smoothing his hair absently. “I agree that George doesn't seem to be responsible for your friend's abduction. But why would he run away this morning?”

“Perhaps he overheard me speaking about what happened and he went to search for her on his own?” Ophelia's eyes seemed hopeful, but Trent was not so sanguine. If George wanted to find his wife why would he not have asked for Trent's help? He was a duke, after all, and his title was able to open many doors that remained closed to others.

“Perhaps,” he said aloud. “Though if Maggie has been a source of embarassment for her father-in-law, I suspect he is the source of Maggie's capture.”

He knew a little of Sir Michael Grayson, and that was not all good.

“I think you might be right,” she said, her pretty eyes troubled. “Sir Michael's greatest point of anger with Maggie was his fear of her bringing embarrassment upon the family. Last night's debacle might have been the last straw if it got back to him.”

Trent felt the shift as she turned her pleading gaze on him. “Will you help me find her? I cannot possibly sit by while my dear friend is subjected to God knows what in some asylum. It would be horrible for someone not in her right mind, but perfectly sane and sober, it would be a waking nightmare. And I have a feeling they will take someone of your rank and power much more seriously than they will me.”

He was silent for a moment, thinking of just how little he wished to become embroiled in the situation Miss Dauntry had brought to his door. And yet, as the president of the Lords of Anarchy, he did have an obligation to find out more about the clubs' ties—if any—to Dr. Archibald Hayes. Aside from the fact that George Grayson might have traded on that association to have his own wife taken up, there was also the fact that it was damned suspicious for a club devoted to sport to be linked with a madhouse. The implications of the various ways in which that connection might be misused was enough to make Trent's head pound with tension.

“Please, your grace,” Ophelia said, obviously mistaking his silence for denial. “You must surely see how wrong it is to lock away someone who is not ill. But if not for that reason, then do it to find out for yourself just how this was planned and carried out, and whether it will have any bearing on the club's reputation.”

Clearly she was not above using his own conscience against him, Trent reflected wryly. “Fine,” he said with a brisk nod. “I will look into the matter. For all the reasons you've listed, and one of my own.”

“Which is?” she asked.

“Because you asked me. And a gentleman tries to accomodate a lady when it is at all possible.”

For a moment, Trent thought she would argue, but perhaps because she was still a bit woozy, Ophelia contented herself with a smile so bright he was momentarily knocked off-kilter himself.

He was accustomed to seeing Miss Dauntry as one of a trio of ladies whom he'd mentally labeled “off-limits”—mostly because he associated her with his friends' wives, who were her own dear friends. It had become as much a reflex as anything else. But suddenly he was reminded of the decision he'd come to last night, that it was time for him to begin looking for a wife of his own. With her shining dark hair and blue eyes, she would make a lovely duchess. But it was her determination and loyalty that had impressed him the most today.

He could do far worse than to marry a woman like Miss Ophelia Dauntry.

The memory of holding her against him earlier suddenly flashed through him. As if his body was reminding him that he'd rather liked the feel of her in his arms.

“Thank you so much, your grace,” Ophelia said, apparently unaware of the direction of his thoughts. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”

“I will just go upstairs and make myself presentable for the visit to the Grayson town house,” he said, feeling his color rise as if he were a green lad again as he stood. “And then I'll be off. You must make yourself comfortable until I return.”

“But I thought I would go with you,” Ophelia said, her smile turning into a frown. “I'm a frequent visitor there and even if they weren't expecting Maggie to return they would not be surprised for me to stop by.”

“Absolutely not,” Trent said reflexively. “You are unwell.”

Seeing a mulish expression on her lovely face, he softened his tone. He must recall that she wasn't one of his soldiers to be ordered about. “Stay here and I promise I will relay everything I learn to you as soon as I return.”

But he could feel her glare on his back as he left the room.

Clearly he had much to learn when it came to dealing with ladies.

This one in particular.

