Only Marriage Will Do (33 page)

“Grounds?” The marquis thought a moment. “What are possible grounds? Lack of consent?”

“Yes, my lord,” Clarke agreed. “Lack of consent, which includes fraud, ignorance, force, great fear, mental incapacity.”

“Great fear, perhaps,” Amiable joined the conversation, glad to participate in his wife’s recovery at last. “She did not consent to marry him because she feared him. She told me so.”

“Or fraud would do.” Dalbury added. “Technically, they performed the marriage after I had withdrawn my consent for it and while she was underage and could not consent.” He glanced at Amiable, then back at Clarke, his lips set in a firm line as with an unpleasant task. “If nothing else seems to work, we can try mental instability.”

Amiable swung around, incensed. “Dalbury. That’s a damned lie.”

“It may, however, be the easiest to prove. I have the letter from Count de Mallain stating it as the reason for breaking the betrothal.”

Mr. Clarke perked up. “You have the letter, my lord? Such evidence would indeed speed the matter along. Has she been examined by a physician to determine the extent of this instability?”

“No,” Dalbury answered tersely, “but she will be. You have your orders, Clarke. Get to it. I am to know the instant you hear
anything
from Grimes.”

“Yes, Lord Dalbury.” Mr. Clarke swallowed comically, managed a hasty bow, and left.

Dalbury watched the door close, then strode to the sideboard and poured a generous amount of cognac. “What do you make of Grimes’s trip to France, Morley?” He raised the decanter at Amiable.

He nodded and slumped into a chair. “I begin to wonder if the man might not be in the pay of St. Cyr. The timing is too convenient by half, if you ask me. Grimes admits the marriage valid to St. Cyr, without giving us prior notice, then immediately heads to France? Makes him look guilty of something.”

“I agree. Fortunately, Clarke seems to be easily intimidated. I believe he will have results or at least a hearing date within the week.”

Amiable slouched further at these words. A week would be an eternity without Juliet.

Dalbury clapped him on the shoulder. “I know. I cannot imagine being apart from Katarina. Still, we will overcome St. Cyr and his machinations. At least we now know where to find the bastard. Unfortunately, our efforts may take some time.”

Amiable frowned. “Time’s not a luxury I can afford any more, Dalbury. Juliet is due to deliver in March. It is almost January. If this situation drags out much longer I will go mad.” He eyed his brother-in-law, as if expecting an argument. “I promised her I would be there for the birth. I will not go back on my word to her.”

Dalbury shrugged. “If it comes to that, Morley, you will have a greater problem than just attending her. The child will be considered St. Cyr’s under the law.”

“Over my dead body.” Amiable downed his drink in a gulp.

“Or his, preferably.” Dalbury laughed mirthlessly.

“As you say.”

* * * *

The week wore on with no word from either Grimes or Clarke and, surprisingly, none from St. Cyr. Amiable had expected him to appear later on Christmas Day demanding Juliet, but the rogue had still not put in an appearance a week later. Had he injured the man more severely than he’d thought? Might he actually be dead? Should he check to see? How would he attempt such an inquiry?

This morning he headed to Jack Fitzwilliam’s house—he had a hard time thinking of Jack as the Earl of Manning—where he planned to pick up a belated Christmas present from Juliet. She had gotten him a horse and the note from Jack contained an apology that in the uproar at Christmas it had been forgotten. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, thinking sourly how Juliet would have loved to be here to present the gift herself.

His carriage deposited him in front of Jack’s St. James’ Place townhouse and he dismissed the driver. He’d ask the loan of a saddle and ride back to Morehouse. He trudged up the steps, still preoccupied with thoughts of St. Cyr. The man’s silence seemed threatening. He lifted the doorknocker and stopped then cocked his head at the soft whistle sounding in his right ear just before his head exploded into darkness.

* * * *

Amiable jerked awake. He was damned cold and his head hurt like sin. Strapped to a chair, his hands tied behind him, stripped down to his boots and breeches, he shivered as a frosty wind played across his bare chest.

