A Duke to Remember (A Season for Scandal Book 2)

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M
iriam Ellery, Dowager Duchess of Ashland, had her ankles chained to her bed.

It was for her own protection, the steward at Bedlam said. The chains prevented her from wandering too far, and possibly killing herself or another patient. Aye, she might not look dangerous, he warned, but you could never really tell when a madwoman might succumb to unnatural and violent impulses.

Elise DeVries looked on without comment from the narrow doorway. Her brown wig itched her head terribly, as did the stiff mustache and beard pasted to her upper lip and jaw. The arms of the spectacles she wore pinched at her scalp, digging into the tender skin just above her ears. But as she contemplated the pathetic figure of the chained duchess in front of her, Elise could not give credit to her own discomforts.

“What do you think, Doctor?” the steward asked, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.

I think you are every sort of fool
, Elise wanted to say.

The very notion that the frail, elderly woman sitting slumped on the bed might injure another patient was absurd. It would be a miracle if the duchess could actually lift one of her legs under the weight of the heavy shackles, much less run amok through the hospital, endangering its inhabitants.

“These sorts of cases can indeed be tricky,” Elise said instead, pitching her voice low in the same manner she sometimes used when performing on the stage. “How long has Her Grace been a patient here?” She ordered herself to concentrate.

“I was forced to bring my aunt to this place about a month ago,” said Francis Ellery, nephew to the Duchess of Ashland. He put his hands on his hips, looming over Elise and the slight steward.

“Forced?” Elise prompted, trying to draw out Ellery’s motives for committing his aunt to Bedlam’s care.

“Her condition had deteriorated to the point where she could no longer look after herself, even with the assistance of servants. Someone had to do something,” he said, just a little too smoothly.

Something, indeed
, Elise thought to herself.

“Has she no husband?” she asked, feigning ignorance. She, like most everyone who read the papers, knew very well that the eleventh Duke of Ashland had recently died. Two years ago a seizure of some sort had left the old duke’s muscles flaccid and had stripped him of his ability to speak and walk. Afterward he and his wife had both withdrawn from society. As far as Elise knew, Ashland had never recovered his faculties.

“The duke has passed on,” Ellery informed her gravely. “I am quite devastated by the loss, as are all his closest companions.”

Elise very much doubted that Francis Ellery, who, at the moment, stood to inherit the dukedom of Ashland, was at all devastated by his uncle’s death.

“What a shame,”
tsk
ed Elise. “And there are no children to look after the duchess?” she asked, turning her head in Ellery’s direction.

“Only a daughter who has been estranged from her parents for over a decade.” He shook his head sadly. “I am afraid it has been left to me to care for them in these difficult times.”

“Mmm.” Elise pretended to observe the duchess, tilting her chin this way and that. But it was Ellery whom she studied covertly. And the more she saw, the more her instincts recoiled. At first she couldn’t say precisely why he repulsed her. Ellery was a perfectly groomed specimen of the ton with nary a blond hair nor a silk thread out of place. Nothing in his appearance branded him as someone overtly callous or cruel, or suggested he was the villain Elise rather suspected him to be. In truth, his expression was one of martyred benevolence, as if he truly believed himself to be an angel of mercy when it came to the welfare of his aunt.

Still, Ellery’s eyes gave her pause. No matter how much duty and compassion he was trying to convey, the hard, raw ambition that seethed there was hard to miss. Elise had met many men with these very same eyes. And where they were concerned, she always trusted her gut.

“Have you tried to locate the daughter?” Elise asked. “Surely she would—”

“No. There is no point,” Ellery interrupted. “Her Grace’s daughter has been cut from the fabric of her life. From all of our lives. I have not seen her, nor do I expect to.”

You are lying, Mr. Ellery.
Elise gazed at him impassively.
But why?

