“Is that how you were finally able to obtain his release?” Philip asked. “Lord Dalmay never attained such a verdict against his son?”
Michael lifted his eyes from the swirled pattern of the rug. “When my father died I was able to search through his papers to uncover where he had sent my brother. Even then, I almost found nothing, just a scrap of paper tucked away in his file at our solicitor’s office, as if the foul deed had never occurred.” He pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “And then it took me two more months to extract him from that villain Sloane’s custody. Father had signed some document giving him total authority over William’s care. I had to threaten the man with kidnapping and causing bodily harm to a peer of the realm and actually had to go so far as to petition the local magistrate before Sloane would release him to me. That was over nine months ago.”
“And he’d been locked away all that time?” I could barely mouth the question.
Michael’s voice was graveled with anguish. “Nine years. He spent nine years in that cesspit, while we were all blissfully unaware.”
The room fell silent while everyone contemplated his words. I felt sick, unable to fathom being trapped in such a place for nearly a decade. Good heavens, what he must have been through. A knot formed at the back of my throat and I had to swallow hard to force it down.
Feeling a pair of eyes on me, I looked up to find Gage watching me. His face was inscrutable, but that in and of itself was telling. Why, in this moment, was he so intent on shielding his emotions from me? Surely he could only feel empathy for the Dalmays’ plight.
“Who is Sloane?” Philip queried, moving around to perch on the arm of the settee beside his wife.
Michael’s face twisted. “The doctor who convinced my father that my brother was mad in the first place. He owns the Larkspur Retreat where William was detained.”
Retreat, indeed. I had heard of asylums that misleadingly adopted such innocuous-sounding names in order to lure the public into believing that their patients were well cared for and simply having a rest.
“Where is this . . . retreat . . . located?” Philip asked, not missing the irony in the title.
“On Inchkeith Island.”
My brother-in-law’s eyes widened. “Rather a harsh, isolated environment for such an institution.”
And one that was far too close to Dalmay House for my comfort. Perhaps twenty miles away, Inchkeith Island perched in the middle of the Firth of Forth just at the point where the waterway began to open into the North Sea. It was practically on the Dalmays’ back doorstep. How had William’s father managed to not be eaten alive by guilt when he knew his son was so close?
“That was precisely my thought,” Michael said, responding to Philip’s observation. “But apparently the matter did not concern my father.” His hands fisted in his lap. “He was more worried about the taint to our family’s good name than what was best for Will. I don’t know how the two met, or why he was asked to examine my brother in the first place, but somehow Sloane . . .” he almost snarled the name “. . . convinced my father that William could be dangerous and the best thing for him was to be put away where he could never hurt anyone.”
“But he wasn’t mad,” I protested, unable to keep silent a moment longer. “And he certainly wasn’t dangerous.” Philip and Gage exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. “I mean, I realize he fought in the Peninsula campaign with Wellington, and at Waterloo, and later he was part of the occupation force. And I know he came back from the war changed. Or so everyone told me. But he wasn’t violent or frightening. At least, not to me. He just got lost in his memories sometimes.” Michael looked startled by this revelation. “That’s how he explained it to me.” I dropped my gaze, embarrassed to have revealed so much of what Will had told me. It felt like betraying his confidence. But how else was I to make them understand?
“Will talked to you? About his . . . troubles, I mean.”
I looked up at Michael, hearing more than confusion in his voice. There was hurt there as well.
“Yes,” I replied cautiously, knowing he must be wondering why his beloved sibling would have confided in a fifteen-year-old girl rather than his grown brother. “During my drawing lessons. Sometimes . . .” I pleated the ivory lace trim of my gown between my fingers “. . . it’s . . . easier to talk . . . when your hands are distracted,” I tried to explain.