Good Dukes Wear Black (13 page)

Taking the book back from him, Ophelia flipped through the next few pages and found a list of names and addresses. A quick glance revealed that Mr. Carrington, having grown impatient, had moved on to flip through a stack of broadsides on the other side of the desk.

Some sixth sense told her to keep the list of names to herself, so she closed the book with a thump and clasped it to her bosom. Mr. Carrington's response to the news about Maggie had been emotional, and she didn't wish to reveal anything to him that might provoke him to do something rash.

“I'll just take this with me,” she said, hoping to appear normal. “It likely won't come to anything, but I'll see if the orphanage has any information about missing girls.”

“But how is this going to help us get Maggie out of the asylum?” he demanded with a scowl. “Even if someone from the orphanage is involved, until we know who we won't be able to find her.”

And Ophelia was suddenly quite glad she hadn't revealed to Mr. Carrington that Maggie wasn't at the Hayes Clinic. If he learned that Maggie was missing altogether, in his current mood he just might take it into his head to confront Dr. Hayes himself. And that might make the doctor angry enough not to speak to them at all.

Just then the bell on the front door chimed to indicate someone had entered the offices.

Looking up, Ophelia saw the Duke of Trent striding toward them.

“We're closed right now, my lord,” said Mr. Carrington with a dismissive smile. “I'm sure if you'll come back tomorrow—”

“I'm here to see Miss Dauntry,” Trent interrupted with a raised hand. “And it's your grace, so you needn't try to fob me off like a creditor with an outstanding bill.”

Surprise and annoyance flashed across Edwin's face, then he turned to look at Ophelia, who felt a blush rise in her cheeks.

“What a pleasant surprise, your grace,” she said with a dampening glance at Trent. “I do apologize, Mr. Carrington. I hadn't realized that his grace was meeting me here. He has kindly agreed to help me get Maggie set free.”

Now Mr. Carrington frowned. “Your grace, it's a pleasure,” he said, bowing. “I do not believe we've met.”

“Just so, Carrington,” said Trent with a nod. “I apologize for turning up unexpectedly. Miss Dauntry's mother was kind enough to give me her whereabouts when I paid a call there this morning. And I must admit I was curious to see the offices of the
Ladies' Gazette.
”

Ophelia would have spoken up, but Mr. Carrington did so first.

“Are you familiar with Mrs. Grayson, your grace?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. “I must admit your name has never come up in our conversation.”

Turning to look at her editor, Ophelia was surprised to see what looked like jealousy on his face.

But if Trent was put off by it, he didn't reveal as much. “I don't see why she would mention me, Carrington. I am better acquainted with her husband, George. Though as Miss Dauntry has said, I have agreed to assist her in trying to free her friend. I dislike the notion of her friend being held against her will.”

Mr. Carrington looked as if he'd respond, but Ophelia suddenly had the feeling that she needed to get these two away from one another. She disliked the ire in her editor's face when he looked at Trent. And Trent himself wasn't looking particularly well disposed toward Carrington either.

“Don't we need to leave if we're to make it to Dr. Hayes's offices on time, your grace?” she asked pointedly, stepping forward to stand beside Trent.

As if he'd come there with no other object in mind, Trent nodded smoothly and offered her his arm. “Yes, indeed, Miss Dauntry. And I have heard that Dr. Hayes has a dislike of tardiness above all things.”

“I will keep you informed, Mr. Carrington,” Ophelia assured her editor. “And thank you for your help. I know Maggie would appreciate it.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Dauntry,” he said.

And as she turned just before Trent closed the door behind them, Ophelia noted that rather than looking either despondent or jealous, Mr. Carrington instead looked thoughtful.

 

Nine

Once they were outside, out of earshot of Carrington, Trent said in a low voice, “Why didn't you wait for me?”

He couldn't quite put into words why finding that Ophelia had already left when he arrived at the Dauntry town house had been so unnerving, but it had been. For some reason he'd expected her to practice more caution in the wake of what had happened to her friend. Though any fault was his own since he'd not expressly told her not to go anywhere alone, he supposed.

