“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 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 control, although her nearness made control nigh impossible. Still he tried. He’d need all his wits to bring her out of this disaster.
Oh, Grace, why did you come back? Why did you risk everything? Why? Why? Why?
She pressed into his side and even through his anger, he felt life spark inside him for the first time since she’d gone. “I’m here to rescue you,” she said softly. “Look.”
Dazedly, he opened his eyes. All he could see was her beloved face, pale beneath the mask. He wrenched his attention from her to take in the room. The suddenly crowded room.
Against one wall, Monks and Filey stood in the custody of four brawny men armed with horse pistols. Monks was disheveled and shackled, and drying blood smeared his mouth. He’d clearly put up a fight. Filey must have been as spineless as usual because he wasn’t chained like his crony. Four other men in livery ranged around the walls.
Now Matthew’s bewilderment receded, he realized that the long-faced, gray-haired man who demanded his release was vaguely familiar. Next to him stood an equ
ally authoritative-looking man who bore a strong resemblance to Grace. Two middle-aged men of great self-importance stood to one side. After eleven years of acquaintance with the breed, he had no trouble identifying them as doctors.
“Your Grace?” Lord John surged to his feet, shock eating into his usual sangfroid. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Unshackle Lord Sheene,” the first man, apparently a duke, said.
Lord John’s self-possession revived. “You have no rights here. Your Grace, Lord Wyndhurst, I protest this intrusion.”
Matthew’s bewilderment mounted. Why was the Earl of Wyndhurst here? Was he some relative of Grace’s? Was the duke? She’d said she came from a wealthy family but these men were among the greatest in the land.
“Protest all you like.” The duke made a lordly gesture toward the men who held Filey and Monks. “I said I wish this man released.”
Filey drew out a key and shuffled toward Grace and Matthew. The stench of his sour breath and stale sweat briefly suffocated Matthew as the brute stretched up to unlock his irons. Grace huddled closer and he felt her tremble with anger or revulsion or fear. Probably all three. He couldn’t read her expression under the damned mask.