Only a Duke Will Do by Tamara Gill
Chapter 15
“We’re here, miss.”
Isolde stepped out of the carriage and quickly paid the man. “Did you see what direction the gentleman went whom I asked you to follow?”
The large, somewhat scruffy driver pointed down a darkened alley that looked less than savory. “You’ll find what ye’re looking for down that way.”
Isolde pulled her cloak closer about her and used the few inns and houses that ran along the wharf to light her way. Laughter carried out from one particular building farther along the dock, and she quickly made her way toward it, hoping the carriage driver had not led her on a merry chase and she was, in fact, near where Wardoor currently was.
Thankfully, her betrothed had done just as she assumed and had stayed at the ball for another two hours before summoning his vehicle to leave. If Isolde had thought his lordship would attend another ton ball, or an event at one of his clubs, she was sorely disappointed and somewhat relieved. For where they were headed only proved to her Leonora’s words were true.
Wardoor had secrets.
Isolde walked down the alley, her nose crinkling in disgust at the stench of rotting rubbish and unwashed bodies. A little way along the alley a man stood, arms crossed over his burly chest, looking about the street as if he owned the whole neighborhood. Not one person dared to engage him, and the few who walked past went with quickened steps and lowered eyes. Isolde, however, would have none of that, and, walking up to him, met his gaze head on.
“Open the door, please,” she said, smiling a little, which seemed to help her cause, for although he stared back with indifference, he soon moved, and, reaching behind him, opened the door. Relief curled through her at gaining entrance, for she’d not known if a secret password or payment was required, and she’d brought only just enough funds with her to get a cab back home.
At her first glimpse of the interior of the house, all thoughts that it was a whorehouse or just a very poor acquaintance of Wardoor’s were erased. This was certainly no place she’d ever thought to darken the threshold. That her betrothed seemed to like such seedy establishments angered her beyond reason. That his lordship had made her come down to this unfortunate area of London to see for herself what he was about was beyond forgivable. Even if he was unaware of her outing.
There were bodies strewn everywhere, some asleep, some smoking, while others draped themselves over the opposite sex and did things Isolde had never witnessed. The sweet, sickly smell of opium greeted her as she walked into the room, along with the realization that there were people present from all levels of Society, all mingling, enjoying one another as much as the addictive drug they smoked.
In this den of hell, men of influence mixed with scullery maids and prostitutes, while women of rank sank further into their addiction and, if anything like Leonora, would eventually shorten their lives by many years.
Isolde moved through the room, taking note of faces— most unknown to her, some known to her very well. Seeing them at a ton ball or London event would make the future meeting awkward, on her side, at least. She doubted they would remember her here, so sunk into the depths of debauchery were they.
Moving to the opposite side of the room where there were fewer people, Isolde tried to blend into the furniture as much as possible. There was no sign of Wardoor, and relief coursed through her that perhaps she’d been wrong. Too judgmental and untrusting to believe what others told her as truth.
But her relief was short-lived as a gentleman, one she knew all too well, strolled down the stairway, a whore hanging from his arm.
Never had she seen Wardoor look so disheveled. At the ball earlier, he’d looked less than polished, but this—this was a side to him she had never wanted to see.
He looked like a man just out of bed. His shirt hung open right down to his chest and his cravat was completely missing. As for his jacket and waistcoat, they were gone as well.
He laughed, gazing about the room, and Isolde noted his eyes were blank of any emotion, just glassy mirrors into a soul that was possibly too far gone for her to help. A servant rushed to Wardoor’s side, pouring him a large glass of wine. The couple moved to a nearby abundance of pillows that sat upon the floor.
Isolde shook her head, unable to believe that Leonora had been right in what her betrothed loved to do when not satisfying the ton and their need for titled gentlemen. Isolde had thought Leonora’s words were just another hateful way to injure her, and perhaps they had been, but they’d also been the truth.
No matter how much that truth hurt, her eyes did not deceive her. Wardoor was addicted to opium, just as Leonora had been.
This lifestyle his lordship was so fond of was not what she wanted for herself or her future children. She didn’t want to be a wife who turned a blind eye to the goings-on of her husband, and she certainly didn’t wish to be married to a man who could come home at any time, demand his right of her body and give her the pox. Such a situation was too awful to even imagine. This betrothal could not go on.
