Good Dukes Wear Black (7 page)

“I will have Sir Michael summoned at once, your grace.”

Ophelia should have been annoyed that the man ignored her so completely, but who was a mere miss when there was a duke to be offered obeisance?

When the door closed behind him, she turned to Trent. “The house doesn't seem to be particularly upset given that one of its inhabitants was taken to the madhouse this morning.”

Turning from his inspection of a particularly ugly painting of a long-dead Grayson spaniel, Trent shook his head. “It's likely most of them haven't heard of it yet. I suspect there will be a great deal of gossip about it below stairs once word gets out.”

Just then, Sir Michael strode into the room, looking flushed. Perhaps he was not as happy to drop whatever it was he had been doing to answer the duke's summons as Thompson had given them to believe.

“Your grace,” he said to Trent. Then turning to Ophelia he gave a condescending nod. “Miss Dauntry, I was not aware you were acquainted with his grace.”

And why should he be? she wondered, mentally rolling her eyes. Before she could respond, however, Trent spoke up.

“She is hardly required to give a list of her acquaintances when she pays calls, Sir Michael,” he said with a raised brow. “Miss Dauntry came to me after your daughter-in-law was taken up by two gentlemen at the behest of Dr. Archibald Hayes. She herself was injured in the process and needed medical attention.”

Sir Michael's eyes widened. “Miss Dauntry, I am sorry to hear about your injuries. But what's this about Margaret? I don't understand.”

“Perhaps Miss Dauntry can go speak with Mrs. Grayson's maid while we discuss the matter,” Trent said smoothly. “I would not wish her to be upset further. And I believe she is familiar with the location of Mrs. Grayson's rooms from previous visits.”

Nodding, Sir Michael indicated the door. Ophelia, despite her annoyance at the suggestion that she was too weak to handle their discussion, hurried from the room.

*   *   *

“I wonder at your agreeing to become involved in this, your grace. It is a family matter,” Sir Michael said stiffly, indicating that Trent should take the wing chair opposite his own. “And really, it is none of Miss Dauntry's concern.”

Though there was nothing outwardly unwelcoming, Trent got the sense that the man would have been far more agreeable had Trent not arrived with Ophelia on his arm.

Ignoring Sir Michael's chilly demeanor, Trent got down to business. “Miss Dauntry is a friend, and could have been gravely injured by Dr. Hayes's men. And as a close friend of your daughter-in-law's she wished to take some of Mrs. Grayson's things to her to make her more comfortable. And as your son was at my home while this unfortunate incident occurred I came to offer what assistance I could to him. He slipped away without letting me know he was leaving, you see. Is he here?”

If possible, the baronet's manner became even more glacial.

“As I said, Trent, it's a family matter,” said Sir Michael, ignoring the question about George's whereabouts, instead saying, “My son did not consult me, but I cannot say that I am surprised that he sought help from Dr. Hayes. Margaret has been quite unruly of late.”

“So unruly that he would have her locked away for it?” Trent tilted his head. Having one's spouse locked away in a madhouse was not something to be taken lightly. Yet George had shown no indications earlier that morning that any such thing was on his mind. “That seems a bit extreme.”

“I am not privy to George's reasoning,” Sir Michael snapped. “He is a man grown and makes his own decisions.”

“Do you perhaps know where he is now, sir?” Trent watched closely to see what his reaction would be. But the older man didn't flinch.

“As far as I know he is at his club. But he might have gone to attend to his wife in Dr. Hayes's facility since you say she's been taken there. I really do not keep close watch on his comings and goings, your grace.”

The baronet's tone suggested that he would not have told Trent even if he did know where George was.

“I see,” Trent said thoughtfully. It was impossible to say whether Sir Michael was merely covering for his son or if he himself had something to do with Maggie's situation.

“Just so,” said Sir Michael, his teeth clenched. “Now, if you really don't mind.”

But Trent wasn't ready to leave yet.