For it had been the duchess’s daughter, Lady Abigail, who had arrived at Elise’s office earlier in the week, frantic, desperate, and seeking help. It seemed Abigail had received a letter from the family’s longtime and loyal housekeeper, informing her that the duke had died and that the duchess had been committed to Bedlam. Lady Abigail had hastened to the city, only to find the world she had left behind in London was now inaccessible to her. She’d been barred from her childhood home by Mr. Ellery and denied access to her mother by the doctors here at Bedlam. After several desperate days of making no progress whatsoever, and unable to find a sympathetic ear among her former friends, she’d been beside herself. Not knowing what else to do and with no one else to turn to, she’d hired Elise.

Which was why Elise now found herself in the bowels of Bedlam, wondering why an aging woman, who was of sound mind and relatively good health according to her daughter, had found herself chained to a bed in a hospital for lunatics. And wondering just how difficult it was going to be to get her out.

It had been necessary for Elise to call in a favor from a prominent London doctor, who had provided her with false credentials and a glowing letter of introduction, which together had secured her entry into Bedlam. Presenting herself as Dr. Emmett Rowley, a member of the Royal College of Physicians, she’d been granted access to examine Miriam Ellery. To deflect suspicion she’d selected three other random blue-blooded patients to examine, provided that the nearest relatives of these women did not object.

Elise had already seen the patients she was pretending to observe today, and none of the families of those other women had interfered or objected. None of them had even cared enough to respond to the notices the directors of Bedlam had sent to their homes. The fact that Her Grace’s nephew had refused to allow Dr. Rowley to see his aunt unless he was also present during the exam with a steward of his choosing did not bode well. Elise was quite sure that there was a specific and self-serving reason that Francis Ellery had imprisoned his aunt in this place. She just didn’t know what it was yet.

Elise glanced about at the private cell. “Her care must cost a fortune, sir,” she remarked casually.

“I wish only to provide the best for my beloved aunt,” Ellery said, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Mr. Ellery is a generous benefactor to the hospital,” the steward added.

Elise pivoted back to the steward.
To the hospital or to you?
She wondered just how much of Ellery’s generosity slipped into the pockets of the duchess’s gaolers.

“Does Her Grace receive many visitors?” Elise asked next. “Friends?”

The steward shook his head. “No, she is too far gone for any visitors, Dr. Rowley. With this sort of condition, you can’t have distraction, can you, sir? And it would interfere with Her Grace’s treatment, of course.”

“Of course.” Elise nodded in feigned agreement. It wasn’t just her daughter, then, who was forbidden to see her. It seemed the duchess had effectively been cut off from civilization as a whole.
Why?

Elise pretended to make a note in the book she was carrying. Addressing the steward again, she asked, “And what are the signs and effects of the duchess’s condition?”

“She is unable to remember recent events, even those that happened mere minutes ago. She often confuses individuals with people from her past. Babbles a great deal about things that happened twenty years ago as though they happened yesterday. The poor soul even insists her son is alive.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Ellery tense. That was interesting.

Lady Abigail had mentioned she was the lone survivor of two siblings, and it had been easy enough to check parish records to confirm the live birth of one Noah Ellery, the only son of the late Duke of Ashland. Yet the details surrounding Noah’s death were vague. At some point someone had written the words
presumed deceased
next to his name in the church register. But there was no date, no reference to a riding accident, a hunting mishap, an illness, or any other cause. The implication was that he had simply…vanished.

“But she’s wrong, I take it? That is to say, her son is, in fact, dead?” Elise asked, feigning ignorance once again.

“Yes,” said the steward. He continued in a hushed tone, “But ’twere probably for the best anyhow. That young gentleman was never right in the head either.”

“I beg your pardon?” This time Elise didn’t have to pretend confusion.

The steward suddenly realized he might have said too much and glanced anxiously at Ellery. But the man looked pleased.

“It’s true,” Francis sighed heavily, and dropped his voice. “My cousin was touched from birth. I suppose it isn’t surprising that his poor mother now suffers the same mental defect.”

Elise did her best to conceal her shock and keep an expression of mild interest fixed on her face. “Another hysteric in the family? Interesting.” Elise pretended to make another notation in her book, if only to hide her annoyance that Lady Abigail hadn’t mentioned this. Nor had it come up in her investigation. Which was vexing, if it was indeed true. “What were your cousin’s symptoms, may I ask?”

