Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
C harles had known beforehand that Phoebe would try to escape him.
There was simply no telling her what to do. She was stubborn to a fault and she would never understand the things he had gone through, the cruelty he had witnessed firsthand—and he wished she would never have to.
As much as it frustrated him sometimes, he wanted to preserve her innocence for as long as he was able. To let her believe in the goodness of the world and its people for as long as she could.
For Charles, that innocence had long disappeared after the reality of the cruel nature of this world was made known to him.
It was why, without her knowledge, he had some of his trusted men follow her. Even if she should leave the estate—something he was certainly aware she was intending to do despite his heedings, there would always be someone watching out for her.
She would most certainly be far from pleased if she learned of this, but it would at least help allay his fears. London had never been a friendly place to him. Charles was well aware of the darkness that lurked in the city and in the hearts of men underneath the glittering glamor of Mayfair…
At least, to him, it felt that way. No one else ever seemed to share in his view in that regard, or if they did, they were far less obvious about it.
…Perhaps Phoebe is right. Perhaps I am merely looking too much into this , he thought to himself, raking his hand through his hair as he stared at the documents before him, forcing himself to focus on the things that needed his attention.
Later, when he was finished with all of these formalities, he would take Phoebe back to Wentworth Park. And they would go on another picnic. He seemed to recall how she enjoyed the last one so much.
He would also make sure that they would be undisturbed for a greater length of time.
He started smiling to himself when the door to his study burst open. Exhaling in irritation, he turned and glared at the intruders when he realized that it was the butler of Cheshire, Mosley, and behind him, was the ashen face of one of the coachmen from the stables.
“Your Grace!” Mosley called out in a voice that was so far removed from his usual decorum. “There has been an incident!”
Immediately, his thoughts shifted to Phoebe and he stood up quickly, knocking over the documents and an inkstand with it. His heart pounded in his chest.
“What happened?”
“The Duchess took the carriage and told me to head for Bond Street, Your Grace. Said she was meetin’ with one of Her Grace’s sisters,” the coachman explained. “We were almost to the shop when the wheel broke down. She insisted on walking the rest of the way, but then we lost Her Grace.”
“What?” Charles growled. “Lost her? How could you lose her?! She is hardly a trinket to be misplaced! And I thought I had ordered that all carriages were to be maintained in excellent condition!”
“We suspect that it has been tampered with, Your Grace,” Mosley told him gravely. “Otherwise, the wheel would not have been so easily damaged.”
Tampered with . Charles’ mind reeled. That meant that someone had somehow managed to infiltrate the servants in his employ.
But who was it? Was it someone from his father’s time? Only Ambrose and Amelia had accompanied him and Phoebe from Wentworth.
“Should we order a search, Your Grace?”
He held up his hand and shook his head. As much as he wanted to turn the whole of London upside-down in search of her, Phoebe would not appreciate what she would perceive as another display of him being overbearing and overprotective. Especially if there was a simple mix-up and she was presently spending a fine day out with her sister after all.
But what was he supposed to do? Should he send correspondence over to the Townsends? Then wait until he heard the news that she was fine?
He reached for his flask and was about to take another swig from it when a blow knocked it clear from his hands. The flask landed on the carpet with a dull thud, spilling a dark red liquid that eerily looked like watered-down blood.
“What the—!?” he gasped. He looked up to find O’Malley with a grim look on his face.
“O’Malley?” he asked. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
“I came here as soon as Her Grace sent me a message to tell me that there was something amiss,” he explained somberly. “Somebody has been tainting your draught with laudanum, Your Grace.”
Charles’ eyes widened in horror. Laudanum!
His eyes darted back to the blood-like liquid seeping into the floor. He thought of how he had been feeling the past few weeks since he arrived in London. The constant feeling of being watched, of being followed. The fear that there was someone in the shadows, waiting. Watching .
It… it had been laudanum all along?
“Who?” he asked, his voice deadly calm.
O’Malley looked at him squarely. “Your former valet, Your Grace. Ambrose Jones . A young maid caught him in the act back before you left Wentworth. Had kept it to herself out of fear of what she saw.”
Charles clenched his hands into fists.
“I do not suppose I have to tell you to detain him?” he muttered menacingly to his loyal footman.
O’Malley sneered, his ordinarily jovial features warping into those of a hunter who had just been given leave to pursue his prey. “Naturally, Your Grace.”
He nodded once and a group of men swarmed into the study, dragging with them the valet who had his wrists bound tightly in thick rope.
Ambrose Jone s had been a man who was particular with his appearance—especially considering his prior role as valet, but when he appeared before Charles, his hair had been mussed up and there was the beginnings of a large bruise on his left cheek.
Charles sat down on his chair and looked at the scene before him with narrowed eyes.
“Mosley,” he said quietly. “Leave us.”
The butler bowed warily. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
He took the pallid coachman with him and closed the door behind them.
“O’Malley?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Do not be rude and help our guest to a seat.”
The grin that split the footman’s face was nothing short of feral. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
He forced Ambrose Jones into a sturdy chair and bound him further with thick ropes. Even if the man had the courage to, he would never be able to escape.
Charles’ smile flashed coldly and when Ambrose Jones looked up at the Duke, his features displayed his growing fear.
Wait for me, Phoebe. I am coming to rescue you, my darling .
“Let us begin.”
Those words were the death knell for any servant who dared to betray the rules Charles Montgomery had set forth from the moment they accepted employment. Ambrose Jones would soon learn what it meant to betray his master.
