Good Dukes Wear Black (10 page)

Reaching up a hand to clasp her hat firmly upon her head, Ophelia nodded. “I think that is a very good idea, your grace.”

And as they turned a corner onto a busy street, she added, gravely, “For the time being.”

 

Seven

As soon as he dropped Ophelia off, Trent went in search of Freddy and Mainwaring at Brooks's. Though neither was acquainted with George Grayson, they might be able to point him in the direction of someone who could advise him about the legality of the order that had come from Dr. Hayes.

He turned his thoughts firmly away from the ill-advised kiss he'd so clumsily pressed on Ophelia. He was hardly the world's most debonair of men. Far from it. And he could only imagine the delighted guffaws that would consume Freddy and Mainwaring if they ever got wind of it. But in the face of Ophelia's persistent questions about his motives, he'd been unable to resist giving her a clue as to why he'd agreed to go along with her search for her friend.

It wasn't that he didn't care about the reputation of the Lords of Anarchy. Of course he did. But the truth of the matter was, he'd not have cared nearly as much if Ophelia hadn't stumbled into his house looking as white as a sheet and needing his help. And though he'd finally noticed her as a damsel in distress, she'd not remained one for long. Instead she'd transformed into a strong-willed lady of grim determination. And the truth of it was, he was drawn to both.

The kiss had been both a warning for her that his motives weren't quite as pure as she'd supposed them to be, and to himself. Getting involved with an unmarried young lady could be dangerous for his freedom. But the damnable thing about it was that it had only whetted his appetite for more.

He'd been caught in his own trap, dash it.

Knowing that his friends would rib him mercilessly if he let on what had happened between himself and Ophelia, he schooled his features and shoved the encounter firmly into a corner of his mind to be examined at some later time. Preferably when he was alone and could go over every last detail.

Stepping into Brooks's, he found his friends in their usual corner, looking far too self-satisfied for Trent's comfort. Ever since his best friends had married they'd smelled suspiciously of April and May and were often seen to smile for no apparent reason. Which had until today made him slightly ill. Now, he reluctantly understood why they might have undergone such a change.

Not that he was thinking about … anything remotely related to romance or love or the like.

“Hard at work, I see,” he said, pulling out the third chair at their table and propping his booted foot on his knee. “I find it difficult to believe you escaped the apron strings long enough to make it to St. James's Street.”

But if he expected an argument, he was sadly mistaken.

“Jealous, old thing?” asked Freddy, stretching languidly, like a cat enjoying a bit of late afternoon sunshine. “You sound quite cross.”

“Clearly he's lonely,” Mainwaring said with a shrug. “Been as angry as a bear with a thorn in his paw for weeks. I suspect he's been too long without a mistress. I know that my own mood has improved greatly thanks to regular bouts of…” Then, perhaps realizing it was indiscreet to speak about his wife thus, he coughed. “You know what I mean.”

“Marriage,” Freddy said gravely. “I know indeed. It's quite a satisfactory state.”

“You should try it,” Mainwaring said to Trent with a nod in his direction.

“You both sound like recent inductees into a cult,” Trent said with a roll of his eyes. “And I have no wish to join you in your lodgings inside the parson's mousetrap, thank you very much.”

“Your loss,” Freddy said with an elegant shrug. “One day you'll see.”

“And we'll welcome you with open arms,” Mainwaring nodded, flicking a bit of fluff from his sleeve. “Despite your nastiness this day.”

“Speaking of nastiness,” said Freddy with a frown, “how are things with the new and improved Lords of Anarchy? Any attempts on the part of the old regime to wrest back power?”

“Well you should ask,” Trent said, grateful for the turn of subject. Quickly he explained to them what had happened that morning. But when he came to the bit about Ophelia's arrival at his door sporting a bruised face, Freddy stopped him.

“Who hit her?” Clearly he felt some sort of protectiveness for the chit since she was Leonora's particular friend, but Trent was rather annoyed that the other man seemed to think him unequal to the task himself.

“I was getting to that,” Trent said curtly. In as few words as possible he told them what Ophelia had said about Maggie Grayson's abduction.