He'd not make that mistake again. Ophelia's safety was too important.

“Why should I have done?” she asked, frowning up at him as she stopped beside the curricle, her blue eyes narrowed. “Surely I'm in no danger. And I've come to the offices of the
Gazette
hundreds of times without incident. Why should I stop now?”

Without answering, Trent placed his hands on her waist and lifted her into the curricle. It was something he'd done before without remarking on it. But something was different about it today. He found himself leaning in a little, to catch the elusive floral scent of her. And his eyes lingered for the barest moment on her mouth as he deposited her in the seat. The realization of where his thoughts had gone in that moment—to thoughts of tangled sheets and flushed skin—was so jarring that he pulled his hands away with rather more speed than necessary and drew a puzzled frown from his passenger.

“Are you quite well?” she asked, brows drawn.

Not bothering to answer, he tossed a few coins to the boy who'd held his horses, and launched himself into the seat beside her.

“I was merely concerned for your safety,” he said, relaxing a little now that he had something to do with his hands.

When it had occurred to him the night before that the editor of the
Ladies' Gazette
might use this circumstance as an opportunity to further blacken the name of the Lords of Anarchy, Trent hadn't for a moment considered that the fellow might also pose a threat of a different kind. To Ophelia.

But as soon as he'd seen the other man's head against hers as they leafed through what he assumed to be Maggie's papers, Trent had been struck with a pang of what could only be jealousy. Which was absurd, of course. He and Ophelia were friends.

He was merely misinterpreting fear for her safety as something more commonplace. That was all.

“We don't know the full story of why your friend was taken away,” Trent said aloud, regaining his composure. “And though George is named on the writ, there's nothing to say someone else didn't go to Dr. Hayes claiming to be George.”

Her sharp intake of breath told him she hadn't considered that option. Nonetheless, it was clear she still didn't quite trust him. “I suppose it is possible that Mr. Carrington might have done so, but how do I know you aren't simply attempting to remove suspicion from your friend? It would be another black eye for the club if it were learned one of your number had wrongfully had his wife locked away.”

“You don't,” he said with a glance in her direction. “But you can hardly fault me for wishing to find the club blameless. Reforming its public image is my main goal as the new president. I will not, however, alter the facts we find to suit that notion. No matter how damning those facts might be.”

She was silent, apparently thinking that over.

“Another reason I was disconcerted to find you gone was because I'd hoped you would accompany me to see Dr. Hayes.”

At the mention of the not-so-good doctor, Ophelia turned. “You didn't go without me, I hope?”

“Of course not,” he said simply. “I'm the one who persuaded you not to go to him yesterday. It wouldn't be cricket for me to go without you.”

That must have satisfied her, because she nodded. “I thought you said we needed some strategy before we approached him.”

“I did,” he said, placing an arm across her body as the horses slowed to accommodate a fruit seller's cart. For the barest moment their eyes met, and he was startled to see a flare of heat in them. A cry from the street broke the spell, however, and he returned his attention to the road.

“Strategy,” he said, shaking his head a little to clear it. “I think ultimately we will be best served to consult a solicitor. But for now I believe a strong offensive front will get the information we need.”

“And what will that entail?” she asked, frowning. “I doubt I'll be much use in a physical confrontation.”

“I don't think that will be necessary,” he said wryly. “I was thinking in terms of strong words rather than confronting him with pistols or a sword.”

“That's a relief,” she said with a grin. “So what will we say?”

“A man like Hayes is used to being in control,” he said as they pulled onto Harley Street. “He literally has the power of life or death over his patients. I imagine that means it takes a fair bit of strength in an opponent to cow him.”

“That seems reasonable,” she agreed. “So you will confront him with your military presence?”

“Much more intimidating than that,” he said with a flash of teeth.

She gave a puzzled frown, and he continued, “I will confront him as the Duke of Trent.”