“I really do find it extraordinary that your son would have his wife taken away against her will in manacles,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing one booted foot over his knee. “Most families would take great pains to keep the embarrassment of such a thing out of the public eye. But Hayes's men accosted her in a hat shop of all places. In front of any number of witnesses. Especially someone with social standing, like you, for instance.”

“I don't see what business it is of yours, Trent,” Sir Michael snapped, finally losing his poorly leashed temper. He stood and waited for Trent to do so as well. When his guest did not rise, he made a growling noise in the back of his throat.

“What do you want from me?” he demanded, clearly out of patience. “I only learned of it a short while ago. And yes, I would have much preferred that George go about the business in a more discreet manner. Is that what you wished to hear?”

Striding to a table on the far side of the room, he unstoppered a decanter of brandy and poured himself a generous glass.

Not caring that his host hadn't offered him a drink, Trent watched him as he walked back over and resumed his seat.

“I told him it was a mistake to marry her almost as soon as he informed me of the match,” Sir Michael said, taking a drink. “She's a good enough chit, I suppose. But clearly has her own opinions. And isn't afraid to voice them.”

Not unlike another lady of Trent's acquaintance then. It was no surprise that Mrs. Grayson and Ophelia were friends.

“But having opinions is not generally the sort of thing that makes one a candidate for Bedlam,” Trent said carefully, not wanting to stop the flow of words now that Sir Michael was talking.

“No,” his host agreed. “And to be honest, I don't know what my son was thinking to have her taken up like that. I knew they were having problems, but the girl isn't mad. Just a bit high-strung. And so I would have told him if he'd consulted me about it. But he didn't.”

“So, you had no notion that she was going to be taken up today?” Trent asked. So much for Ophelia's theory that it had been Sir Michael behind Maggie's predicament.

“I said as much, didn't I?” Sir Michael asked, shaking his head. “Do you think I wished for my family to become a byword in town? That I'd want it known hither and yon that a member of my family has been sent to an asylum? This isn't the sort of thing a man in my position brags about, Trent.”

“And what of Grayson?” Trent asked him, ignoring the sarcasm. “Do you truly not know his whereabouts?”

“I have no idea where he is,” Sir Michael said with a sigh. “As far as I knew he was still at your meeting of the Lords of Anarchy—a ludicrous name, by the way, for a group of well-bred gentlemen. He should be home anytime now. I daresay he's gone to visit his wife in that place. Or to see Dr. Hayes.”

This was not what Trent had wished to hear. When Ophelia had informed him that it was George's name on the writ, he'd hoped that it was a mistake. It was one thing for a husband to take his wife to see a physician against her wishes. Sometimes one needed outside coercion to get the help one needed. But even if she had been behaving with signs of madness—and it sounded from what both Ophelia and Sir Michael said that Maggie had not—it would take a great deal of cause to make a man have his wife sent to the madhouse. And Trent found it hard to believe that a man like George, who had visited such places with Trent to see some of their former comrades-in-arms, would ever do such a thing.

“When your son returns,” he said aloud, “I would like you to send for me.”

Sir Michael nodded. “I will. Though I can make no promises. There is something about this whole business that I find troublesome. Aside from the harm it will do to our reputation, I cannot believe my son would have Margaret locked away without cause. No matter how strong-willed she might be, she is not mad.”

“Let us hope that our fears are unfounded, then,” Trent said with a grim smile.

As they both rose, Sir Michael asked, “If you don't mind my asking, your grace, what is your interest in all of this? I know you said you are acquainted with Miss Dauntry, and I know you are friendly with my son, but that is hardly enough to make a man of your stature become involved in such a mess.”

Not a bad question, Trent thought wryly. Still, he felt he owed the older man some explanation. “I dislike injustice,” he said simply. “And I trust Miss Dauntry's judgment. If she says that her friend isn't mad, then I believe her.

“And,” he added as they approached the door, “I would not wish my worst enemy in an asylum. Especially not if he had his wits about him.”