“Can they just do that?” Mainwaring asked. “Just go about armed with a piece of paper and cart someone off to the nearest asylum? With nothing but the say-so of a near relative? I find that quite terrifying.”

“And well you might,” Trent said with a frown. “I'm not sure of the legality of the thing. I feel sure this Dr. Hayes will tell us it is all aboveboard, but I wish to know from someone who isn't the same man who signed the writ. It would be in his best interest to make us think that he was perfectly within his rights to send his men out to take her away. I daresay he makes quite a nice living from the family members of people who would like nothing better than to have their troublesome relatives taken away.”

“Good God, I could likely pay my household expenses for a year solely on what he earns from the aristocracy alone,” Freddy said with a grimace. “Perhaps even two.”

“But surely a medical man would have an obligation to ensure that the accusations were true before he signed his name to such a writ,” Mainwaring argued. “I mean, if it were that easy then we'd see a whole spate of drunken uncles and temperamental aunts being taken up by the good doctor's men on a daily basis.”

“Who's to say there isn't?” Trent asked seriously. “It's not as if the nobility are open about such matters. It's an embarrassment to have a family member taken to the madhouse. Much easier to explain away their absence by claiming they've gone to Scotland. And no one would be the wiser. I can even imagine a grateful head of the family sending the doctor a gift of a few hundred pounds in gratitude.”

Freddy whistled. “When you put it that way it does sound rather ominous. I'm glad my family never heard of this chap. It would be just like one of my brothers to have me carted off as a joke.”

“Your family is odd,” Mainwaring said with a shake of his head. Turning back to Trent, he asked, “So, do you believe that this Maggie Grayson is indeed mad or that her husband lied to have her taken up?”

“I know Ophelia, that is, Miss Dauntry,” Trent corrected himself, “believes that Mrs. Grayson is no more mad than you or I, but not knowing the woman myself, I cannot judge that. What I do know is that George Grayson was reputed to be a good officer, and I find it hard to believe that the man I spoke with at length this morning did such a thing.”

“But if not him, then who?” Freddy asked. “And where has Grayson gone? Surely his disappearance is suspicious if nothing else is.”

“Oh, it's suspicious as hell,” Trent said, clenching his jaw. “If for no other reason than to see if my own instincts have degraded to such a degree than I can no longer tell the difference between sincerity and barefaced lies. And he's a member of the Lords of Anarchy, so there's also that.”

“Because you're the president, you mean?” Mainwaring asked with a raised brow. “I'm not sure the past presidents would have been so conscientious.”

“Need I remind you that one of them is in exile and the other is dead? I do not believe either are examples I wish to follow,” Trent said wryly. “I swore to turn this club into something that its members can be proud of. And that means investigating the matter when one of the members appears to have acted in bad faith.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Mainwaring said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Just don't get yourself into trouble,” Freddy said, taking a deep drink of claret.

“And if you do,” Mainwaring said, raising his own glass, “feel free to call on us for help. We've got a bit of experience in this sort of thing.”

“I think I've got it handled,” Trent said, biting back a grin. “I did manage to go to war for a decade without your assistance. Surely I can handle a physician with delusions of grandeur and a certain demanding young lady.”

At least he hoped so. Otherwise he was in for quite a difficult few days.

*   *   *

“Was that the Duke of Trent's curricle?” asked Ophelia's mother from the doorway to her sitting room.

Ophelia had hoped to sneak into her own bedchamber without notice. Especially after that shocking kiss. Unfortunately her mother's windows faced the front of the house and therefore gave her an unobstructed view of the street below.

With a sigh of resignation, she obeyed her mother's unspoken demand and followed her into the cozy parlor where Mrs. Dauntry spent most of her free afternoons.

After requesting her maid to bring them some tea, Mrs. Dauntry gestured for Ophelia to take a seat on the chintz sofa across from her, then waited with an expectant look on her still attractive face.

“Well, my dear,” Mrs. Dauntry said, brows raised. “I'm waiting.”