Hardly an hour had passed and Charles was nonchalantly wiping his hands with a clean handkerchief. When his gaze passed over the bloodied form of his traitorous valet, a disgusted sneer curled on his lips.
In the end, it had taken very little for Jones to confess to spiking his laudanum at the behest of a nobleman he only referred to as Thorpe . He was also the one who personally tampered with the carriage that was reserved for the use of the Duchess, at the behest of the same man.
“A pity that you did not even bother to learn the name of the man you betrayed your master for,” O’Malley sighed with mock sympathy. “Ah well… it can hardly be expected that such a fop would come to your rescue, besides.”
A spy who had been caught was useless. A spy who confessed his crimes even more so.
“You know what to do with him,” Charles muttered to his footman, flinging the bloodied handkerchief at Ambrose’s battered face.
He had gotten all the information he needed from the man and he now had better things to do—like rescue his beloved wife from the evil clutches of whoever tried to take her from him.
A Thorpe. In London. There is only one… very pertinent man that comes to mind, he thought to himself.
When he worked for the Crown, Charles had been renowned for the swiftness and ferocity with which he accomplished his jobs. He had risen the ranks summarily and gained a certain reputation.
Now, he would put all that knowledge to use to bring Phoebe back home safely from the scoundrel of Scunthorpe.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes, O’Malley?”
“Bring Her Grace back home.”
His answering smile was cold, like the flash of wicked steel unsheathed. “Naturally, O’Malley.”
When Charles arrived at Scunthorpe Manor, he was the very picture of a civilized gentleman, except for the barely noticeable grazes on his knuckles. It was not something that a man like the Baron of Scunthorpe would notice instantly, in any case.
The butler showed him to the receiving area for guests as Charles deliberately took notice of the number of men stationed in the residence. There were quite a few of them, but nothing that might prove too difficult, especially since they did not appear to be armed.
As if that would stop me , he thought to himself in derision. He had infiltrated far more guarded buildings in his long and prestigious career. What was a mere Baron capable of?
“Your Grace, I must admit that this visit is quite a surprise!”
Charles smiled as his gaze swiveled over to the Baron, who had just entered the room, looking a little flustered.
“Good evening, Lord Scunthorpe,” he greeted him.
“Oh, please…you are simply too polite. Do have a seat, Your Grace.”
Just because Charles disdained the charade that most of the ton subjected themselves to, it did not mean that he was inept at playing their game. Before he worked for the Crown, he was already titled the Marquess of Wentworth, and his education was not lacking in that aspect.
He did not refuse when the Baron called for a glass of wine to be served for the guest and some brandy for himself, choosing to closely study the man instead. It was almost comical how he donned his firearm so openly, as if he believed that such a display would be a deterrent for Charles for whatever reason.
He also noted that Lord Scunthorpe moved with the arrogance of a man who was confident that he was in his element. Of course, this was his own home, but the fact that his guards were unarmed, and yet he was, spoke volumes about his insecurity complex.
When the servant came over with the wine, the Baron wasted no time in regaling Charles of just what a fine vintage it was, as if it might impress him. What could a positively repulsive Baron possibly have that might impress the tastes of a Duke? Charles could hardly contain the scorn at the man’s actions yet kept it tucked sweetly beneath a polite smile.
“I am honored that you think me worthy of such a fine offering, Lord Scunthorpe,” he remarked obsequiously, swirling the wine in his crystal glass. “Alas, I no longer hold a particular penchant or appreciation for wine. Distasteful events in my youth that involved an overindulgence at rather crucial gatherings. It left a… permanent mark on my palate.Now, brandy, however, is more to my taste.”
“Oh? A pity then,” Lord Scunthorpe sighed as he graciously handed him the glass of brandy instead.
Charles’ smile flashed coldly. “Thank you for your understanding, My Lord.”
The two men sat in companionable conversation, as if they had been very old friends. The Baron, to his credit, was able to keep calm enough. If Charles had been in charge of recruiting more men for the Crown, this man would have at least garnered a recommendation for the act he put on. Sadly, the cold gleam of self-interest in the other man’s eyes could barely be concealed and if there was anything anathema to a monarch, it was a subject who was more loyal to his own self than the cause.
After the Baron finished his wine and Charles his brandy, the Duke surreptitiously brought out his pocket watch, a cue that he was ready to put an end to their conversation and his unlikely visit.
“The Duchess should be returning home right now after her trip to Bond Street,” he told the Baron. “Thank you so much for accommodating my unannounced visit, Lord Scunthorpe.”
“It was my pleasure, Your Grace.”
Charles nodded. Throughout the conversation, from beginning to end, he had never once allowed the Baron to be so familiar with his name, leaving Lord Scunthorpe no choice but to refer to his proper title and refer to him continuously as Your Grace .
After the Baron had seen him out the front door, he took his watch out again and checked the time. He tucked it back into his pocket, but instead of heading outside the gates to where his carriage was parked, he turned around to the back of the manor.
Did the Baron truly think he was a fool? That he would fall for his simple smiles and polite conversation? Charles had met far more pretentious men. Lord Scunthorpe was nothing special, although he might deem himself intelligent.
As he rounded towards the back of the manor, his eyes grazed over the windows on the second story, openings to several rooms. Scunthorpe Manor had no cellars—knowledge acquired prior to undertaking his swift expedition to the place. The second best location to hold a hostage would be as far away from the ground as possible. Amongst the dark rooms, a specific one caught his eye. In the darkness, he could make out what seemed to be a piece of tattered linen caught on the window sill.
He smiled to himself. It seemed his dear wife was far more resourceful than he ever gave her credit for.