Silk And Steel Part 6

Aunt Winnie stepped forward, catching his arm. "I'm going with you. Kathryn may need me and I mean to be there if she does."

Lucien didn't argue. The look in Winnie's eyes and the tears on her cheeks warned him it would do no good.

Dressed in a worn white cotton gown with a bloodred band around the neck, Kathryn walked down the hall toward her cell. Ignoring the fetid odor of unwashed bodies, urine, and feces, she held her head high, fighting against the crushing weight of defeat that had settled in her breast. She wouldn't cry, she vowed-not now, not ever again. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

"Get a move on, wench!" The bulky matron shoved her down the hall. "I ain't got all day to be nursemaidin' the likes o' ye back where ye belong."

Kathryn ignored her and simply kept walking.

"What's the matter, yer ladyship! No servants ta cart ye about in yer bleedin' sedan chair? No footman ta serve yer b.l.o.o.d.y meals on a silver tray?"

Another shove and Kathryn stumbled. She caught herself, straightened her shoulders, and walked on. They had almost reached her cell when she heard the sound of small racing footsteps and the loud cry of her name.

"Kathryn! Kathryn, ye came back!" It was the one sound in this foul, dismal world she was happy to hear.

She turned outside the door to her cell and felt his small weight rush into her arms. Tears threatened again, and this time she almost gave in to them, but these were tears of joy at the feel of Michael's warm little body held tightly in her arms. Sweet G.o.d, she hadn't realized just how much she had missed him.

The matron stepped back, scowling but allowing them a moment. Not even Miss Wiggins was immune to Michael. Kathryn hugged him hard, then stepped back to survey his thin frame from top to bottom. "My goodness, Michael-look how much you've grown!"

He beamed up at her, a lock of his blond hair sticking straight up on the top of his head. "Do ye really think so?" They had cut his hair again, cropped it short around his head so that it wouldn't tangle.

She nodded and smiled. "I think you've sprouted at least two inches."

Michael laughed at that, knowing it was a lie but wishing it were true. "When I get big," he said, tossing a look at the matron, "I'm gettin' outta here-and they won't be able ta stop me."

"Ye'll be gettin' a cuff on the head," the matron said, "ye don't get away from here and go on about yer business." But there was no anger in her voice. That she saved for Kathryn. Miss Wiggins shoved her into the cell and the door slammed closed with an eerie clank, locking her inside.

She came up to the window and looked down through the bars. The matron was walking away, her heavy girth making her brown linen skirt sway back and forth around her thick ankles, but Michael remained in the hallway, staring up at her from below the bars.

"I thought ye'd gotten away," he said. "I thought ye was gonna be free."

She blinked against the sting behind her eyes. "So did I, Michael." She forced herself to smile. "I almost made it. I wish you could have come with me." It was surprising how much she meant it. Perhaps if the marquess managed to free her, he would also free the boy.

Kathryn felt a tightness building inside her. She was back where she had started, her life stretching hopelessly in front of her. But she had made a friend in the world outside, perhaps more than one. Litchfield had given his word to help her. He had promised to get her out of St. Bart's. She wanted to believe it would happen. Dear G.o.d, she wanted to believe it so badly. But hope was a dangerous, even lethal emotion in a place like St. Bart's. Better to resign yourself, to close yourself off against the terrors in the world that surrounded you.

And yet deep inside hope remained, burning as it hadn't since she'd been locked away. The marquess was the strongest, most honorable man she had ever met. If anyone could help her, it was he.

She remembered the way they had parted, the fierce, unexpected kiss that had reached her as nothing else could have. Kathryn ran her tongue over her lips and thought that if she closed her eyes, she could still taste him. She could still hear his words, his promise to free her, and the conviction in his voice when he had said it.

His promise and the memory of his kiss would keep her alive, at least for a while. Until the pain and humiliation were simply too great to bear. Then she would decide what she must do.

Lucien sat across from his solicitor, Nathaniel Whitley, in Nat's office on Threadneedle Street. It was six o'clock in the morning. It was raining outside, a thick mist enveloping the city, a cold that seeped into the bones.

Sitting behind his desk, Nat looked sleepy-eyed, his clothes wrinkled as if he had slept in them, which Lucien guessed he might have, considering the pressure he'd been under.

Five days ago, Lucien had arrived at Nat's West End town house at an equally outrageous hour, rousing him from slumber and demanding Nat start to work immediately to find a way to free Lady Kathryn Grayson from imprisonment in St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

So far, in five long, grueling days, his efforts had come to naught.

