The Return of the Duke - Grace Callaway Page 0,100

arrived at a small, spartan cell. Severin looked at the woman lying on the single cot. The manacle on her ankle kept her chained to the bed. She was wearing a white jacket with ties that bound her arms to her chest; she looked like one of the mummies on display at the British Museum. Her eyes were lifeless, her tongue lolling and saliva trickling out of her mouth.

Severin couldn’t stop the flood of memories: his own mother bound in similar restraints. Her glassy eyes, rambling words, and frothing obscenities. Even worse had been her flashes of lucidity, when suffering had bled over her worn features.

Severin, forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you, she’d wept.

Pain raked his insides. He had told her time and again that he’d forgiven her—that he knew she hadn’t meant to attack him. Bleeding in the street, he had begged the constables not to take her away. In the end, he was the one who had failed her. He hadn’t been able to ease her anguish or get her out of Bedlam…until it was too late.

She had died in that hellhole, alone and afraid.

“As you can see, Miss Smith poses no risk,” Erlenmeyer said brusquely.

Concentrate, Severin told himself.

Tamping down the swirling chaos, he asked, “How did she come into your care?”

“After her first attack on an unwitting victim, she was apprehended and found insane,” Erlenmeyer said in precise accents. “As I have experience working with violent patients, it was deemed that she would benefit from my care. My hospital receives funding from generous benefactors to carry out its good works, even for destitute lunatics like Miss Smith.”

“By good works, you mean you keep her chained and drugged,” Severin said.

“We have to keep Miss Smith sedated.” Erlenmeyer drew himself up, his tone defensive. “She is otherwise a danger to herself and others. There is no other way, Your Grace.”

Severin couldn’t stem his antipathy toward the mad-doctor even though he knew it wasn’t fair. The man was doing his job. Erlenmeyer had nothing to do with the way Severin’s maman had been treated in Bedlam, the bruises and cigar burns Severin had found on her…the dried blood on her thighs.

Darkness welled. Years of self-discipline allowed him to shove back the rage of powerlessness before it swamped him. He faced the mad-doctor with the polished control of a gentleman—a duke. Although he knew that his past colored his perception of Erlenmeyer, his instincts told him that something wasn’t right with this bloodless fellow.

“For my wife’s safety, Miss Smith must be kept confined here at the asylum,” Severin said. “I will not have it done in an inhumane fashion, however. See that she has regular meals and a chance to take air in the garden daily. She will have a female attendant with her at all times. If you do not have one, hire one, and send the bill to me.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Erlenmeyer said. “Will there be anything else?”

The mad-doctor’s apparent deference did not hide the resentful glint in his eyes. He didn’t like having his authority questioned, which was too bloody bad. Severin couldn’t shake his feeling of suspicion. Recalling that Harry Kent’s older brother Ambrose was a renowned investigator, he decided to retain the services of the senior Kent forthwith to make enquiries into Erlenmeyer’s past.

“I will expect weekly reports on Miss Smith’s treatment,” Severin said coldly. “If anything happens, I want to be the first to know. And if Miss Smith manages to escape again…you will have to answer to me.”

32

Although the threat to her life had ended, Fancy found herself more worried than ever. This time her concern was over the state of her marriage. Knight was behaving strangely, and she feared she knew the reason why. Since the attack by Anna Smith two nights ago, Knight had retreated into himself. He was polite, speaking when spoken to, his gaze cool and remote. To Fancy, he seemed to be going through the motions, and she had asked him if he was all right.

Predictably his answer had been, “I am fine.”

Then why was he avoiding her?

The night of the attack, Knight had come to her bed, and they’d both fallen into an exhausted sleep. When she woke up, he was gone; there was no affectionate note to tell her where, although she knew he had gone to see Anna Smith at the asylum. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to rouse Fancy’s anxieties by reminding her of the sad and terrifying affair. The next evening, he