The Duke’s Perfect Wife

Chapter 19

At the last minute, Eleanor stopped her wild rolling and shoved herself away from the edge of the platform. The locomotive slid by, and Eleanor lay on her stomach, trying to catch her breath.

She heard screams and smelled smoke, saw bricks, stone, and glass raining like bullets onto the crowd. She dimly heard Mac swearing, and Isabella frantically calling her name.

Eleanor pushed herself up, blinking grit-stained eyes as she climbed painfully to her feet. Around her people lay groaning, crying, some trying to rise as she was. She peered through the smoke to where Hart had been standing not a yard from the explosion, and did not see him.

The train next to her was intact except for broken windows and frightened passengers looking out of them. Across the platforms, through the thick air, she glimpsed Beth and Ainsley running for her, the fearful nannies staying behind with the babies.

Eleanor shoved her way forward, ignoring Mac and Isabella, her heart constricting as she searched for any sign of her husband.

“Hart!” she shouted. She cupped her hands around her mouth, tears and smoke stinging her eyes. “Hart!”

She kept moving forward, gaining strength as she went, until she was running. “Hart!” She heard Beth’s voice shrill behind her, “Ian!” because Ian had vanished too.

Eleanor saw Hart’s bodyguards frantically shoving through the mob. They were searching, turning every which way, not finding him.

Eleanor’s limbs turned icy with fear. “Where is he? Where is he?” she screamed at the nearest bodyguard.

The man shook his head. “He was right there. He was right there.” He pointed a thick finger to a patch of platform that did not exist anymore. The wall of the station house was gone as well, and remains of vendors’ carts were scattered across the rubble.

Eleanor ran to the heap and started pulling away stones. Her hands were too small, her gloves too thin. The leather ripped, and her hands bled. The bodyguard started helping her, and others around caught on, reaching for stones.

A hand came into view, one groping for life. Eleanor clutched it. The bodyguard shifted a stone, then reached in and pulled the person out. An older woman, one of the vendors. She clung to Eleanor, and Eleanor held her, stroking her back.

Mac reached her, bellowing into the smoke and dust. “Where is Hart? Where is Ian?”

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.”

More silence. Ian touched Hart’s hand. “Father is dead.”

In a rush, Hart saw the shotgun again, heard the roar of it, saw his father crumple to the ground.

I shot him. I killed him.

Relief made his body light. “Thank God,” he said. “Thank God.”

More memories came at him, especially that good, warm one that pushed its way up and spread through his heart. But with remembering came fear.

“Eleanor. Is she safe? Did you see? Ian, is she safe?”

“I don’t know.” Hart heard anguish in Ian’s usual monotone. “I saw the man put down the bomb. I tried to reach you to push you out of the way, then there was the hole, and we fell and fell. Beth was too far from the center of the blast, and so were Ainsley and Mac and Isabella. I think Eleanor was too.”

“You think she was?”

“You were closest. I had to reach you.”

Hart heard his panic. Ian could go into what he called muddles, where he’d either lash out or start to do one thing over and over, unable to stop. Even now, Hart felt Ian rocking back and forth as he tried to deal with his distress.

Hart reached up the best he could and put his hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Ian, it’s all right. I’m alive. You’re alive. You were right. If you say Eleanor was too far back, she likely was.” He barked a laugh. “I wager you could calculate the exact trajectory and spread of the blast.”

“I’d need to know the weight and type of explosive.” Ian still rocked but it slowed. “From the smell, dynamite, a few sticks. The package he had was small.”

“We need to go back and get the bastard,” Hart said. “In case he has another stick.”

“He died,” Ian said. “He did not walk away from the bomb. He lit it and stayed with it.”

“Dear God, save us from madmen.” Hart scrambled to his hands and knees again and tried to get to his feet, swallowing a curse when his head cracked on a low, stone ceiling. He fell, his head spinning. It wouldn’t stop spinning.

Ian pushed Hart back down. “Five feet of clearance until we reach the storm platform.”

“How the devil do you know that?” Hart asked.

“I learned the schematics of the tunnels under London. Water pipes, storm drains, rivers, gas lines, the London Metropolitan…”

“Yes, yes, of course you did. The question is why.”

There was more silence as Ian considered. “To pass the time.”

He meant the time before he’d met Beth, when Ian’s life had been tedious.

“I’ll put myself into your hands, Ian. Where is this storm platform?”

Ian took Hart’s hand and pulled it in front of him to indicate direction. “That way.”

Hart rubbed his head where he’d smashed it against bricks. He still couldn’t make this dark world stop spinning. “All right. Lead me.”

