for so many years by then, disobeying him in reality wouldn’t have made things worse between them. She’d thought her
father hated her, but she should have been brave enough to face his anger.She could have at least tried.
She’d been wrong. And cowardly. And cruel.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a broken voice. “I’m so sorry.”
“I miss Philip so much.” Tears began to fall from the countess’s dull eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know, Mamma, I know,” Grace murmured, rising to sit on the edge of the bed. Curled up under the covers in her
delicate white nightgown, her mother seemed as small and fragile as a sparrow. Very gently, Grace encircled the frail body
with her arms and cradled her mother against her.
For a moment, her mother’s thin form was tense, as though she were unused to human contact. Then she bent her head to
Grace’s shoulder and burst into an exhausted fit of weeping.
Grace’s hold tightened and she leaned her cheek against the lace of her mother’s cap. She had so much to say, there was
so much she wanted to know. But she stayed silent.
She’d always loved her mother—she’d loved her whole family, although it had been a thoughtless, selfish love. What
she’d learned about love from Matthew gave her the wisdom to know that for the present, silent comfort was what her
mother needed.
Eventually, her mother stopped crying and raised her head. Grace was so used to the gloom by now, she had no trouble
reading the expression on the countess’s face. She looked tired and sad, but there was a peace there that had been missing
before.
“Open the curtains, Grace. I want to see my daughter.”
“Yes, Mamma.” Grace rose and threw back the heavy draperies so that bright light flooded the room, banishing the
darkness.
Kermonde’s carriage lumbered along the track to the estate Grace had fled four months ago. In the Morocco leather
interior, tense silence reigned. Grace was masked and sat opposite the duke. Beside her, her father stared broodingly out
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into the twilight.
She nervously twisted her gloved hands in the skirt of her dark green merino traveling dress. Her heartbeat drummed so
loudly in her ears, it drowned out the carriage’s endless creak. The cloudy sky and thick trees crowding the road turned
the evening into deepest night. She shivered, trying not to read the darkness as an omen of looming disaster.
What had happened since she’d last seen Matthew? Was he fit? Was he unharmed? Was he alive? Dear God, let her not be
too late. Four months was a long time, even for someone who hadn’t counted every frustrating minute as an hour.
When the duke’s men had finally found Dr. Granger, the sham physician confirmed he’d seen Matthew recently. He’d
said nothing else to ease her fears. Reading the doctor’s testimony included in her godfather’s letter, she’d choked with
sick, impotent anger. Dr. Granger had boasted of beatings, purges, bleedings, and blisterings he’d administered to the
adolescent marquess. The memory of Matthew’s ruined back tormented her. Now, graphic knowledge of the abuse he’d
suffered as a youth sent nightmares to shatter what little sleep she snatched.
Dr. Granger claimed he’d only examined his patient on his latest visit. But had Monks and Filey continued the doctor’s
cruel methods under Lord John’s orders?
She’d begged her godfather to send someone to spy on the estate, but Kermonde had been reluctant. If Lord John caught
a whiff of the plot against him, he could spirit Matthew away beyond chance of rescue.
“Peace, child. Everything will reach a satisfactory conclusion.” Her father placed one large hand over her restless fingers.
He must have watched her long enough to guess the dizzying swirl of dread and doubt inside her.
She turned her head and met his eyes in the dimness. “I hope so.”
Once she’d have scoffed at the suggestion that her father would support her through her quest. But many things had
changed, including her status as a penniless and friendless widow. Now she was openly acknowledged as the wealthy
heiress, Lady Grace Marlow. Even poor Josiah’s name had faded into oblivion. The thought made her sad, as if her
husband was the same failure in death that he’d been in life.
But Josiah’s ghost was a pale insubstantial shadow. Its melancholy whispers were inaudible beneath her clamoring
anxiety for Matthew.
“Grace, I’d rather you waited in the coach where you’ll be safe.” Kermonde clutched a leather strap as the vehicle
lurched into another pothole.
This argument had gone on for weeks but Grace had remained obdurate. After so many months receiving secondhand
news or no news at all, she needed to see Matthew with her own eyes. Her only concession to her godfather was that for
discretion’s sake, she’d agreed to wear a mask and keep silent. The world must never discover Lady Grace Marlow had
been mistaken for a common harlot.
“Francis, let the chit be.” Her father pressed her hand then let her go. “We’ve gathered more men than Wellington had at
Vittoria. Can’t you see she’s set on having her way?”
Behind Kermonde’s luxurious equipage traveled a dozen horsemen and two coachloads of armed retainers. Bringing up
the rear, another carriage contained two royal physicians. King George had been furious when he learned of Matthew’s
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ordeal. The late Lord Sheene had been a great friend, advising him on his art collection. What had clinched His Majesty’s
interest, though, were the brilliant botanical articles. Thank heaven she’d stolen them.
How her father had changed, that he was prepared to defend her so openly. Behind the mask, tears prickled her eyes. But
the warmth was fleeting. Fulfilling as her reunion with her mother and father was, her thoughts never strayed far from
Matthew. She wanted to look into his eyes. She wanted to hear his deep voice with its undercurrent of wry amusement.
She wanted his scent. She wanted to touch him. Only his physical presence would silence the demons howling in her
heart, insisting she couldn’t save him.
She was exhausted and elated and worried and frightened. She bit her lip as dread rose to choke her. Could they edge so
close to victory and still fail?
She sat up straight and uncurled fingers that had tightened into stiff claws in her skirt. She must be strong. For Matthew.
For herself.
The carriage turned toward the gates and she braced herself for what was to come.
“Where did the bitch go?”