When they’d first discussed a marriage of convenience, she’d thought it would be one in which he would have a mistress, enjoy his clubs, as men do, and not demand too much of her in the marriage bed. But she would not condone, nor agree to live with this man if he continued to partake in this opium den and the depraved activity that was happening before her. This could not be her future.
A woman staggered past her, laughing when she bumped into her. Isolde righted her gown and studied the intoxicated girl, who couldn’t be any older than her youngest sister Victoria. The woman stopped, blowing sweet, sickly smoke into Isolde’s eyes and making them water.
“I ain’t ever seen you ’ere before. First time, love? Is ye going to lose ye opium virginity to us, hey? We so love deflowering women in this place.” The stench from her mouth fought with the woman’s body odor. She was poor, if her work-worn clothing and dress that was two sizes too small were any indication. “Come, luv,” she said, slurring the words. “You can sit over here with me.”
The woman dragged Isolde closer to where Wardoor lounged within a group of people.
They came to an array of silk pillows, similar to what her betrothed was sitting on, the show of decadence with this type of fabric at odds to the location. Not wishing to delve further into the how or why of this place, she sat.
The woman waved to a servant, who came over and passed her a long pipe. Taking a long draw, she sighed out the smoke, smiling at Isolde with what resembled relief and pleasure.
“Ere, have a taste of heaven.” The woman gestured the pipe toward her. “If only to remove yourself from the hell in which we live.”
Isolde stared at the wooden and silver object, tentatively taking it to appease the young woman. Should her brother ever find out she had come here, he’d rightfully send her hightailing it back to Scotland. When she’d embarked on this little adventure, she’d merely wanted to see the truth for herself and then leave. And as of now she’d not seen enough of what Wardoor was about to leave, but to be forced into smoking a substance she didn’t want to had never entered her mind.
She wiped the end of the pipe that had touched the other woman’s mouth and took the smallest inhale of smoke she could. She coughed, her eyes watering. Others around them laughed just as a bout of dizziness swept over her.
Isolde leaned against the wall for support as those about her started to dance in her vision. She looked toward Wardoor, hoping to attain his attention and have him help her home. Surely, if only she could make him out in the crowd, he would help her, possibly explain his actions. Going to stand, her legs refused to do as she bid; instead, they were numb and heavy and in no way willing to move, no matter how much she tried to make them do so.
The other woman took the pipe and inhaled deeply, before blowing the smoke into her face again.
“Don’t do that,” Isolde said, swiping the smoke away. Laughter rang out, and her stomach turned. For a mortified moment Isolde thought she would be sick on the floor.
“The light-headedness will pass, love, and so, too, will your stomach upset. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. It gets good soon.”
This was no joyful occasion, and it certainly was no heaven-on-earth. She managed to sit up, found Wardoor, and blinked. He sat on the cushions, a woman’s hand down the front of his breeches, while a bare-chested man kissed him deeply, her betrothed’s hands clasped tightly into the other man’s hair. Isolde blinked and watched as her betrothed kissed his way down the man’s neck, his chest, before untying the frontfalls of the man’s breeches and kissing the end of his manhood.
This could not be happening.
“I need to leave. Help me, please.” She was going to be sick. Never in her life had she seen anything like what was happening before her. That her fiancé was partaking in such escapades was more than she could stomach.
The woman merely grinned and blew more smoke in her direction. Isolde slumped against the wall, a lamb to the slaughter amongst all these wolves. What a fool she’d been. She should’ve just asked Wardoor, demanded the truth from him, and made her decision from there.
And now she was stuck here, unable to leave and a target to the fiends about her. A shot of fresh air alerted her to the fact that the front entrance door opened. Maybe if she slept for a little while all would be well. Isolde let the heaviness of her eyes enable the darkness to swamp her just as the sound of her name being called floated past her senses.
“I’m here,” she said, smiling as arms lifted her from her pillowed seat and carried her, in what direction she neither knew nor cared, just so long as the hard, muscular chest she was cradled against didn’t go anywhere. It was rather nice and smelled delicious, too. Much better than the flowery smoke of the poppy seed.
“I have you, Isolde.”
The voice was familiar, comforting, but she couldn’t place it. Instead, she let sleep take her and prayed come morning she would still be cradled in her knight-in-shining- armor’s embrace.
Merrick looked about the opium den as he headed toward the door, Isolde cradled safely in his arms. He spotted Wardoor, in what would only be termed a very compromising position, and shook his head.
What was the man thinking? Or for that matter, what wasn’t he thinking?