They had to crawl. As soon as Hart began to move, bile rose in his throat, and dizziness threatened to cripple him.

Thankfully, after about ten yards or so, the tunnel rose a bit, and they could stand. Hart and Ian still had to bend their backs, the round ceiling low above them, but no more going on hands and knees.

Ian led Hart onward, Hart hanging on to the back of Ian’s coat as they splashed through icy water. Hart’s hands were cut and bleeding, and his head pounded like fury.

The only thing that kept Hart going was the image of Eleanor disappearing behind a cloud of rubble and dust. He had to find her, to make sure she was all right. That burning need propelled him onward.

Ian straightened to his full height in front of Hart, and a step later, Hart could too.

The echoes broadened, meaning that the ceiling had vaulted upward, and the air smelled almost fresh. A light, so faint as to be barely a light, came from Hart’s right. After the complete darkness of the tunnel, it seemed bright.

“Storm drain,” Ian said, gesturing to the light. “This one empties into the Fleet.”

The Fleet River had been covered, partly or completely, for centuries. It was mostly a sewer now, pouring into the Thames after heavy rains via drains like this one.

“How do we get out?” Hart asked. “The hell I’m going to float myself down the filthy Fleet and get stuck halfway in a storm grating.”

“Shafts go up to the streets,” Ian said. “But not here.”

Of course not. “Where, then?”

“Through the tunnels,” Ian said. “A mile, maybe more.”

Hart swallowed on dryness. Ian’s face was a pale smudge in the darkness, but Hart could see little beyond that. “Give me the flask again.”

Wordlessly Ian put the flask of whiskey into Hart’s hand, and Hart upended more single malt into his mouth. It was ambrosia, though he’d love a clear glass of water.

Hart gave the flask back to Ian, and Ian pocketed it without drinking. “This way,” he said.

Hart took two steps to follow him, then his legs buckled. He found himself on bare floor, retching again. His head was spinning like a gyroscope.

Ian was next to him. “In the explosion, something hit you in the head,” Ian said.

Hart gasped for breath. “Very perceptive of you, Ian.”

Ian went quiet, but Hart knew him well enough to know that thoughts were moving through Ian’s head at lightning speed while he tried to decide what to do.

“If we go slowly, I can make it,” Hart said.

“If we are too slow, we can’t outrun the water. Or the gasses.”

“I don’t see that we have a bloody choice.” Hart hung on to Ian as his younger brother leveraged Hart to his feet. The dizziness made everything go black for a moment. “Wait.”

Hart felt his feet leave the ground as Ian hoisted Hart onto his back. Without a word, they started moving, slowly, Hart hanging on as Ian carried him out.

He knew he’d never convince Ian to leave him behind and go for help. When Ian fixed on a course, all the reasoning in the world couldn’t move him. Just as well. Hart did not want to be down here alone, in any case.

The sudden echoing roar was their only warning. Rains north of the city had raised the level of the water, and now it poured into the round pipes, rising over the weirs, to flow through the storm drains and down into the rivers.

Ian yelled, his words incoherent, as he lifted Hart up and shoved him onto a tall slab of stone next to the weir. The rocks were slippery, and Hart scrambled to hold on and stay awake at the same time.

Water poured into the tunnel. In the faint light, soon obliterated by water, Hart saw his brother be swept from his feet and carried at breakneck speed away from him.

“Ian!” Hart screamed. “Ian!”

His words were lost in the water. For an age it pulsed through swirling waters in the darkness. Ian had been swept the other way, caught in a surge that went back into the round tunnels. But the tunnels were full to the top.

“Ian!” Hart shouted.

After a long, heartbreakingly long time, the waters receded. When it had reduced to a foot flowing on the floor below him, Hart slid down from his perch. His head pounded, and he fell, landing in the freezing cold water.

He would die in here. Ian could already be dead.

The light vanished. Hart had no way of knowing if debris in the water had blocked the drain or whether the sun was going down outside. Or maybe it was his eyes closing.

The next thing Hart knew, someone kicked him.

“This ’ere’s my patch,” a man said. “What you doing on it?”

Hart peeled open his eyes. A lantern swung in front of his face, blinding him, and the pounding in his head soared to sickening levels.

“You know the way out?” Hart asked. His voice came out a croak, barely audible.

“Lost, are ye? That’s what ye get for being on my patch. What did ye take?”

“Show me the way out. I’ll pay you.”

The man thrust his hand inside Hart’s coat and came out again, empty. “Seems like you don’t have nothing.”