"I wish I had something positive to tell you, my lord." Nat was an attractive man in his late forties, average in height and build, his dark brown hair shot with silver beneath his gray bagwig. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on a straight, well-formed nose. "The fact is, Dunstan is dead set against Lady Kathryn's release-even into the custody of someone as respected as you and your aunt. As soon as he was informed of your efforts, he began his own campaign to thwart them. He's a powerful man, Lucien. Where you have always shied away from politics and social intrigue, Dunstan thrives on them. He has friends in the highest places, and money to line the pockets of any man who might oppose him."

"Lady Kathryn's money," Lucien said blackly, running a hand over his hair, smoothing it back toward the wide black bow at the nape of his neck.

"Perhaps. We haven't been able to discover the source of the earl's funds. I've got a man working on it, though it won't really matter whose money it is, as long as he has legal control."

A faint tremor ran through him. He leaned back in his chair. He hadn't been eating lately. Every time he thought of Kathryn locked up in that place, of her suffering G.o.d only knew what, his appet.i.te fled completely. He hadn't been able to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined them stripping her naked, imagined the guards leering at her small pert b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He remembered her keening cry for help and the sound sliced right through him, dragging him to wakefulness even if he managed to fall asleep.

He shifted on the hard leather chair. "How did they discover where she was?"

"Servants' gossip. There were a number of them there the night she arrived at the castle. From what you have said, it was a rather memorable occurrence."

Lucien merely nodded, having come to the same conclusion. He had foolishly believed word wouldn't reach Dunstan until he had matters firmly in hand. "What's our next move?" he asked, praying there was one.

"I'm not sure. The more information we have the better chance we'll turn up something that will help us. I've been trying to locate this Dr. Cunningham her ladyship mentioned, but so far we've had no luck."

Lucien flexed a muscle in his jaw. "It's been nearly a week. I've got to see her, convince her to be patient. She needs to know we haven't given up, that we still mean to help her."

Nat shook his head. "They won't let you in. Dunstan's adamant about that. She's not allowed any visitors-she's too dangerous-that's what Dunstan and Dr. Blakemore say."

He ground his teeth. "Blakemore. That little weasel will be lucky if I don't kill him. As for Dunstan-I haven't yet devised a punishment that is nearly cruel enough for him."

Nat removed his gla.s.ses, folded them, and set them on top of the papers spread before him. "Take it easy, Lucien. You and your aunt are the girl's only hope. You've got to keep your head. Dunstan is cagey. Anything you do wrong he'll use against you."

Lucien sighed, feeling exhausted clear to the bone. "I thought this would be easy. I thought I'd have her out of there long before this. I don't know how much longer she'll be able to hold on."

Nat stood up from his chair and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk. "You're doing everything in your power. No one can ask more than that."

But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Somehow he had to help her. Lucien wasn't sure just how it had happened that Kathryn Grayson had come to mean so much to him. Whatever it was, he considered her a friend and he wasn't a man to let his friends down in time of need.

"Thank you, Nat, for all the work you've done."

"It's all right," his friend said gently. "I don't like injustice any more than you do, particularly when it involves an innocent young woman. And I don't like Douglas Roth."

Lucien almost smiled. Instead he simply nodded, turned and started for the door.

"Lord Litchfield?"

Lucien paused and looked over his shoulder.

"Try to get some sleep," Nat said. "And you might also try eating something. You can't do the girl a lick of good if you fall ill."

Lucien dragged open the door and stepped out into the hallway. Nat was right. He had to take better care of himself. He told himself he would head for the top of St. James Street, visit White's, his club, and get something to eat. The thought had only begun to take root when a picture of Kathryn arose, hungry and dirty, her eyes full of fear and desperation. He shoved the image away and climbed into his carriage, but he didn't head for St. James's.

The thought of food suddenly made his stomach lurch.

Eight days pa.s.sed. Eight endless, humiliating days with no word from Lucien. Perhaps the marquess had forgotten all about her. Perhaps he never intended to help. Perhaps he had spoken to her uncle, and Douglas Roth had convinced him she actually was insane.

Whatever the reason, the hope she had clung to had begun to slip away. Only little Michael had been able to keep her spirits up. His laughter, echoing in the dirty, dimly lit halls, gave her strength and the will to go on. She wondered at the despair that weighed her down like a heavy iron shirt. Why was it so much worse this time than it had been before?

Perhaps because she had been living again the sort of life she'd enjoyed before her father died, waking up each day among friends in a house of comfort and warmth. Or perhaps it was simply that her failed escape had forced her to see the truth. Even if she got away, no matter where she went, no matter how far she ran, somehow her uncle would find her. He couldn't risk losing control. He needed her money and he would do anything in his power to keep it.

