Untouched (30 page)

Her heart lurched with a sudden pang of yearning for Matthew. She’d give anything for one last chance to feel his

embrace and to hear his deep voice whispering her name. Missing him had been a constant sharp ache in her heart from

the moment she’d said goodbye. But crouched on this lonely road, the stark reality of his absence stabbed at her like a

steel blade.

Bending her head, she buried her face in Wolfram’s coarse coat. She didn’t cry. She’d cried so much already and tears

had done her no good. For a long time, she knelt there, praying for her lover’s safety, praying for strength, praying for her

own survival so that she could accomplish the impossible task ahead of her.

Finally, she drew in a deep breath and stood on legs that quivered with exhaustion. She straightened her backbone,

gripped the rope attached to Wolfram’s collar and lifted her chin to the east as if daring life to defy her.

She would free Matthew or she would die trying.

The sound of the hallway door opening woke Matthew from restless sleep. Darkness surrounded him. It must be the

middle of the night.

“Have you found Wolfram? Is he all right?” Matthew asked groggily as his uncle came in.

He tried to sit up then subsided with a painful grunt when his bruised ribs met the leather bindings. For a moment, he’d

forgotten he was tied down. He was stiff and sore and thirsty. Around sunset, his uncle had sent Mrs. Filey in to give him

some water. The cool liquid had been sweeter than nectar on his throat and on his chapped and splitting lips. But that must

have been hours ago.

His uncle didn’t answer but spoke to the servants who followed him into the room and began to light the lamps. “Release

him but keep a close hold when you do.”

Matthew maintained an appearance of weary apathy while they untied him and brought him to his feet. The instant the

hands on his arms loosened, he broke into a frenzy of fighting and punching and struggling.

He’d reached such a pitch of anger that if he got his hands on his uncle, he’d kill him. Then gladly face the consequences,

whatever his promise to Grace. For the sake of his own manhood, he couldn’t stand docilely like a bullock awaiting the

butcher’s ax.

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He was weak after his bout of illness and the beating, and clumsy from lying strapped to the table so long in this stifling

room. He managed to clout one thug over the face before they caught his arms with embarrassing ease and wrenched them

behind his back. The damaged flesh over his ribs tightened in agony and a groan escaped him.

Chest heaving and convulsive shudders running through his aching muscles, he hung from the men’s grasp. Failure tasted

sour in his mouth.

“There’s no point to this, nephew,” his uncle said frigidly, not looking remotely worried at the sudden violence.

“If I manage to kill you, there is indeed a point,” Matthew gasped, breath scraping in and out of his lungs.

“When I’ve come to reward you for your cooperation? Surely not. If you can restrain your madness for the nonce, I’ll

allow you up to bathe and change your clothing. And Mrs. Filey already prepares a meal for you.”

Matthew refused to express surprise or curiosity. Even broken and defeated and weak, he wouldn’t surrender.

“Don’t you want to know why?”

Matthew remained silent.

After a pause, his uncle pursed his lips with disappointment. “The doxy was seen in a village on the road to Bristol. Filey

returned to inform me while the others continued on. They’ll catch her before she reaches the city.”

No! Jesus, no!

He thought he’d screamed his anguished denial aloud. But he mustn’t have because his uncle still stared at him with a

gentle expectation that didn’t fool him.

Was what Lord John said true? Or a trick to draw him out about Grace’s whereabouts? Bristol was in the opposite

direction to Wells. Had she decided at the last minute that the larger city offered greater protection?

Oh, God, Grace, if they catch you, all hope is gone.

Grace curtsied deeply as Francis Rutherford, Duke of Kermonde, swept into the library of Fallon Court. She hadn’t been

inside this beautiful paneled room since she was a girl of eleven. She hadn’t seen the duke since she was fifteen, when

she’d attended his fiftieth birthday at this house with her family.

Would he remember her? And if he did, would he deign to speak to her? He’d always been kind when she’d come to him

as the spoiled daughter of his best friend. Now she was poor and desperate and needed his help. She ardently wished she

had something other than her faded widow’s weeds to wear. They proclaimed her poverty and put her at immediate

disadvantage.

Goodness, what did her appearance matter when Matthew’s fate hung in the balance? She stifled the stiff-necked pride

that had forbidden her from seeking help from her family’s connections before.

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At her side Vere bowed, clutching his document case close to his narrow chest. He’d requested this audience without

telling the duke about Grace’s arrival at his vicarage yesterday.

She wasn’t sure surprising one of the nation’s most powerful men was a good idea. But she’d been too tired and

frightened and sick with worry over Matthew to argue. And by the time she’d reached Purdy St. Margaret’s, Wolfram had

been limping badly and he’d demanded her immediate attention.

Thank goodness his injuries weren’t serious, but he was exhausted and obviously fretting over his master’s absence.

They’d locked the hound in the stable while they came to the manor. He’d been howling fit to break a window when she

left.

“Reverend Marlow?” The duke paused before them. Grace felt him studying the crown of her bent head. “What’s this

about?” Then she heard his sharply indrawn breath as she rose.

“Good morning, Uncle Francis,” she said calmly, holding her head up and daring him to scorn her. She was a Marlow.

Her blood was as blue as his, however empty her purse.

“It’s…Good God, it’s little Grace! I’d know those eyes anywhere,” he said in astonishment. “Lord, I haven’t seen you in

ten years. Bless me, you’ve become a beauty.”

Then he gave a delighted laugh as though her visit presented the greatest treat and held his arms wide. “Come here and

say hello properly!”

She’d expected any reaction from wary curiosity to immediate banishment. Open and unhesitating welcome hadn’t been

on her list.