*   *   *

In the past months, Ophelia had spent a great deal of time with Trent. Not on a one-on-one basis, but they'd both been visitors at the Lisle and Mainwaring homes many times. And thus she'd come to know him not so much as a duke, but as a friend to Freddy and Mainwaring. Someone to make up the numbers so that she wouldn't be left out of outings with Leonora and Hermione and their husbands. A decent conversationalist, and at times quite amusing.

But one thing she'd come to take for granted was Trent's rank.

As a member of the
beau monde
, or rather, from the outer fringe of the upper reaches of society, she was quite aware of the gulf that stretched between herself, a gentleman's daughter, and Trent, a duke. But because they both ran tame in the same houses, and counted the same couples as friends, it had been easy for Ophelia to forget about that difference in their stations.

He was just Trent.

Something happened to him between the curricle and the doorway leading into Dr. Hayes's offices, however. Somewhere in between he'd become … ducal.

“Please inform your master that the Duke of Trent is here,” he said languidly to the dapper little man who responded to their knock. Wordlessly he extended his card to the butler, who had stood up straighter as soon as Trent announced himself.

“Of course, your grace,” the butler said with a low bow. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable. I will tell Dr. Hayes at once that you are here.”

At Ophelia's sideways glance, Trent raised one dark brow, and pulled a quizzing glass from some hidden pocket in his waistcoat. “Is there aught amiss, Miss Dauntry?” he drawled.

Was that a wink? It was difficult to tell. But Ophelia shook her head and allowed him to take her arm. She wondered when she'd get used to this formal version of Trent. She was almost looking forward to Dr. Hayes's response. She had a feeling that he would be much more forthcoming with Trent than he would be with plain Miss Ophelia Dauntry.

“If you will both just wait here,” the butler said, ushering them into a finely appointed sitting room. “I'm sure Dr. Hayes will be here momentarily. May I offer you some refreshment?”

The thick Aubusson carpets, luxurious wallpapers, and finely turned furniture spoke to the prosperity of Dr. Hayes's practice. So did the portrait of what she assumed was the doctor hanging over the mantelpiece. Ophelia wondered how many men had slipped Hayes a few quid to have their inconvenient wives disappear for a bit.

“Nothing for me,” Trent said dismissively. And the butler didn't bother to ask Ophelia if she wished for anything. Between the two of them, she might not have even been there.

“Very good, your grace,” said the butler, as he reversed from the room.

“If this is the Duke of Trent,” Ophelia said in a low voice, “then I'm rather afraid to see what he will do next.”

Remaining in character, Trent shook his head slightly, indicating that she shouldn't let on that he was pretending.

If that was the case, then she would probably do best to keep silent, she reflected.

Wandering over to a shelf of what she knew to be expensive bits of art glass and pottery, Ophelia's back was to the door when Dr. Hayes entered the room. So she missed the moment when he took in Trent in all his glory.

Still, there was no mistaking the mercenary glint that flashed in his eyes as she turned to get a look at him. Her second thought was that the portrait hadn't been of him after all. Not unless he'd lost several inches in height in the last several years.

“Your grace,” he said, bowing deeply before Trent, who looked down from his superior height with patent boredom. “What an honor to welcome you here in my humble offices. I wish you had known to call upon me at my home. I do not expect clients of your rank to visit me here in the rudeness of Harley Street.”

Oh dear. Ophelia's eyes widened at the doctor's obsequiousness. It was toadying of the first order, but she supposed that when one relied upon the condescension of the nobility for one's bread and butter, it was all of a piece.

For a man who wielded such power from his position, he was remarkably unremarkable, she reflected as Trent examined him with his quizzing glass.

“I wish you had warned me,” Trent said with a nod of agreement. Though how Dr. Hayes might have known to warn him, when Trent didn't know he was even coming here until this morning, she didn't know. “But now that we are here…” He let the words dangle in the air, as if he were too fatigued to even complete the thought.