She heard men's footsteps coming down the hall. She wasn't frightened of the guards, as she had been before. The marquess had accomplished one thing the day of their parting-he had terrified Dr. Blakemore with his threats. Upon her return to St. Bart's, the man had given strict instructions that none of the guards were to touch her. She was no longer afraid one of them might force himself on her, which was not to say she didn't feel the back of a hand should she dare to speak her mind, or the sharp lash of a matron's tongue.

Or far worse, she discovered, the day she protested one of the men's ill treatment of little Michael. She was working in the laundry, bent over a huge iron pot filled with scalding water, stirring a long wooden stick through a bubbling vat of lye soap to clean the hundred dirty nightgowns even filthier than the one she wore.

She heard Michael's high voice even before she saw him. "b.u.g.g.e.r off, ye bleedin' sod!" he called out, and Kathryn winced at the words. Poor little Michael knew every curse word in the English language. He had developed a thick c.o.c.kney accent learned from the guards. She could only imagine what his life would be like if he ever escaped to the real world outside the hospital walls.

Through the open door, she saw him round the corner and race toward her. A big beefy guard named Otis rounded the corner right behind him, thundering along and shouting equally offensive curses.

"Ye little p.r.i.c.k! I'll be tannin' yer a.r.s.e with me belt once I get me hands on ye!"

Michael's feet kept moving but his face went pale. He'd received more beatings than she could count, most for the slightest misdemeanors. She'd always thought this man, Otis, actually looked for an excuse. He seemed to get a thrill out of hurting someone smaller than he was. And there was an odd look in his eyes whenever he glanced at Michael.

As if he wanted something from the boy and was only biding his time until he got it. Kathryn had heard of men who preferred other men over women. She wasn't exactly sure how it worked between them, but she wondered if Otis might be one of those men and if it were possible for him to be thinking those sorts of thoughts about a little boy.

Michael raced up beside her, breathing hard, his small hand clutching her nightgown as he ducked around behind her.

Otis roared up a few seconds later, his thick chest rising and falling with each breath. "b.l.o.o.d.y little thief stole me purse!"

Michael poked his blond head out from behind her. "Did not, ye lyin' sod!"

Otis made a grab for him, but Michael jerked away, careful to keep Kathryn between him and Otis.

"Michael says he didn't take it." Kathryn straightened, blocking Otis even more. "Isn't there a chance you misplaced it?"

Otis's hard gaze swung to her. "The little whelp's comin' with me. I'll teach him to steal from Otis Cheek." Otis tried to step around her, but Kathryn blocked his way.

"I'm sure he didn't do it. Perhaps if you looked again-" His hand snaked out, slapped her hard across the face.

"You stay outta this-ya hear?" He stared down at the top of Michael's head and something hot and sordid flashed in his eyes. "The boy's comin' with me."

"Nooo!" Michael shrieked, and she thought that he too must have seen something in Otis's gaze. The boy was truly frightened and her own fear for him began to pound in her ears.

She tucked him farther behind her. "You aren't taking him anywhere. I'm not going to let you."

The evilest grin she had ever seen split across Otis's face. "You ain't gonna let me? You and who else is gonna stop me?"

"I am!" Michael shouted, kicking Otis hard in the shin. Otis howled and made a violent grab for him, catching his thin arm and jerking Michael clear off the floor.

"Let him go!" Raising the stick she had been using to stir the boiling pot of laundry, Kathryn crashed it down on Otis's head with all her strength. He roared like an injured lion and whirled in her direction, giving Michael the chance to jerk free. Otis cursed and slapped her. Michael shrieked an equally dirty word and leapt on the huge man's back, pounding away with his small bony fists.

Arms and legs were everywhere. Shouts and curses rose above the sound of running feet as three husky matrons burst through the door of the laundry. Seeing Kathryn still wielding her stick, they began to shout orders and race madly about. The next thing Kathryn knew, she was down on the rough stone floor, surrounded by matrons and guards, a screaming Michael being dragged away by one of the women. At least he would be safe, she thought as she struggled against the heavy weight pinning her down. Rough hands pried open her mouth and someone poured something bitter onto her tongue.

She didn't remember much after that, only barely recalled being dragged back to her cell. She slumped down in the corner, feeling weightless and slightly dizzy. Her eyes felt heavy-lidded. Her surroundings appeared softly blurred. It was odd, she thought dimly. For the first time since her return to the madhouse, she felt good... almost... happy. As she sagged down on her filthy straw pallet, the walls of the cell seemed to recede and she was standing on the soft gra.s.sy lawn at Milford Park. The trouble and pain of St. Bart's slid away, leaving her with only a vague sense of numbness.

Kathryn leaned back against the wall, unaware of the cold stone at her back or the stiff straw pressing through her thin cotton night rail. Instead she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the pleasing numbness. She thought of Lucien and she smiled.