“He was unable to speak. Can you imagine? A duke’s son reduced to using hand gestures just like the monkeys in a menagerie. Just as well he died, I suppose.” Ellery shook his head with more regret. “Certainly there was no cure for what ailed Noah.”

Elise weighed this new information. Assuming it was true that Noah Ellery had been mad, it might explain the lack of precision in the church register. If the heir to a dukedom suffered an obvious mental deficiency, the family might indeed take measures to ensure such a child faded conveniently into the ether. And what was more, the family might then find a way to blot the child’s name from the records. Money could rewrite history. Elise knew that better than anyone.

“Madness is something that quite obviously runs along this branch of the family,” the steward piped up. “Through the maternal side in this case. I always say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Terribly distressing,” Mr. Ellery said. “I must confess I am relieved that my relation is a paternal one.”

“As you should be, sir,” said Elise. “But what of the daughter? Did she show signs of such madness when you were acquainted with her?”

“Well, she did abandon everything to elope with a blacksmith and run away to Derby. And that was after she took the patronesses of Almack’s to task for their comments surrounding her fraternization with the lower classes. In a single public rant, Lady Abigail committed social suicide. Doesn’t have a friend left in London. Unless, of course, you count the blacksmiths of the city.” Mr. Ellery chuckled darkly. He seemed to find his little joke exceedingly funny.

“Ah. Perhaps a temporary spell of lunacy?” Elise suggested, her lips quirking.

Ellery looked delighted at this notion, just as Elise had known he would. “Most likely.”

The steward was rubbing his hands. “Well, I can tell you this,” he said. “The duchess will become more and more removed from reality unless she receives vigorous and sustained treatment. Purges, cold water treatments, and restrictions in diet—all of these must be applied in rotation if there’s to be any hope of recovery.”

Elise suppressed a shudder. “Indeed.”

The steward shook his head. “The madness must be driven out, and sometimes it takes extremes to do so. She is a danger to others until it is, and as such, she must remain here.”

Elise nodded. “I’d like to interview her.”

Ellery frowned. “As you can see, Dr. Rowley, she’s in no condition to talk.”

“I’d like to ascertain that for myself.” Elise allowed a tiny note of suspicion to bleed into her question. “No other family had a problem with this. Is there something you are hiding?”

“Of course not.” Ellery looked on unhappily.

“Excellent. I shan’t be more than a few minutes.” Elise pushed by him before he had a chance to protest further.

“Do not get too close,” Ellery warned. “I cannot be responsible for your safety from this point. The woman is quite unpredictable, you know.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Elise murmured, resisting the urge to turn and unpredictably kick the man in the shins.

Elise left the men at the doorway and approached the duchess, crouching in front of her so that they were almost eye to eye. While they were in this position, neither the steward nor Ellery would hear anything that was said between them. “Your Grace?” Elise asked softly, trying not to look at the chains that bound the duchess. Elise had once known what it was like to be held captive. She knew the feeling of utter helplessness that came with such restraint. And it made her even more determined to see this woman freed. “Your Grace?” she asked again, with renewed determination.

The duchess continued to stare at the wall, her lips moving slightly as though she was reciting a silent prayer, her grey hair falling in untidy clumps around her ears. Elise realized the woman had been drugged. She’d seen too many opium addicts not to recognize the signs.

Elise set her book aside and reached out, gathering the woman’s cold, thin hands in hers. “Abigail sent me,” Elise whispered. “Will you speak with me?”

The duchess turned from the wall then. Her eyes were red, but they met Elise’s with no hesitation. “Abigail sent you?” she asked in a voice that sounded as though it hadn’t been used in some time. “Where is she? Why isn’t she here?”

“She wanted to be,” Elise said, searching for signs of mental defect but finding none. All she saw was exhaustion and dulled confusion. “She isn’t allowed to visit you. But she sent me to make sure you were all right.”

“Are you a doctor?”

Elise smiled under her mustache. “I am today.”