But for now, he needed to get Isolde into fresh air and home, safe and sound with her family. He would deal with Wardoor another day.
His heart had not slowed since he’d seen Isolde’s sister into her carriage only hours before. He had visited all the gentlemen’s clubs he knew Wardoor frequented. Having no luck at any of the establishments, only a few smug grins and sly comments, he’d gone on his way.
Thinking back to Leonora’s words and her declaration that his lordship was just as fond of opium as she was, Merrick had traveled to the only opium den he knew. What he’d found upon arrival would be burned into his consciousness for the rest of his life.
That Wardoor was indeed present was no surprise, but the slumped-over, vulnerable figure of Isolde was something he never wished to see again.
Fear unlike any he’d known—that she’d been attacked in some way, was possibly hurt—had coursed through him. Merrick pushed the thought aside, not wanting to delve into what could’ve been, for she was safe now, held securely in his arms, where he’d never allow anything to happen to her.
Merrick looked down and noted her parched lips. People in the den moved out of his way, with the deadly glare he was bestowing.
Reaching the outside, he called for his driver, and, making the vehicle, stepped in with some help. Merrick settled Isolde as best he could against the squabs and cradled her on his lap. “Hanover Square, Mayfair. And quickly, mind.”
“Right ye are, Your Grace.” The driver shut the door and climbed up on the box. The carriage lurched to one side for a moment before the flick of the ribbons marked their exit, and the vehicle picked up speed along the wharf.
Merrick reached across to the opposite seat and clasped the carriage blanket that was folded there. He wrapped it about her, relieved to see the color start to return to her face. Isolde’s breathing became deeper, and he realized she’d fallen asleep in his arms.
Crossing the Thames, they were soon on the outskirts of the affluent locale in which they lived. They had made good time back to Mayfair; not a surprise given the late hour.
Unable not to, Merrick watched Isolde, pushing a lock of hair from her face to see her better. He shook his head, imagining that this sweet, innocent woman could’ve fallen victim to cutthroats, rapists, thieves—anyone looking for an easy target.
That her family had not known where she was traveling to, had the worst happened to her, no one would’ve ever known where she was. And after seeing the condition of Wardoor, well, the gentleman would’ve been no help in finding her. The bastard would likely not even remember his own name, never mind who else had been at that opium den.
For the second time in his life, Merrick could’ve lost her—the woman who would forever hold his heart in the palm of her hand, no matter where her future led. The thought trickled ice through his veins and he pulled her closer to his chest, needing to feel her warm flesh, the beat of her heart against his own.
She didn’t wake as the carriage rocked to a halt before the Worthingham’s London townhouse. Lights blazed from the establishment, and no sooner had the driver jumped down to open his door than the front door swung wide. Isolde’s brother ran down the steps, his brow furrowed with worry.
The duke swore as he came up to them. “You found her?”
“We’ll discuss her whereabouts once we’ve settled her inside.” With some difficulty, he alighted from the vehicle, and, with quickened steps, carried her indoors.
The duchess made a sound of distress before coming over to check on her daughter. Her aged hand touched Isolde’s cheek with care, and he noted Isolde smiled a little at the contact.
“Where is her room?”
“This way, Your Grace,” the duchess said, ushering him toward the staircase.
“Please, no formalities tonight. Merrick will do perfectly well.”
She nodded, smiling a little, and for the first time since the eve of his ill-fated marriage to Leonora, Merrick received a genuine glance. He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and followed the duchess. Behind him, the duke beat out orders to the staff for a tisane, cold compress, and chilled water. The servants scattered, all busy with their jobs as they went to do as he bid.
Making the first floor landing, they headed down a passage, and the duchess opened a door and showed him into Isolde’s room. Merrick strode to the bed and placed her onto the sheets, the blankets already pulled back for the night.
The duchess fussed with her daughter, touching her face. That she was distressed was evident on her furrowed brow, and he stepped toward her, touching her arm. “She’ll be better by morning, Your Grace. I promise you.”
“Where did you find her? When Alice told me of her absence, we had no idea where to look. Josh went out to check the balls that were still entertaining, but he returned home without her.” The duchess sat, asking the wide-eyed maid to come and help her with Isolde’s gown.
“I believe what I have to say should be said in private, Your Grace. I will await you downstairs.”
She studied him a moment, and understanding dawned in her eyes. “Very well. I shall be down soon.”
