Page 97 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke
Charles’ smile flashed coldly. “Thank you for your understanding, My Lord.”
The two men sat in companionable conversation, as if they had been very old friends. The Baron, to his credit, was able to keep calm enough. If Charles had been in charge of recruiting more men for the Crown, this man would have at least garnered a recommendation for the act he put on. Sadly, the cold gleam of self-interest in the other man’s eyes could barely be concealed and if there was anything anathema to a monarch, it was a subject who was more loyal to his own self than the cause.
After the Baron finished his wine and Charles his brandy, the Duke surreptitiously brought out his pocket watch, a cue that he was ready to put an end to their conversation and his unlikely visit.
“The Duchess should be returning home right now after her trip to Bond Street,” he told the Baron. “Thank you so much for accommodating my unannounced visit, Lord Scunthorpe.”
“It was my pleasure, Your Grace.”
Charles nodded. Throughout the conversation, from beginning to end, he had never once allowed the Baron to be so familiar with his name, leaving Lord Scunthorpe no choice but to refer to his proper title and refer to him continuously asYour Grace.
After the Baron had seen him out the front door, he took his watch out again and checked the time. He tucked it back into his pocket, but instead of heading outside the gates to where his carriage was parked, he turned around to the back of the manor.
Did the Baron truly think he was a fool? That he would fall for his simple smiles and polite conversation? Charles had met far more pretentious men. Lord Scunthorpe was nothing special, although he might deem himself intelligent.
As he rounded towards the back of the manor, his eyes grazed over the windows on the second story, openings to several rooms. Scunthorpe Manor had no cellars—knowledge acquired prior to undertaking his swift expedition to the place. The second best location to hold a hostage would be as far away from the ground as possible. Amongst the dark rooms, a specific one caught his eye. In the darkness, he could make out what seemed to be a piece of tattered linen caught on the window sill.
He smiled to himself. It seemed his dear wife was far more resourceful than he ever gave her credit for.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Perhaps Scunthorpe was not so half-witted as it seemed, for it was clear he had the presence of mind to put his prisoner on the third floor of the house in a location where there were hardly any trees to climb out of. Perhaps he also had some good knowledge of just how stubborn Phoebe can be, and that she was most likely to attempt an escape.
When he thought of that and how his own darling wife had managed to slip out of Wentworth Park, and now, Cheshire Hall, he could not help but smile to himself. As soon as he had her back safely, he could teach her a great deal more about how to deal with a potential kidnapper.
Using outlying stones for leverage and grip, he climbed up the wall and managed to get through a window on the second floor. The room was dark around him, but he was never one to come unprepared on a mission of infiltration. He lit a match and quickly located a door that led out to a dark hallway.
Most residences in London were built according to a particular template and Scunthorpe Manor was no different. He silently made his way up to the third floor in the general area of the bedrooms. The first two yielded nothing except empty rooms, but the third… the third was locked.
Charles tucked a hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a piece of tinny wire. Bending it into shape, he deftly managed to unlock the door, smiling to himself when he heard the familiar and satisfying click of the lock sliding open.
At once, he pushed the door open, eager to get Phoebe out of this madhouse, but found himself nearly clobbered in the head with an ornate teapot.
Fortunately, the effects of laudanum had already worn off after being washed down with activated charcoal and lemon juice, and so his quick reflexes kicked in, enabling him to narrowly avoid being rendered unconscious with the piece of crockery.
“Phoebe, calm down!” he whispered hastily. “It’s me—Charles!”
His wife drew back the teapot for another swing before she peered closely at his face. “Charles?” she squeaked. “Oh, my goodness! Itisyou!”
She quickly dropped the teapot and rushed into his arms. “Oh dear, I am so sorry! I thought you were Scumthorpe and—”
Charles could not help but burst into laughter at that. “What did you just call him?”
“Scumthorpe,” she affirmed, looking up at his face without a hint of shame. “And do not laugh—he wholly deserves it for being an utterly vile human being.”
“You are much too kind,” he said, leaning back and gently drawing her into a hug that lifted her a touch off the carpet. “I would have not called him something remotely human.”
When she hugged him back, he felt relief flooding his body. She was here in his arms and she was well. If he could get her out of here quickly and safely, he could get to work at bringing Scunthorpe to justice.
“Come now, my love,” he told her. “We need to leave. Now.”
“But what about Scumthorpe?” she asked him.
“I have my ways,” he reassured her. “Now, let’s go!”
He dropped her lightly to her feet but then noticed her wincing in pain. “Are you hurt?” he asked her. And then, “Did that bastard hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No, I must have sprained my ankle when I tried to escape. I saw a carriage with the Cheshire livery outside and thought that if I could make it out, I would be able to get to the carriage and back to Cheshire Hall.”