The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 85

Eleanor could only shake her head. Tears fell, hot, to her face, and she held on to the woman at her side, having no comfort to give.
Mac started pulling away the rubble. He shouted orders in a harsh voice, and people hurried to obey. Isabella was suddenly beside Eleanor, and then Beth. Beth was crying and trying not to.
“He saw something wrong,” Beth said. “He ran to warn Hart. He ran to help him.”
Ainsley came to them, her capable arm around Beth’s waist. “El, Beth, you should come away. The danger might not be over.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Inspector Fellows was supposed to arrest them all. He was supposed to find them.”
“He did,” Isabella said. “The newspapers were full of it. But there are always others.” Her eyes held tears as well as rage.
“I can’t go,” Eleanor said. “I can’t run for shelter while people are hurt. I have to help them. You take Beth and the children home.” She had to stay. She had to know that Hart was all right.
She kept expecting him to rise like a giant from the ashes, shouting orders and taking charge. And Ian with him, Ian who was the most resilient man she knew. But—nothing.
People were coming, women with white pinafores, men in dark clothes, rushing to help. Eleanor gave over the woman she’d helped rescue to one of the nurses and turned to other unfortunates lying in the rubble. Mac and the bodyguards kept lifting stones, joined by workers and others in the station.
Ainsley at last persuaded Beth to leave with her, the nannies having gotten the children safely out through the other end of the station. Isabella carried Aimee, following the two ladies as they went, arms around each other. Eleanor, left alone, helped the nurses—lifted stones, held people, comforted them, bandaged the hurt.
At one point she saw a man rush in who had Hart’s build and look, and her heart nearly stopped. But it wasn’t Hart; the man was Inspector Fellows. Mac went to him and both stood back to survey the mess and the crowd.
Eleanor kept working, helping, trying to calm people and reassure them. The station was clearing, the injured being taken away, others gone or helping search the rubble. They found more people buried inside, all still breathing when they came out, thank God.
But no Hart, no Ian. As the station darkened with night, the platform was cleared to reveal a great, gaping hole. A noisome smell came out of the hole, which was half filled with rubble. Mac, with Inspector Fellows, bullied men to bring in equipment, and they dug down into the hole and the sewers beyond.
But they never found Hart or Ian, not a trace of them.
Hart couldn’t breathe. He was choking, drowning, and someone was beating him, blows crushing his back and ribs.
Don’t cry out. Don’t let him know how much it hurts.
It was very important that Hart never let his father see him break down, never let his father win. The duke wanted Hart to be his slave, to obey his every wish, no matter how trivial or how vicious.
Never. Though he beats me until I die, I will never belong to him.
The old duke had never tried to drown Hart before, though. Only beating, usually with a birch cane or a leather strap—or if they were outdoors, any stray branch that looked sturdy enough.
Through the pain and fog in his mind, Hart knew there was something—something good—that he needed to remember. Something he could hang on to, which would see him through. Something that made his heart warm despite the dank chill surrounding him.
Hart opened his eyes. Or thought he did. He saw only inky darkness.
The beating went on. Dimly Hart remembered looking down the barrel of a shotgun into his father’s purple and enraged face, then the explosion of sound as the gun went off. It rang in Hart’s ears still. Was his father dead? He couldn’t remember.
Something roiled in Hart’s gut, and he rose on his hands and knees to vomit it out. He remained there, gasping and retching, but at least his father had stopped beating him.
The roaring in his ears wouldn’t cease. Hart had no memory of how he came to be in this dark place, but he was certain his father had something to do with it. I’ll bury you alive, boy. Maybe that will make you respectful.
He smelled something sharp under his nose, felt a cold, smooth edge on his lips, and then burning liquid in his mouth. Hart coughed and swallowed. The liquid seared his throat and slid to his stomach, and he felt a bit better.
The taste was familiar. “Mackenzie single malt,” he croaked.
The hand that held it could not belong to Hart’s father. The old man would never have given Hart a healing swig of whiskey, especially none this good. This was the reserve stock, which only Mackenzies got to drink.
“Where the hell am I?”
“Underground,” a baritone voice said next to him. “In one of the middle-level interceptor sewers.”
“One of the what?”
“Middle-level interceptor…”
“I heard you the first time, Ian.” Hart knew it was his youngest brother with him in the dark. No other man would explain their precise location with such patience, prepared to repeat it until Hart understood.
Hart rubbed his aching head, finding something wet, which, judging from the pain, was blood. “The sewers, eh? Two Scotsmen left to die in the midst of English filth. I spent my first years as an MP on various committees on sewage. The Dung Committees, I always called them.”
Silence. Ian would have no idea what Hart was talking about, nor would he care.
“We need to get out of this place.” Hart reached out in the dark, found the warm solidity of his brother’s arm. “Before Father finds us.”