The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(3)

He had to do something about this, but what? He had no intention of telling young Henry the truth. He’d have to deal with the lying lady on his own.

“Miss Chloe,” Henry said, interrupting Michael’s thoughts. “Since you’ve recently returned from Hampshire, would you like to see more of London? Hyde Park is lovely this time of year. I’d be honored to take you for a ride in my barouche.” Henry glanced at Lady Huntingdon. “With your sister’s approval, of course.”

A blush tinged Chloe’s cheeks. “A ride in the park sounds wonderful.”

Michael gritted his teeth. He didn’t like this turn of events. They had barely been in the museum for an hour and already Henry was making plans with her. At this rate, the reading of the banns would be arranged before they left the damned museum.

Mr. Bullock’s heels clicked on the marble floor as he led the group. “The next room holds a special surprise.”

They found themselves back in the corridor, following their guide until they came to another arched doorway. Mr. Bullock opened a door and motioned for the group to enter.

Michael was the last one inside, his narrowed gaze intently focused on Henry and Chloe. Henry lowered his head to speak in Chloe’s ear and she laughed. Not an annoying, high-pitched giggle of the sort he’d heard from many debutantes at the countless balls he’d been obligated to attend since his brother's and father’s deaths, but a rich, throaty laugh. His skin heated at the sound.

“Look!” Lady Huntingdon said.

Michael’s attention snapped to his surroundings. The room was empty save for a large carriage that sat upon a wooden dais. He stopped short as his gaze homed in on the distinctive Imperial Arms emblazoned on the paneled door.

It can’t be…

His jaw stiffened. “What—”

“It’s Napoleon’s private traveling carriage captured by the Prussian Major von Keller as Napoleon fled the Battle of Waterloo.” Mr. Bullock’s voice rose an octave. He motioned to the dark blue conveyance embellished with gold frieze.

“Fascinating! May we sit inside?” Lady Huntingdon asked.

All at once, the group chattered excitedly as they approached the carriage.

Michael stiffened as a low buzzing started in his ears. His vision tunneled to pinpoints of light, the gilded edges of the crest on the door shimmering into a thousand shards. He wavered on his feet, then reached out for the doorjamb for support. The walls felt as if they were closing in like the bars of a prison. Despite every ounce of effort, his temperature swiftly began to rise and sweat beaded on his brow.

Christ, not here.

Not now.

He fought the panic. Fought the escalating rise of his heartbeat and the icy fear that clawed at his innards, but he knew he would fail. He watched as the group circled the golden carriage. Henry opened the door, and Lady Huntingdon stepped inside. Her laugh echoed and rattled inside his skull. He watched, his body immobile, as she reached out to shut the carriage door. The click of the latch sounded as loud as a gunshot, and he jerked.

Voices vaguely registered through a tunnel in his brain.

“Thousands of visitors have come to see it,” Mr. Bullock said. “Napoleon himself approved the design. It’s rumored to resist bullets.”

“It was initially sent as a present to the Prince Regent,” Henry said.

“The spacious interior can be adapted to a bedroom, dressing room, and even an eating room,” Mr. Bullock spoke again.

Michael sagged against the doorframe. He had to leave. Extract himself. But his hessians felt filled with lead, and his body failed to cooperate. His gaze was riveted on the curve of the crest, the shining gold facets of the carriage.

The last time he’d seen the conveyance, amid smoke and deafening cannon fire, bodies had littered the battlefield, and he’d cradled his friend’s lifeless body in his arms.

Get out. Now.

With sheer force of will, he staggered out of the room and leaned heavily against the outside wall. Breathing deeply, he clenched and unclenched his fists and counted. He reached one hundred and eight before his vision returned to normal and the panic began to dissipate.

He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his damp brow. He wandered aimlessly down the hall and paced back and forth until his heartbeat slowed and his body temperature returned to normal.

He’d lost track of time. Had it been ten or twenty minutes since he’d left? He could hear voices. The group was still enjoying Napoleon’s carriage and they were asking to take turns sitting on the plush, red velvet cushions. He straightened and reached up to ensure his cravat was in place. He could do this. He could return and no one would be the wiser.

Still, he hated that he’d been completely helpless to prevent the episode, and anger and frustration roiled in his gut at his weakness. The triggers were different each time, but the fits were always the same, sudden and shocking, throwing him off balance and sending him back to past events, shadowy and gruesome battlefields that he wanted to forget. How long would this last? He’d been home for months and the fits continued—even seemed to worsen. Was this his fate? To become the mad duke?

No. He owed his friend and he had a duty to carry out.

He returned to stand outside the room. Taking one more deep breath, he took a step forward and collided with Chloe Somerton.

“Oh!” she cried out, stumbling back.