The room looked to be a cellar. The fieldstone walls rose all around in an almost perfect square, the windows small and set high into the wall on one end. The sole pieces of furniture were the chair he sat in and a table in the center of the room, directly in front of a smoldering fireplace. The fire had burned too low to be of any use in keeping him warm. He strained against the ropes, which did nothing but make his head pound harder. The knots wouldn’t budge. Whoever had tied them knew what they were doing. He had a good idea who that someone was.

No surprise then when the room’s one door opened to admit the Viscount St. Cyr. The man looked almost underdressed for once, in a very plain gray coat and breeches of a coarse woolen cloth. He also sported a slightly red nose and fading bruises around both eyes. St. Cyr walked straight up to Amiable and without pretext slammed his fist into his face.

Amiable’s head snapped back against the wooden chair with a sickening crack and his head ached anew as darkness descended on him again.

He jerked awake at the icy shock of a basin of cold water being dumped over his head. After a dazed moment, he strained forward, but his arms were still bound behind the chair. He raised his head cautiously, his gaze panning the room in search of his adversary.

“I am here, Monsieur Morley,” came the oily voice from behind him. St. Cyr must have dumped the water on him.

One tormenter then. Of course, one would be quite enough.

“I believe I owed you that blow. Among other things.”

“Perhaps you did, St. Cyr. Untie me and we can fight corps-a-corps.”

“I think not, monsieur. Not that I am not prepared to fight you,
mais non
. But such uncivilized behavior I feel is beneath us both.” St. Cyr walked around to face Amiable, his lips curled into a sneer. “I have other activities in mind for us this afternoon, Morley. Still unpleasant to be sure, though only for one of us.”

“Which one, St. Cyr?” Amiable took the moment to assess his opponent. His career in the army had taught him to face fear unflinchingly. It had also taught him to be ever vigilant, ever planning, ever gauging his adversary to discover the tiniest flaw that could be turned to his advantage.

St. Cyr chuckled, a nasty sound. “Oh, I will wager the unpleasantness will be all on your part.” He leaned over Amiable. “Unless of course, you are willing to tell me where you are keeping my so sweet Juliet. Ah, monsieur. I now know why you have fought so hard to keep her with you. The delicious taste of her mouth; the silky smooth skin; the warm, round, firm breasts. She moans most exquisitely when you roll her nipples. Did you know that?”

God, he would sell his soul to the devil this instant for a loaded pistol to put a ball through the blackguard’s head. His hands twitched with the anticipation of it, but the single devil present today wore a gray suit.

“And oh, the nice tight sheath between her lovely thighs.” He frowned in mock dismay. Amiable breathed inward, biting back a protest. To respond would simply encourage his vile comments.

“You were not able to stretch her,
mon ami
?” He clucked his tongue and shook his head, his eyes dancing in merriment. “
Quelle dommage
.” Now she has felt a true man, I am surprised she left with you. Perhaps she did not do so willingly. It is of little matter. I will have her back and soon. The law is still on my side, you know.”

“It may be on your side, St. Cyr, but even the law cannot help you find Juliet.” Amiable tried to keep his mind from the images St. Cyr wanted him to envision. He worked to control his breathing, to remain calm and wait for an opportunity.

The Frenchman cocked his head and frowned. “Why will the law not help me find my wife? The English law cannot keep me from what is mine.”

“I didn’t say they wouldn’t help. They cannot help you. They do not know where she is.” Amiable played his trump card. “No one knows.”

St. Cyr laughed and moved back toward the fireplace. “Of course you know where she is. You would not let her run away by herself.” He thrust a poker into the embers, stirring the coals back into a blaze.

Even though Amiable knew he could not feel any heat from the flames, he certainly wished he could. His arms were becoming numb with the cold and lack of circulation. He dragged his mind away from his physical discomforts.

“That is exactly what I did, St. Cyr. I knew to keep her safe from you she must go into hiding until your marriage is dissolved or you are dead. We don’t care which one comes first.”

“Oh, I think you will care very soon,
monsieur
,” St. Cyr said softly, pulling the poker from the fireplace, its tip glowing red. “I think you will tell me now where Juliet is, before I begin my persuasion. By the time I end, I fear, you will no longer be of use to dear Juliet as a man.”

“Then you should just kill me now, St. Cyr. As long as I have breath in my body, I will be more of a man to Juliet than you.”