Though most mothers of the
ton
with unwed daughters would see the Duke of Trent as a matrimonial prize of epic proportions, Mrs. Dauntry had her heart set on one of her daughters marrying the son of her dearest friend, the dowager Lady Goring. And since Ophelia's sister Mariah had been fortunate enough to receive a proposal from the Marquess of Kinston earlier in the year, it was up to Ophelia to accept the addresses of Lord Goring.

“It was merely a ride in his curricle, Mama,” Ophelia said patiently, crossing her fingers behind her back at the fib. She didn't bother to explain for the umpteenth time that the idea of marrying the amiable but utterly dull Lord Goring made her want to flee to the Continent and join a convent. Not to mention that Trent's kiss had told her in no uncertain terms that what she felt for him was not mere friendship. But she said anyway, “We are friends. That is all.”

She had no intention of talking through her confused feelings about Trent in light of the kiss they'd shared. But she did know that it hadn't made her any more eager to spend time in the company of Lord Goring. If anything it had solidified her aversion to him.

Whenever a potential rival for Goring came on the scene, Ophelia was forced to listen again to all the myriad reasons why her mother thought Goring would be such a wonderful husband and why the supposed rival would not. She was not in the mood to hear all of Lord Goring's supposed virtues praised to the heavens. Not when she'd spent the afternoon investigating the disappearance of a dear friend whose loving husband might have had her locked away. And definitely not when she'd been thoroughly kissed by another man.

One of those reasons alone might have put her off Goring temporarily, but both together meant that there was no conceivable way that she could contemplate accepting the man's advances.

“I fail to see how you can call the Duke of Trent your friend, Ophelia,” said Mrs. Dauntry sharply, making her feel guilty despite herself. “Not when you are all but promised to Lord Goring. It isn't appropriate for a betrothed lady to have male friends.”

Sighing, Ophelia wished she could point out that there was no betrothal between herself and Lord Goring, but in Mrs. Dauntry's mind it was all agreed to but for the technicality of the actual betrothal. It was Trent who was the usurper in Mrs. Dauntry's mind, not Goring. And nothing Ophelia said would change her mind.

“We happened to be visiting a mutual acquaintance and the duke offered to give me a ride home,” Ophelia said aloud, wishing she could simply leave the room and retreat to her own. “There is nothing to concern yourself over.”

She felt a trifle guilty about the half-truth, but she knew that Mrs. Dauntry would not be any happier with the news that she'd been with Maggie earlier in the day than she had been about Trent. As someone who took her social standing quite seriously, Mrs. Dauntry saw her daughter's friendship with Maggie Grayson as a threat. Not only did Maggie write for a newspaper, she also encouraged Ophelia to do so. Which in turn endangered Ophelia's nonexistent understanding with Lord Goring.

“There is everything to concern myself over,” Mrs. Dauntry reminded her with a frown, “especially when you parade around town with a man who is not your—”

The arrival of the tea tray stopped Mrs. Dauntry in mid-reply, which Ophelia could tell from the set of her lips put her nose out of joint. But once she'd poured for both of them and her maid was safely out of the room, she continued as if she'd not been interrupted.

“You may not be officially betrothed, but it's been accepted by both of our families since you and Lord Goring were children. So it is highly untoward for you to be seen in the Duke of Trent's carriage.” Mrs. Dauntry frowned suddenly and Ophelia knew she'd just noticed the bump on her forehead.

“Where did you get that injury?” she asked, setting her teacup down and hurrying to her daughter's side. “I sincerely hope that the Duke of Trent is not responsible for it or I fear your father will have words with him. And that's nothing to what Lord Goring's response will be.”

She hovered over Ophelia and leaned closer to better observe the spot, touching it gingerly before Ophelia pushed her away. “Mama! Stop. You needn't treat me like a child. It is merely a bump on the head.”

“Pray excuse me for being concerned about your well-being, Ophelia,” said Mrs. Dauntry, though she did step back. But she rang the bell again. And when her maid returned, asked for some bandages and liniment.

“It's already been cleaned once today,” Ophelia said, relaxing a bit. It was, she was forced to admit, good to know her mother still cared about her well-being. But it was hardly the ordeal she was making it out to be. “Truly, I'm fine. It doesn't even hurt anymore.”