Between the blast, the fall, the desperate crawling, and the flood, Hart was surprised his clothes hadn’t shredded. His money pouch must have fallen out somewhere along the way.

“When you get me out, I’ll pay.”

“Right,” the man said.

Hart saw his boot draw back, tried to grab it as it came down, but his dizziness made him clumsy. The boot struck Hart’s face, and then everything went dark again.

Eleanor was back at the Grosvenor Square house with the rest of the family by the time darkness fell. Mr. Fellows and all the police in London had searched, but they’d found no sign of either Hart or Ian.

Cameron was there, summoned from Berkshire by telegram, and Daniel telegraphed to say he was on his way. Mac and Cameron were about to tear the city apart. Eleanor paced the front rooms, unable to sit down. Beth perched on the edge of a chair, just as jumpy as Eleanor.

“We have to do something,” Beth was saying.

Eleanor couldn’t answer. She wanted to rush through the streets, turning over every stone until she found Hart. Inspector Fellows and his men had explored the service tunnels under Euston station, but had found nothing. Fellows was here now, in the dining room with Cam and Mac.

Eleanor glanced out the window, but not much could be seen in the heavy fog, barely penetrated by the gaslights on the square. She felt numb, sickeningly so. This can’t be real. He’ll come striding home, deriding us all for worrying.

Beth joined her at the window, her arm around Eleanor’s waist. Two women, watching and waiting for their beloved men who might never come home again.

Beth stiffened suddenly, a small gasp emitting from her mouth. She was staring straight into the fog, intense and alert. Eleanor tried to see what she did, but the fog remained dense.

“What is it?”

Beth didn’t answer. She broke away from Eleanor and rushed out of the room and down the stairs.

Beth flung open the front door and ran straight into the night, Eleanor after her, Ainsley and Isabella and the men following to see what was the matter. With a cry of joy, Beth launched herself at the giant of a man who materialized out of the fog and opened his arms to sweep her into them.

“Ian!” Eleanor shouted. “It’s Ian!” she called back to the others.

Ian looked terrible. He was covered from head to foot in mud and slime, his face coated with it, but his eyes shone like golden fire. Beth held on to him, tears streaming down her face.

Eleanor reached them. “Dear heavens, Ian,” she asked breathlessly. “What happened to you? Where is Hart?”

Ian kept his arms around Beth, but he looked at Eleanor. “Come with me,” he said. “Come with me.”

He started off, Beth at his side. Eleanor did not bother to ask questions. She hurried after him, calling for the others to come.

Fellows and Mac caught up to them as they reached Grosvenor Street. “Ian, what are you doing?” Mac demanded.

“He’s taking us to Hart,” Eleanor said. Ian hadn’t said so, but she knew. “Where, Ian?”

Ian pointed, vaguely north and east.

“At least wait for a coach,” Mac said. “Cameron’s bringing it.”

Ian did let them get the coach. They piled into it, Ian holding Beth on his lap, she not minding that her husband was filthy and stank to high heaven.

They rode toward Euston station but went beyond it, to Chalton Street. Ian jumped down from the coach as soon as it stopped, opened a grating, and said. “He’s here. By the storm weir. I will show you.”

Fellows rounded up constables and Hart’s men still searching the area, as well as the work gang who’d been helping them search the tunnels. Fellows poured them all down through the street, Ian leading the way.

Eleanor waited on the pavement above, refusing to return to the coach. She paced here as she had in the drawing room, but now hope had come back, and fear, with a vengeance.

An hour later, her hopes were still there, she waiting at any moment to hear a shout that they’d found him, followed by Hart’s growl that he wanted to be pulled out of the shit hole. She could imagine it so strongly that she was certain, so certain it would happen.

After an hour and a quarter, Fellows’s constables and the pipe men started coming up, dirty and defeated.

Fellows spoke to the head of the gang and returned to Eleanor, followed by Ian. Fellows’s brows were drawn, though Ian’s jaw was tight with determination.

“He’s not there, ma’am,” Fellows said. “Ian led us right to the place, but it’s flooded down there, and he is gone.” He looked at Eleanor with eyes so like Hart’s. “They’re going to keep looking once the water has receded, but they’re afraid he’s washed into one of the rivers and is on his way to the Thames.” Fellows’s voice went quiet. “No one survives that journey, Your Grace.”

Ian, still dirty, shook his head. “I’ll find him.” He looked at Eleanor, holding her gaze for once, his eyes even more like Hart’s than Fellows’s. “I can always find him.”