 

Four

“I might have known you'd ignore me,” grumbled Trent as he spied Ophelia waiting for him in his curricle. “You are in no condition to make the journey to the end of the drive, let alone to the Grayson house.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Ophelia said firmly, trying not to notice the brush of his hip against hers as he took the seat beside her. “I do not expect you to fight my battles for me. I simply wished for your assistance. There is a difference, you know.”

She could all but feel the power radiating from him, especially when his strength was combined with the perfectly tailored attire of his station. From the top of his cropped, expensively cut, dark hair to the toes of his shining black Hessians he was every inch the duke. And there was something both compelling and, to her shame, exciting about being so close to him.

This trip wasn't about exploring her attraction to Trent, it was about saving Maggie, she told herself.

Perhaps realizing that argument was futile, he didn't respond to her, only took the reins from the groom and set the horses in motion.

Which, in turn, set Ophelia's head to pounding. Though she'd die before admitting as much to Trent.

“How is it that you are acquainted with Mrs. Grayson?” he said, distracting her from her aches.

“We both write for the
Ladies' Gazette,
” Ophelia responded through gritted teeth. “Her column is quite popular, but not with her family, I don't think.”

“Her own family or her husband's?” He reached a protective arm across her as the curricle sped around a sharp corner.

“Her husband's,” Ophelia said. “I got the feeling that the Graysons were not particularly pleased with her for it.”

“I spoke a bit with George Grayson about her this morning,” Trent said. “He seemed to be sanguine about her writing.”

“That's true,” Ophelia agreed. “I believe George, though sometimes annoyed that it kept her away from home, was supportive. Sir Michael, George's father, is the one who frowns on it. He's quite a stickler, I think. They argued about it, I believe.”

“When was this?” Trent asked, turning to look at her, his blue eyes sharp.

“Earlier this week, I believe.” Ophelia tried to recall just what Maggie had said about the row, but she was having difficulty concentrating at the moment. She gave a frustrated sigh.

Perhaps sensing that she was in pain, Trent was silent after that. Soon they were turning in to Bruton Street where the Grayson town house was located.

“I think it would be best if you let me speak to them,” Trent said as they came to a stop before the house. “Perhaps you could see her maid. Make up some tale about taking some of Maggie's things to her.”

“But I want to speak to George and convince him to confront Dr. Hayes,” Ophelia said, annoyed at his attempt to shove her off into the domestic realm. “And I'd like to talk to Sir Michael as well. George's name might have been on that writ, but it was Sir Michael's idea. I know it.”

“And you think they will simply do as you ask?” Trent asked in a reasonable tone that made her want to box his ears. “George isn't likely to admit his reasoning to you. And I doubt Sir Michael will even dignify your accusations with a response. I've dealt with such men before. They respond only to other men they see as being on their level or higher. And like it or not, as a duke I am higher.”

Ophelia glared at him. Hating that he was making logical sense.

“I also know George Grayson better than you do,” he added gently. “Let me speak to him as a friend. He's much more likely to open up to me than he is to you.”

She pressed her fingers to her pounding head. “Fine,” she huffed out. “I will talk to Hopkins, her maid. But remember that I am relying on you. If we bungle this I fear Maggie will be trapped there indefinitely.”

“I give you my word, Miss Dauntry,” Trent said, dipping his head so that he could meet her eye. “I will get the information you need.”

Knowing that would have to do, she nodded.

Once they'd descended from the curricle, Trent offered her his arm as they climbed the few steps to the door of the Grayson town house.

Their knock was answered by a very dignified butler, Thompson, who upon learning who Trent was, became much more welcoming.

“We are indeed fortunate to welcome you, your grace,” Thompson gushed.

“I need to speak with Sir Michael at once,” Trent informed him before he could go on. “As well as Mr. George Grayson if he is here.”

If Thompson was annoyed by the interruption, like any good butler, he did not show it and merely gave a bow and ushered them into the drawing room.