St. Cyr’s brown eyes darkened with anger. “From the start it has been my plan to kill you, Monsieur Morley. The only question is, how long can I make it last?”

Amiable strained against his bonds, fighting the scream that threatened to escape. Burning flesh sizzled and hissed and the scorched stench almost gagged him.

St. Cyr removed the red-hot poker from his right shoulder, the third such brand he’d endured since the sadistic Frenchman had begun his
persuasion
. He had stinging burns on both shoulders and just above his left breast. If he were to wager, he’d bet the next time the poker descended it would fall onto his right breast. The fiend must be a stickler for symmetry.

His only saving grace so far had been the necessity of reheating the poker. The fire had been ill laid and did not burn well. St. Cyr had been forced to spend longer and longer reheating it in the coals. As the afternoon waned, Amiable gathered shreds of hope that he would be missed at home and a search begun for him. Pray God this hellhole was part of the house in Fenchurch Street, otherwise rescue would be a remote possibility.

He sagged against the ropes, sweat drenching his face. Blackness threatened the edges of his vision and he willed himself to remain conscious. He had to keep awake. Figure out how to break free. For Juliet and their child. Time and again, he had tested the ropes securing his hands to no avail. He gritted his teeth and rocked against the back of the chair.

St. Cyr turned back from twisting the poker in the meager flames. “Patience, Morley. We have all the time in the world. I do not plan to finish our little session today. There will be other days as well. As I search for my dear Juliet. I have sources, you understand? People who are loyal to me. Who tell me
everything
.” His eyes gleamed a demonic red in the firelight. “I will find her,
mon ami
, and when I do perhaps I will amuse myself by bringing her here and taking her on the floor in front of you. Then I will continue with our sessions and let her watch.”

Amiable glared at his captor. “You will never find her, St. Cyr. No matter how many spies you have placed in our households. No one knows where she is and no one will know. She will stay in hiding forever if need be, rather than find herself married to you.”

“Tsk, tsk, monsieur. Are you trying to anger me?” The Frenchman wagged his finger. “It will not work. I will not kill you quickly.
Quelle dommage
. I am a patient man.” He twisted the poker again, drew it out, eyed the tip then thrust it back in. “
Pas tout à fait fini
.” He shook his head and returned his attention to the fire.

In frustration, Amiable rocked forward violently and the chair dipped, throwing him toward the right. He stopped, held his breath, and assessed this new turn of events. Straining against the ropes might have actually borne fruit. The front right leg of the chair creaked and wiggled when he put his full weight forward. His legs were tied to the chair, but his movements had loosened the joins and ropes.

Time was running out if he hoped to emerge without permanent disfigurement or death. Once more, he pushed against each rope, then each chair leg. Yes, the right one had loosened. He eyed St. Cyr. Perhaps the advantage had just shifted.

* * * *

Becoming angrier by the moment, Duncan paced his office.

Mr. Grimes fidgeted with his coattails then strained backward against the leather armchair as though he’d rather melt into the furniture than face the wrath of the Marquess of Dalbury. He’d certainly wish he could before they finished this interview.

“Why was this not brought to light sooner, Grimes?” Duncan smacked the desk. “My God, after all we’ve been through since September…since July.” He fought to maintain his composure. “In my own household!” he thundered, loud enough that the crystal glasses on the side table tinkled.

Grimes quaked in his chair. “I came straight here, my lord. As soon as the ship docked in Hamble, I rode all night to get here.”

“If this ends badly, Grimes, I hold you responsible. Had you made that journey to Paris in September, none of this would have happened.”

The Earl of Manning entered.

“Grayson told me you wanted to see me, Dalbury.” Manning looked curiously at Grimes.

“Yes, this farce is about to play itself out and I wanted you and Morley here as quickly as possible. Where is he?” He looked behind his brother-in-law, puzzled.

“How would I know?”

“Grayson told me he went to your house after luncheon. I assumed you had come in together.”

Frowning, Manning shook his head. “Haven’t seen him, old chap. Of course, I haven’t been home, either. I had lunch with my sister. Been upstairs all afternoon.” He glanced at Grimes. “Watching her sleep.” He raised an eyebrow at Duncan and nodded toward the solicitor.