Free To Rescue a Rogue by Jo Beverley

failed.
    Maybe not entirely, for he’d done it and survived, but where was the pleasure he’d once felt in driving, in speed, in curricle racing, even? Come to think of it, where was his custom-made racing curricle? Stored somewhere at Long Chart, he supposed.
    Carefully out of sight.
    For a year his parents had thought him dead, but none of his possessions had been touched. Guilt over their grief often weighed on him and he asked himself whether he could have returned sooner.
    By the time he’d recovered enough from his wounds to attempt escape, opium and too little food had weakened him—as The´re`se had intended.
    His strongest prison, however, had been the children. Escaping with them had seemed an impossible challenge, and leaving them to bear The´re`se’s revenge unthinkable.
    There was the other possibility, however—that opium had sapped his ability to form and execute any plan. Perhaps he should have realized sooner what was happening. Perhaps he could have refused the stuff, or only pretended to take it.
    How, when the lack would have brought on the spasms, the agony, the sweats, and tremors? Those horrors that hovered daily, that must be faced if he was ever to be free.
    He didn’t close his eyes because that made the swaying motion of the high vehicle worse. He’d walk home if his control didn’t feel so fragile. Icy sweat was trickling down his spine. His guts felt as if they were shuddering and soon his teeth might start to chatter. It shouldn’t be so bad yet. Emotions seemed to make things worse.
    They passed a druggist’s shop and he felt an almost physical tug toward it, toward a few pennies’ worth of ease.
    â€œRiggs.”
    â€œYes, milord?”
    â€œYou are not, under any circumstances, to stop before we reach the house.”
    â€œVery well, milord.”
    The servants knew. Everyone knew, which was enough to make him puke without the beast tying his innards in knots. Sometimes he felt he had no privacy, no dignity left. There were days and especially nights when death called to him. But he couldn’t abandon the children or cause his family such pain.
    Again.
    He would live, and he would be free, but he wished the path wasn’t so damned painful.
    Once back in the house he went straight to his room. Salter assessed him with steady eyes.
    â€œNothing too badly out of order.” Dare tried a smile, though a sudden twitch probably made it a grimace. “I don’t know what’s wrong. It shouldn’t be like this yet.” But then he said, “I took extra last night. Is that the problem? Have I ruined the process?”
    God, oh, God. He couldn’t start the slow reduction all over again. That had to be nonsense. One extra dose couldn’t ruin everything. But the devils deep in his mind leapt in to whisper, What’s the point? You’ll never win free. Give up now. Take what you need to be comfortable. Live with us….
    â€œSit down, sir.” Salter steered Dare into a chair, but he sprang up again.
    â€œThe staffs.”
    They normally only did this at night, but Dare led the way to the ballroom at a brisk pace, stripping off jacket and waistcoat as he went. Once in the room, he pulled off his boots and grabbed one of the long sticks Salter had carried, denying the chill, the shudders, the threatening sickness. He’d fight the devils to the death.
    He practiced solo as Salter stripped down, then attacked.
    This was his best relief, his comfort, his salvation in the worst of times—to fight, to sweat, to think of nothing but action and reaction.
    Not boxing. Something about boxing revolted him, especially if there was blood. Fencing was too delicate and refined. The ancient art of the quarterstaff was strenuous and earthy, and required intense concentration.
    Dare focused every sense on the staffs, until a movement to his side distracted him.
    Feng Ruyuan.
    Salter’s staff slammed hard