 

Five

After consulting the butler, Ophelia made her way upstairs to Maggie's rooms where her maid, Miss Hopkins, was said to be.

Finding Maggie's sitting room empty, she took the opportunity to search for something that might tell her more about what had happened to her friend. Situated between the dressing rooms of George and Maggie Grayson, the little room where Maggie spent most of her free time was a cozy little chamber, with a pair of comfortable chairs before the fire, and a writing desk facing the window.

After listening for movement from the adjoining rooms, Ophelia hastened to the desk and began opening drawers, searching for any document or letter that might give a clue as to why she'd been taken up by Dr. Hayes's men.

It felt wrong to be prying into her friend's personal papers like this, but there was a need. And she hoped that if their situations were reversed, her own friends would not cavil at searching her own belongings in order to save her.

The first drawer held a number of pages written in Maggie's neat copperplate script. They appeared to be drafts of articles meant for publication in the
Ladies' Gazette
, covering everything from
ton
gossip to the latest fashions from France.

Ophelia knew from her own time writing for the
Gazette
that one's assignments varied from month to month, and sometimes with one's own interests. Because Maggie was trying to write more serious pieces—against the wishes of their editor, Mr. Carrington—she'd spent some time researching the conditions in the various private asylums that had begun cropping up across the nation as the public institutions grew overcrowded. And she'd also looked into the unwed-mother problem. Of the pages she looked at now, one was a profile of a home for unwed mothers in London, one detailed the true plight of babies who through no fault of their own ended up in the poorhouse, and a third told the story of a mother and her two children as they tried to escape from a vengeful husband and father.

Were these the notes that Maggie had told her to look for? Gathering them up into a pile, Ophelia folded them and hid them in her reticule.

As for the articles themselves, it was clear from the letters attached to them that Maggie hadn't attempted to convince Mr. Carrington to publish these.

But why? It was true that he hadn't been particularly encouraging to them about leaving their lighter fare behind, but both Maggie and Ophelia had agreed that they would keep at him until he either gave in to their persuasion, or sent them to another newspaper with his blessing. Neither of them was comfortable approaching someone else without Mr. Carrington's blessing, since a word from him could blackball them from the newspaper business altogether.

A look in the next drawer proved answer enough.

Letter upon letter reviled
M. Grayson
for purveying “filth and gossip,” “rank untruths,” and “dirty secrets” in the pages of a respectable publication like the
Ladies' Gazette.
Clearly Maggie and Ophelia weren't the only ones who wished the
Gazette
would focus on something besides gossip.

Could it have been one of these letter writers who convinced George to have Maggie sent away? Someone who felt strongly enough about the content of Maggie's columns would be able to paint quite a picture of her wrongdoings. And perhaps George had grown tired of his wife reporting on the latest
on dits
from his own peers. It can't have made life easy for him socially.

Not wanting to leave the letters for George or his father to find, Ophelia stuffed them into her reticule as well.

She was just turning away from the desk when the door leading into Maggie's bedchamber opened, revealing a plain woman who had obviously been weeping.

“Oh, miss, it's that awful,” the normally taciturn Miss Hopkins said, her eyes bright with tears. “Mrs. Grayson won't be able to sleep a wink in that dreadful place. Who could be so wicked as to have her taken up like that?”

Touched by the girl's obvious affection for her mistress, Ophelia led Hopkins to a chair near the fire.

“That is just what I intend to learn, Hopkins,” she said to the other woman. “Has there been any indication that your mistress was having any trouble with anyone? Letters that upset her? Or perhaps more fights than usual with her husband?”

But the maid shook her head. “There were complaints, of course. But Mrs. Grayson didn't pay them any mind. She said that was the cost one paid for writing for a public paper. She didn't take them seriously.”

Just because Maggie hadn't felt threatened by them didn't mean that the letter writers hadn't posed a threat, Ophelia thought grimly.

“Has she had any unusual visitors of late? Perhaps someone who upset her?”