Fighting tears, Grace threw herself into his embrace. She’d always adored her godfather. Throughout her girlhood, he’d

descended upon her at irregular intervals, bringing extravagant gifts and laughter. He’d always treated her as a cherished

daughter. His wife had died young and childless and he’d never remarried.

“Oh, Uncle Francis! I’ve missed you so much,” she eventually stammered in a choked voice, drawing away.

He bombarded her with questions, questions she answered as well as she could without long explanations. Any delay

extended Matthew’s ordeal. Was he even alive? The harrowing memory of how ill he’d been when she left gnawed at her

like hungry rats. More hung on this meeting than a reunion. Although she couldn’t help asking the one thing that had

haunted her. “How are my parents, Uncle Francis?”

Vere had told her what he knew once he’d stopped apologizing for the carriage accident which had prevented him

reaching Bristol. So banal a cause for all that had befallen her. But Vere hadn’t seen her mother or father for years. The

duke had been her father’s friend since Eton.

By now, she and her godfather were seated on a leather couch near tall glass doors opening onto the magnificent garden.

“You know about your brother, of course.” Kermonde’s narrow face was somber. With his long nose and tawny hair and

sharp pale blue eyes, he’d always reminded her of a fox.

“Yes. I saw it in the news sheets.” She took a shaky breath. Talking about Philip always filled her with a crippling

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mixture of shame and sorrow. Her own criminally irresponsible behavior had hurt her family so much. Then they’d

endured the loss of their only son in circumstances that brought humiliation to a proud name.

“Things haven’t been…good. Your mother gave up her social engagements and retired to her room as an invalid. Your

father throws himself into parliamentary work in a way that worries me. I sincerely believe they’d love to see you,

Grace.”

She remembered her father’s final, unequivocal dismissal. “No, they wouldn’t. Although I can’t help but wonder about

them.”

“Since Philip’s death, your father has reconsidered many things, not least his treatment of you.”

Vere spoke, interrupting the heavy silence that fell. “Sir, Grace has brought an urgent matter to my attention which I

believe only you can resolve.”

“Do you need help, Grace?” Kermonde looked at her curiously. “My coffers are at your disposal.”

She shook her head, wishing her requirements were so simple. She asked for more than gold. For Matthew’s sake, she

wanted Kermonde to pledge his name, his influence, perhaps his very reputation. “The help isn’t for me but for a man

who suffers injustice of the worst kind.”

“Go on.” Suddenly, her godfather didn’t sound like her indulgent Uncle Francis but like the great Duke of Kermonde.

Good. It was the duke she needed. Lord John was a powerful man and his crimes were hanging offenses. Perhaps her

long-lost Marlow connections could save her lover.

Although not for her. Never for her.

“I have papers here, Your Grace.” Vere tapped the document case. “The story they tell beggars belief. That’s why I

brought Grace to you. Although after all she’s been through, she needs rest to recover.”

“I don’t need rest. I need justice,” she said sharply. Vere showed an unfortunate tendency to coddle her. He was only six

years her senior, but he already acted like a fussy old man. She wondered, not for the first time, how she could bear to live

with him and his managing wife and noisy brood. And what could she do with Wolfram? Vere’s wife Sarah already

complained vociferously about having the huge hound running tame in her house.

She had nowhere else to go.

She dismissed the troubling thought. Her future wasn’t important here. Matthew’s was.

“Tell me,” Kermonde said. “I’m intrigued.”

Her godfather heard her out with few comments, then turned to the documents she’d stolen to prove Matthew’s sanity.

Drafts of articles for scientific journals. Letters in several languages to botanical experts across Europe. Correspondence

from Lord John. His lordship had been careful not to confess any wrongdoing in writing. Nonetheless, the letters were a

stinging indictment of greed and cruelty. They also set out names of doctors, treatments Matthew had undergone, other

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details that confirmed her outlandish tale.

When he finished, Kermonde looked up from his desk with a dazed expression. Afternoon drew toward evening. Grace

waited nervously on the edge of the sofa.

Dear God, just let Matthew still be alive.

Vere had left on parish business after luncheon but he’d returned a short while ago. He now stood at the doors watching

the light fade over the formal gardens.

“I can hardly credit it.” Her uncle removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. She’d been surprised when he’d taken

them from his pocket. She remembered him as fit and vital. His weakening eyesight was an unwelcome reminder that he

was now over sixty.

“It’s true,” she said shortly.

He smiled at her. “I don’t doubt it. I know Lord John’s handwriting from parliamentary business. He’s made himself a big

noise in the world since he became his nephew’s keeper. I’d always thought he was a sound chap. Now I find the fellow

should be horsewhipped then hanged.”

She’d come prepared to argue, persuade, plead. “You believe me?”

“Of course I do, my dear.”

“And…” She paused to suck in a breath. Her heart raced with wild hope. “And you’ll help free Lord Sheene?”

“By God, yes. This villainy must end. But it won’t be as quick as you’d like, Grace. I’ll need to gather evidence and place

what I know before the authorities.”

“Isn’t there enough here?” she asked urgently.

“No. Although you were clever to bring this material.”

“How long will you need? Time is of the essence.” She hardly cared that she badgered a duke of the realm much as she’d

have haggled with a neighboring farmer over a ewe.

Even Kermonde looked slightly startled at her directness. “Months, probably.”

“Months.” The rioting happiness in her heart eased to a limping trot. In six months, Matthew’s promise to her ended.

Then he’d wreak revenge on his tormentors and break his captivity the only way he could. With his own death.

Compassion filled the duke’s face. “Patience, my dear. Lord John has friends in high places, although not as many as he

thinks. The case must be unassailable before I proceed officially. This will be Sheene’s only chance. If we foul it up, he’ll

be held as a madman the rest of his life.”

“I couldn’t bear that,” she whispered, then hoped her uncle didn’t read anything significant into what she said. She’d tried