The Return of the Duke - Grace Callaway Page 0,119

leather-bound notebook, flipping it open to a page of notes. “It appears the doctor took some effort to cover up his past.”

Severin’s gut chilled. This was not a good sign.

“Eight years ago, Dr. Karl Erlenmeyer arrived in London as a graduate of the prestigious University of Vienna,” Ambrose Kent said. “Having worked in several asylums in Austria, he secured a position at Bedlam and was there for approximately three years before he was let go.”

“Why was he sacked?” Severin asked tersely.

“According to the attendants I interviewed, some of Dr. Erlenmeyer’s treatments were less than humane.” Kent’s expression was grim. “His use of restraints, isolation, and extreme temperatures to ‘drive out the madness’ worsened the condition of some of his patients, including two who took their own lives while under his care.”

“Christ,” Harry Kent muttered.

The memory of his maman’s mistreatment chilled Severin’s veins. “What happened next?”

“Erlenmeyer landed himself his present position as the head of Brookfield Asylum, where he’s been for the last five years. When I tried to make inquiries into his current treatment techniques, the employees of the Asylum were tight-lipped as if they feared repercussions.”

“What about Anna Smith?” Severin asked. “Did you find out anything about her?”

“On conditions of anonymity, one attendant confided to me that when Miss Smith was first brought in over a month ago, she was ranting that her real name wasn’t Anna Smith but Rosamund Becker. The attendant said that she was clearly delusional, babbling about being the royal midwife.”

Severin tensed. “A month ago? Erlenmeyer told me that Smith—or Becker—was a long-time patient. That this was not the only instance when she’d had delusions and attacked an innocent bystander.”

“That is an odd discrepancy from the attendant’s report,” Ambrose Kent said, frowning.

“What I find equally odd,” Harry mused, “is that a man with Erlenmeyer’s history of inhumane and failed treatments was able to secure a position as the head of a private asylum.”

“I was curious about that as well,” his brother replied. “Thus, I did some digging into the financials behind Brookfield and discovered that most of the funding comes from a group of wealthy patrons. One of the patrons is Lord Snowden, whose wife happens to be a friend of my wife, Marianne. Marianne got me in to see Snowden, and he told me in private that he is no fan of Dr. Erlenmeyer…that, indeed, several of the patrons questioned the fellow’s practices. But apparently Erlenmeyer has the backing of the most influential donor.”

“Who is that?” Severin demanded.

“Princess Adelaide. She is the sister of the King of—”

“Hessenstein.” Severin didn’t like the coincidence of Princess Adelaide, who’d befriended Fancy, being involved in this tangled web. “Why would she back an Austrian mad-doctor?”

“Erlenmeyer is not Austrian by birth; he was born in the Principality of Hessenstein. It is apparently a custom of Hessenstein royalty to become patrons of commoners, a practice that has led to some scandal.”

“Scandal?”

“Snowden mentioned that the reason Princess Adelaide resides in London is because she fell out of favor with her brother Ernst, the King of Hessenstein. King Ernst apparently broke royal protocol by falling in love with a commoner he was sponsoring. She was a dressmaker or something along those lines. Anyway, the king married the woman, against the wishes of his royal family—especially Princess Adelaide, who made her feelings known. He brought his new wife to London whilst she was carrying their first child, but something went wrong, and she and the child perished. Grief-stricken, King Ernst went back to Hessenstein, but Princess Adelaide stayed in London—some say because her brother forbade her return. Her son, Ruprecht, lives with the king as he is now the heir apparent to the throne.”

With thundering dread, Severin asked, “How long ago did this happen?”

Kent consulted his notes. “Some twenty-three years ago… What is the matter, Your Grace?”

Panic had propelled Severin to his feet. “I think my wife may be the heir to the Hessenstein crown—which means she’s in grave danger. I have to find her, and I need your help.”

“Whatever you need,” Harry said.

“I want eyes on Adelaide and Erlenmeyer straightaway. Find them and don’t let either of them out of your sight. My men can go with you—”

“I’ve got it. And I’ll get additional reinforcements.” Harry gave a grim nod. “Go to Fancy.”

Severin was already racing out the door.

39

Awakening from a nightmare, Fancy blinked groggily. Had she been sleepwalking? She didn’t recognize the dimly lit room with it sagging ceiling and wilting wallpaper. The light was coming in from—she squinted—a boarded-up window.