Matthew didn’t bother lifting his head to answer his uncle.I don’t know had worn down through repetition. He sagged in
his shackles, resting the weight on his arms to ease his aching legs. He was tired, so tired.
Soon, they’d release him from the chains that bound him to the garden room wall. Only to tie him to the table where he
could catch a few hours’ sleep. The pattern had become horribly familiar since Grace’s escape.
And she had escaped. His uncle still sought her but after all this time, Lord John must know she was long gone.
That thought alone sustained him. Somehow she’d eluded her pursuers. Even the legendary Bow Street Runners had
admitted defeat. Thank Christ, once she’d got out, she’d realized Matthew was beyond help. He’d been sick with worry
that she meant to mount some futile rescue attempt and willfully place herself within his uncle’s reach.
“You’re a fool, boy,” Lord John said coldly from the armchair set before his chained captive. His voice was the sole thing
in the room that was cold. Matthew wore only a shirt and light trousers. Still, he sweated profusely in the greenhouse
atmosphere.
After four months, he should be inured to the stifling heat. But he lived for the hour in the morning and the hour in the
afternoon when they let him exercise outside. That and three meal periods a day constituted his allotment of freedom. He
cooperated to keep his strength up. In eight weeks and two days, his promise to Grace ended and he’d kill his uncle. What
happened afterward, he didn’t care.
“The slut has forgotten you, taken another lover.” Lord John rested his hands on the top of his stick.
Matthew told himself that he hoped Grace had found someone else to care for. And knew himself a damned liar.
Corrosive jealousy burned him at the idea of her in another man’s arms, of another man touching that silken skin, bringing
her to sobbing pleasure.
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That other man was a lucky devil. To be free. Luckier still to be with Grace.
Matthew must have failed to hide his reaction. His uncle laughed low and salaciously and his fingers tightened over the
smooth yellow knob. “She’s a peach, isn’t she? Sweet as honey. And quick to spread her legs.”
Matthew didn’t respond. The taunts were too familiar.
“When we find her, I’ll try her myself before I give her to Monks and Filey. And my other men.”
Matthew raised his head and glared at his uncle. If hatred could kill, Lord John would be in his grave instead of brushing
an invisible fleck of dust from his heavy brown velvet coat sleeve.
His uncle still mused on what he intended to do to Grace. “Perhaps I’ll let you watch. To revive fond memories. I might
even permit you a slice before we finish her.”
Sour loathing rose like vomit in Matthew’s throat but he clenched hard against it. He must appear docile, beaten, or Lord
John would never release him. And he must be free to kill.
From experience, Matthew knew this inquisition could continue for hours. His uncle called on the estate at erratic
intervals to question him. Although he must by now admit nothing, not exhaustion, not pain, not anger, would make
Matthew reveal what he knew.
“Of course, there is another way, nephew.” His uncle checked his fingernails as if discussing the weather. “Tell me where
she went and you’ll have her back in your bed quick as a snap of your fingers.”
“I don’t know where she is,” Matthew said in a voice rusty with disuse, although he knew it was fruitless to reiterate his
ignorance.
He changed the angle of his body to ease the strain on his arms. His lank hair flopped around his face. For four months,
his daily grooming routine had been restricted to a shave and a quick wash in a basin. He knew his uncle’s strategy was to
break his spirit, but that didn’t make him any happier to know he looked the worst kind of ruffian. Since recovering his
wits, he’d been fastidious about his appearance. Dressing like a gentleman had been a gesture of defiance against the
shrieking specters of madness, captivity, and hopelessness.
“A pity we never found the cur,” Lord John said negligently. “He would engage your cooperation, I have no doubt.”
The mention of Wolfram stirred the rage that had roiled inside Matthew since that horrific afternoon. Matthew assumed
he’d crawled into some hidden hollow to bleed to death from the bullet wound. It was better than Lord John torturing the
hound to death, but not much. He tamped down his flaring temper and concentrated instead on the blazing ache in his
shoulders.
Anger threatened his control and without control, he couldn’t defeat his uncle. Now Grace was safe, his only remaining
purpose was Lord John’s downfall.
Without much interest, he heard movement in the hallway. His jailers must have finished checking the grounds as they
did every night. He wondered with dull curiosity if his uncle would order them to beat him. Since Grace’s escape, Lord
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John had only rarely subjected him to violence. But he sensed a frustration in his uncle tonight that could spill over into
brutality.
Matthew didn’t stir as the door opened, although the faint breath of air from outside fell on his sticky overheated skin like
balm.
“Release that man immediately!”
Matthew’s head jerked up in astonishment.What the hell…
What in God’s name was happening? He shook his head to clear his vision. The sudden explosion of noise and color and
movement after the quiet wretchedness of the last months left him disoriented.
He frowned and fought to make sense of this chaos.
Who were these strangers? What were they doing here? He didn’t recognize the man who had spoken and who now
placed himself in a position of authority at the center of the room.
But he was heartbreakingly familiar with the slender figure in dark green who jostled past the men pressing through the
doorway and dashed to his side. Softness scented with sunshine and delicate flowery perfume suddenly supported his
weight.
Grace…
Damn. Damn. Damn.
With appalled disbelief, he stared down at the masked lady whose arms encircled him. Her mouth trembled into a joyful
smile. Under the mask, tears shone in her indigo eyes.
“You’re alive. You’re alive.” She whispered the words like a prayer. She sounded so happy.
He wished to Hades he felt the same.
“What in Christ’s name are you doing here?” he snarled in angry despair. How the hell could she put herself in danger
like this? Had he endured four months of torment for nothing?
Her hold tightened. In spite of his anguished fury, her touch felt so good. Briefly he closed his eyes and struggled for