SIX.

Douglas Roth, Earl of Dunstan, sat behind the huge rosewood desk in his study. Outside the window, the lawns of Milford Park stretched like an elegant carpet, sloping down to a babbling steam that meandered beside the sprawling brick house. The leaves had fallen from most of the trees and a stiff November wind clipped along, rifling through the branches, but the manor still carried an air of magnificence unmarred by the weather, its handsome lines and st.u.r.dy facade a testament to the architect Robert Lyminge and a young Inigo Jones, who had designed it a hundred and fifty years earlier.

Douglas pulled his diamond studded snuffbox from the pocket of his waistcoat and took a pinch. He sneezed several times and turned away from the window, back to the papers strewn across his desk. Somewhere on nearly each one was the name of his niece, Kathryn Grayson.

He found himself grinding his teeth just to think of her. He had become her guardian five years ago-a stroke of good fortune for him that the late earl, her father, couldn't have begun to guess when he had bestowed the honor upon him. Since then she had been headstrong, willful, and impossible to manage. But her fortune was huge and well worth the effort, especially since his own meager estate had dwindled to near nonexistence.

Douglas began to shuffle through the papers, searching for the stack of bank drafts his accountant had sent for his signature, notes drawn to pay the tailor, the haberdasher, the shoemaker-a tidy sum, as Douglas refused to dress in anything but the very best. There was a draft made out for his new carriage and a rather large amount he had incurred while gaming at Madame Duprey's pleasure barge.

No one ever questioned his use of funds-no one but Kathryn. The others were well paid to look the other way, and after all, his niece still had an extravagant amount of money.

Douglas smiled as he picked up the letter he had received from Dr. Blakemore, the dean of admissions at St. Bart's. Upon her return, Kathryn had engaged in an encounter with one of the guards, displaying once again her unstable, violent nature. But, the letter said, Lord Dunstan need not be concerned. His niece had been subdued without harm to her person and been brought once more under control. Blakemore a.s.sured him there would be no more such incidents and that Lady Kathryn was being well cared for.

There wasn't the slightest hint in the letter for another "contribution" to the doctor in grat.i.tude for his service. He knew Douglas would send it, now that the girl was once more well in hand. It went unsaid that she wouldn't be allowed to leave the hospital again.

That possibility was past, and any attempts by the Marquess of Litchfield to intercede on her behalf had already been quietly thwarted. All was in order, Douglas thought with satisfaction, his world returned to normal.

He paused at a light knock at the door, glanced up to see his daughter, Muriel, standing beside the butler, who had fetched her at his command and now eased slowly back into the hall.

"Good afternoon, my dear."

"You wished to see me, Father?" She fidgeted, straightened a bit from her usual slump. She was slightly taller than Kathryn, too tall for a woman, with bright red hair that stuck out in little frizzles all over her head, and freckles across her nose and cheeks that no amount of effort could disguise. She wasn't pretty like Kathryn. Muriel took after his late wife's mother, but she was his daughter, his own flesh and blood. And unlike Kathryn, she had learned to obey his commands.

"Actually, my dear, I merely wished to learn what you were doing at Mary Williams's house last week with that abominable Osgood boy."

Muriel's face turned red, partially hiding her freckles. "Truman is only a friend. He was there to visit Mary's brother."

"Good. I am glad to hear it. He is only a second son, after all. The lad is penniless and always will be. He is certainly not for you."

She met his gaze for only a moment, then she stared down at the floor. She was a big girl, not the sort in vogue, but even at sixteen she had the full ripe curves of a woman and he had no doubt she would prove useful in the marriage mart.

"You may go now." He reached up to adjust his white pigtail wig, then flicked a piece of lint from his gold velvet tailcoat. "Just remember, I have plans for you that do not include an unt.i.tled nothing like Truman Osgood."

Something flashed in her eyes, then it was gone. For an instant he imagined it was defiance. He shook his head at the ridiculous thought.

"I'll remember, Father," Muriel said meekly.

Turning away from him, she walked out the door, and Douglas returned to the papers on his desk. His life was back on course, his future once more secure. Even the interference of a man as powerful as Lucien Montaine didn't upset him. Douglas had matters well in hand.

Jason Sinclair stepped out of the mist into the entry of Lucien's town house in Grosvenor Square. It had been raining for the past three days, making the trip from Carlyle Hall a muddy, difficult journey.

He untied his cloak from around his neck and swirled it toward the butler, slinging water on the polished marble floor. "Where is he, Reeves?"

"In his study, your lordship. He rarely comes out these days. Lady Beckford has been worried sick about him."