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.
“You have my abject apologies, your grace,” Hayes said sorrowfully. “But now that you are here, perhaps I can assist you?”
He was about a head shorter than Trent, and had hair of a color somewhere between brown and blond. His features were regular, but nothing stood out. It was almost as if he were making himself fade in deference to his noble visitor.
“My lady friend here,” Trent said with a wave in her direction, “you know how ladies are, I trust?” He asked the question as if it made all the sense in the world. As if there were an agreed-upon thing that ladies were, and he expected Hayes to know it.
If Hayes were confused by the aside, he didn’t show it. “Of course, of course. Your friend … Oh dear, I’m afraid I do not know your name, madam.”
He said it as if the fault were his own rather than Trent’s for failing to introduce her from the first.
Trent raised his quizzing glass once again and peered at the doctor. “Miss Dauntry,” he said with boredom. “Miss Ophelia Dauntry.”
“Miss Dauntry,” the doctor said with a nod. “Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable, Miss Dauntry. I’ll ring for some refreshments.”
Trent sighed. “We already told the other fellow that there was no need of that. I really must insist you speed this along, Doctor.” He shook his head mournfully. “I’ve an important appointment in an hour or so and I must get Miss Dauntry back to her mother before I do so.”
He whispered, as if Ophelia were several rooms away instead of a few feet. “Gentleman’s business.” He laid a finger alongside his nose, as if she were blind as well.
“Quite so,” Hayes whispered. Aloud to Ophelia he said, “How may I assist you, Miss Dauntry? Is it your nerves?”
She was startled from her amusement at Trent’s charade by annoyance at the doctor’s question. “Certainly not. My nerves are as sound as horses.”
“My apologies, Miss Dauntry,” he said hastily. “It’s just that I see a number of ladies complaining of such things. Please tell me what it is you wish to consult me about. Perhaps you have a relative who is suffering from a temperament that requires them to be removed to somewhere more suited to their needs? I can assure you that it can be done quickly and painlessly. Without much fuss.”
But that only made her angrier. Of course his pockets were brimming with gold, she thought sourly. If he approached every visitor to his offices with the suggestion to lock away their relatives, then he likely was making a fortune.
“Is that what you told Mr. George Grayson when he came to you about his wife?”
At the mention of George, the doctor’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve not had the pleasure. Is Mr. Grayson a relative, then? Or perhaps it’s Mrs. Grayson to whom you are kin?”
“I find it difficult to understand how you might not be able to place either of the Graysons, Doctor,” she said, anger at his pretense coursing through her, “when I read your name just yesterday on a writ declaring Maggie Grayson insane, and ordering her to be taken to the Hayes Clinic.”
At Ophelia’s words, the doctor’s eyes narrowed. Gone was the fatuous smile he’d given Trent, and by association, her. In its place was a shrewd examination of both his visitors. “What is this about? I thought the duke was here to seek my assistance.”
“And so I am, Dr. Hayes,” Trent said, stepping forward to lend Ophelia his support. He was every inch the nobleman, and it had nothing to do with his quizzing glass. “I wish you to answer Miss Dauntry’s questions about the bodily removal of Mrs. Margaret Grayson from a public establishment, which, according to the paper presented by the thugs who took her was sanctioned by you and her husband, George Grayson.”
“You deceived me,” Dr. Hayes said accusingly to Trent.
“I believed the ends justified the means,” the duke said with a slight shrug. “And that doesn’t negate our reason for coming here. Did you even see Mrs. Grayson in person before you diagnosed her?”
But Dr. Hayes was not interested in answering questions. “I’m sure you’ll both excuse me. I made time to see you specially but I’m afraid that I have much work to get to this morning.”
Ophelia almost shouted with frustration, but she needn’t have worried. Trent stopped the physician’s progress to the door with a few words.
“Not. Yet. Sir.”
As if a string had pulled him up short, Dr. Hayes stopped in his tracks.
“I would like an answer to my question,” Trent said in a deceptively casual tone. “And I believe Miss Dauntry is still waiting as well. What possible motive could you have had for declaring Mrs. Grayson mad sight unseen?”
“I would imagine,” Ophelia said softly, “it was a financial incentive.”
Hayes turned and glared at her. “If you were a man, Miss Dauntry, I could call you out for that.”
“That would require you to be a man of honor, Dr. Hayes,” she retorted coldly. “And we know by now that you have none. No man who would take money in exchange for a woman’s freedom could.”
“For your information, Miss Dauntry,” the doctor said through clenched teeth, “I make sure the streets are safe for ladies like you by making declarations of insanity against those whose relatives have deemed them unbalanced. There is nothing dishonorable about it. If at times I have them taken up before I have a chance to see them personally, then it is always with good cause. And if I have made a mistake, which I beg to inform you that I never have, then that person would be set free as soon as it was discovered.”
It was what she’d expected, of course. Ophelia shouldn’t be at all surprised. Even so, hearing him declare it so baldly, admitting that it took no more than the suggestion from a relation that the person in question was unbalanced, was terrifying. For who could be safe when there was such a practice? It would take only the word of a disapproving parent, or a jealous sibling, to see to it that their offending relation was removed from society indefinitely.
“And what was it that George Grayson told you about his wife’s condition that deemed her worthy of committal?” Trent asked. “Or was it just his coin that spoke for him?”
The flush that rose in the doctor’s face told the tale more eloquently than words could have done.
“I had a long talk with Mr. Grayson,” Dr. Hayes said defensively. “He was quite worried about his wife’s condition. Quite worried.”
“When was it that you spoke to him?”
Ophelia had by now stepped aside to let Trent do the questioning, since he seemed to be making better headway than she had.
“Yesterday morning,” Dr. Hayes said. “Around nine. I remember because it was rather early in the day for a gentleman. I generally do not see members of the upper classes until later in the day.”
At the doctor’s admission, Ophelia saw Trent scowl. “What did Mr. Grayson look like?”
“I thought you were acquainted with this couple,” Dr. Hayes said darkly. “If you’ve come here under false pretenses…”
“Just answer the question, Doctor,” Trent said in a tone that would brook no demurral. “What did this man who called himself George Grayson look like?”
“He was around your height,” Dr. Hayes said, dropping all show of defiance. “With light brown hair. And he had an eye patch. I assumed it was from a war injury. He did tell me he’d fought against the French at Waterloo.”
“An eye patch?” Ophelia asked, surprised despite herself. It certainly wasn’t George he was speaking of. Not only did George not have an eye patch, but he was also quite fair-haired. Far too fair-haired to be called a brunet. She exchanged a look with Trent who looked just as shocked as she was. “Doctor, I don’t know who you spoke with but it wasn’t George Grayson.”
But Dr. Hayes was not convinced.
“Now see here,” he said sharply, “I have only your word that the man I spoke to is not the actual George Grayson. I take my authority as a physician seriously and would never declare someone mad on a stranger’s word.” Once more he tugged the bellpull.
Before Trent or Ophelia could retort, two large men entered the room. But not the men who had taken Maggie.
How many of these giants did Dr. Hayes have in his employ? she wondered with irritation.
“See these two out, please,” said Dr. Hayes haughtily. “I have said all I care to say on the subject of your friend. And I have grown quite tired of your insults.”
When the guards made to put their hands on Trent, however, he held them off with a look. Then he turned and took Ophelia by the arm. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Hayes. I feel sure we’ll be seeing one another again.”
Ophelia was quite sure he had the right of it.