Merrick left and waited for the duchess, and within half an hour he was seated in the library. Isolde’s brother, the Duke of Penworth, stared at him from across his large mahogany desk, the duchess at her son’s side.
“Where did you find my daughter?”
Her tone was to the point and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a little annoyed. “I found her in an opium den. The people with her, or at least one woman, were forcibly blowing the smoke into her face, bringing forth the effects of the drug. I do not know why she was there, and with your permission I would like to stay and speak to her tomorrow to ascertain why she would act so recklessly.”
The duchess leveled him with a piercing stare, and Merrick shifted in his seat under such scrutiny. It had been a long time since anyone had made him feel like a boy in short coats.
“As much as I’m appreciative of your help tonight, Your Grace, there is nothing more you can do here. I suggest you go home and get some rest. We will send word if she wishes to see you to thank you for your assistance this evening.”
Anger ignited within him, and he shook his head, not sure he was hearing her words correctly. “I know what you think of me, and I know that you believe what happened the night before I married Leonora was something I wished for. But you would be wrong. I loved Isolde. I wanted to marry her, and the one woman she trusted most stole that future from us. I think you forget that Lady Alice sought my help this evening, after Isolde had doubts regarding her understanding with Wardoor. Rightful concerns, after what I witnessed this evening.”
The muscle at the duke’s temple flexed as he played idly with a paperweight on his desk. “We will speak to Alice as to why she went to you, and Isolde, too, as to why she followed Wardoor to such a locale.”
“Alice came to me because she knows, when it comes to Isolde, I will always be there for her.” And he would be there forever, no matter what happened. It did not matter if she married another, or no one at all. Merrick was determined to win back some sort of friendship, if only to be near her and part of her life.
Isolde’s brother leaned back in his chair. “Alice mentioned that Isolde was looking to see what Wardoor was about. That she suspected him of something. Was his lordship at this opium den tonight?” The duke ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “We’ve not seen him since the announcement of their betrothal was made public, and even I’m starting to wonder if he’s suitable for my sister.”
There was no way in hell Merrick would allow Isolde to marry such a man as Wardoor. How he had not noticed that his friend had fallen to such a low baffled him. Wardoor had been one of his closest friends since Eton. That his life had spiraled to such depths was not what he had wanted to ever see. “I think you shall find that once Isolde is awake and coherent, the understanding she has with his lordship will be at an end.”
“So Wardoor was there? Why did he not assist my sister?”
Merrick chose his words carefully, knowing, in time, he would discuss what he beheld Wardoor doing and why. Help him, if he could, to remove himself from such a lifestyle. A mistake he’d made with Leonora that he would not repeat with his friend. “He was otherwise engaged. In fact, I believe Wardoor was not even aware Isolde was present at the establishment.”
“This is beyond unconscionable.” Her Grace paced behind her son, her silk skirts flying about her ankles. “When I see Wardoor next, he’ll be lucky to remain living.”
The duke threw his mother a startled glance but didn’t deny her words. “We will speak with Isolde and Wardoor, as soon as possible. But now,” he said, standing, “It is really very late, or early, I should amend, and we all need our rest. We thank you for your assistance, Moore, and as we stated before, Isolde will send word when she’s up for visitors.”
As much as he wanted to stay, he nodded and stood. “Very well,” he said, walking toward the door but halting at the threshold. “I would like to know why Isolde was at the opium den. And, although I have my suspicions, I wish to know for certain, before I confront Wardoor about his conduct this evening.”
The duke nodded. “That, Your Grace, is something we would all like to know.”
Merrick left the house, the cool night air hitting his face. He rubbed his eyes, blinking to rid himself of the fatigue. The reddish glow of dawn pierced the night sky and, entering the hackney cab, he called for home to where bed beckoned.
If he never had another night like the one he just lived through, he would be a happy man. Not since his son’s disappearance in the East End had fear for another crippled him and left him anxious beyond reason.
As for Wardoor, well, the man would be lucky to escape with his appendages intact, among other things. How dare he treat Isolde with so little respect, or himself, for that matter? Wardoor should have been cheering from the rooftops that he’d secured her hand, and yet, the misbegotten idiot was slumming in opium dens and engaging in sexual acts that could get him hanged.
It wasn’t to be borne. Wardoor was skating on very thin ice, and his actions tonight would not go unpunished. Nor would Merrick allow Isolde to enter a marriage that was a mirror image of what his own had been.
Regrettable misery was not something he wished anyone to live with—least of all, Isolde.
