In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess

by Hazel Linwood

  “Send for the physician,” she murmured to the man quietly as he moved to get some water.

  “He is already sent for,” he nodded. “He should be here in thirty minutes. Get her upstairs,” he said to the others, who had gathered around the Countess and were busy lifting her carefully.

  “Everyone should leave!” Martha cried, turning away from Nicholas to face the rest of the hall. “The ball is concluded!”

  She walked with Nicholas from the hall, feeling like her heart had stopped beating.

  Chapter 22

  Nicholas walked with Martha, supporting her weight as she walked. She seemed to be almost unseeing and insensate, though she was walking and she seemed conscious enough. She wasn’t speaking and she wasn’t hearing—all she seemed to be able to do was walk forward, step by step, following the procession up the stairs.

  Nicholas could understand, since he, too, felt a little surreal. He looked up the steps to where the footmen, black-suited and solemn, supported Lady Weston up the stairs. Three of them carried her body, and it was solemn and slow as they advanced up the steps behind her.

  I feel like I am in the King’s Theater.

  He looked up the stairs. Lady Weston was pale, her long hair trailing down where it had come loose in her collapse. The strands were in slight contrast with the livery of the footmen, and with her dark gown and black jewels, it looked like a scene choreographed in a theater play.

  He looked at Martha. She had gone white, her face stiff, and he thought she looked stricken. He had no idea what to say. They had decided to take a risk, and all claim their freedom. How could they have known that claiming their freedom would strike Lady Weston?

  I hope she can recover from this, he thought grimly.

  Martha walked as if she was in a trance. She was clearly shocked and remorseful.

  Nicholas looked for Amelia, but he could not see her. He wondered where his father had gone. He shuddered. He hadn’t seen the man since the start of the ball, which was a strange thought.

  Where was he?

  The procession had reached the top of the steps. Martha swayed and Nicholas caught her. He saw her step forward and he followed her. She talked to the footmen.

  “Take her to her bedroom. When the physician comes, please take him up to see her. Come here, Amelia.”

  Nicholas saw that Amelia had crumpled at the top of the steps, her hands covering her face, shoulders shaking with sobs.

  He watched as Martha went to her, bending to take her in her arms. Lord Alton was standing behind her, standing guard over her, it seemed, his face tight.

  “Let’s go to the drawing room,” Nicholas suggested, speaking softly.

  Lord Alton nodded. “Lady Martha, can you help her up, please? Be careful. She’s very weak.”

  Lady Martha took Lady Amelia’s arm, but when Nicholas bent to help her she shook her head.

  “Let me do it,” she whispered as Nicholas fell into step behind her. Lady Amelia was beside her, their hands clasped. Lord Alton fell into step, leaving Nicholas following them, feeling a little helpless, into the drawing room.

  “Now, what should we do?” Lord Alton asked. He was standing in front of them, the firelight glowing on the blue velvet collar of his tail-coat.

  “We need to fetch the physician,” Nicholas murmured, looking down at Lady Amelia, who was sitting beside Martha on the chaise. Martha was holding her hand and she sniffed, clearly too shocked to talk.

  “The physician will be fetched,” Lord Alton agreed. “I suggest we escort the ladies to their rooms. I would like to stay here, to ensure that all is well.”

  “Yes. Good idea,” Nicholas nodded.

  “No guarding will be merited,” Martha said. Her voice was tired, and sounded like it came from a great distance away. “Mama is sick. The physician is on his way, and he will see to it that we are well. I would prefer it if you went back, Nicholas.”

  “I will not leave you facing this.”

  Martha looked up at him tiredly. Her hair was coming loose from its style, and he thought she looked at once younger and older than she had. She coughed, her voice infinitely weary as she spoke. “Nicholas, it’s important that you leave here and get back to your home. Before news comes out about Mama’s condition.”

  He nodded. He hadn’t thought of that. He glanced at her, and felt his heart turn to ice. Would someone accuse them of the murder of Lady Weston? It wasn’t possible. Everyone had seen what had happened. But what if she was right? He bent down to take her hand in his. She turned away.

  “Sister, I will be gone a moment,” she murmured to Lady Amelia. “Stay here, while I’m gone. You’ll be all right?”

  Her sister nodded, but Nicholas wasn’t sure if she was listening. Her face was white with shock, her eyes quite blank.

  Martha glanced up at him and stood, and he followed her as she beckoned to him. They stood by the door. In the room, Lord Alton was kneeling to take Lady Amelia’s wrists in his fingers, chafing them gently as if he was trying to keep her warm, or feel for her pulse there.

  “I cannot leave you here,” he said.

  She looked up at him expressionlessly.

  “I must implore you to let me remain here,” he said, trying to sound as insistent as possible. She looked up at him, hazel eyes dull, and he knew that, even now, when she was in danger, he could refuse nothing she said.

  “I will be safe,” she said softly. “All the servants here are loyal, and none of them would lay a hand on my sister or I. You are not covered, I’m afraid, and so I would prefer you to leave in case they feel honor-bound to arrest you on suspicion of murder.”

  “You don’t think that…” he said, and then realized that he didn’t want her to have to think about it. He took her hand and she looked down and he could see how weary she was. He wished he could take her to his home, where he could keep her safe, and make sure she was given broth and bread and somewhere warm to sit while the shock wore off.

  Not that my home is safe for anyone.

  He shuddered. Somehow, in the confusion, he had not thought about his father, and his reaction.

  He turned back to Martha.

  “I will go,” he agreed. “But please, allow me to call on you. I will be back as soon as I can. I cannot stay away while you are in danger.”

  She grinned at him tiredly. “I’ll be safe,” she said. “But please, go now. And only visit again if it is safe for you to do so. I do not want you to come to harm.”

  He smiled. “I would stay, to see that you do not come to harm.”

  “And that would make me worry more, and harm me.” She looked up at him, and he was pleased to see a spark in her hazel-brown eyes. “Now, go. Please. I would ask Leeson, who oversees our stable, to ride with your carriage, to keep you safe, but I suspect you will be able to keep yourself safe. Now, please…”

  She turned away. He reached for her hand and quickly pressed it to his lips, his eyes on hers. Her own eyes widened with astonishment, and then, quickly, he was turning away and going down the stairs.

  “Goodnight, Martha,” he called thought he door. He went down the stairs, past the ballroom, to the entrance.

  When he reached the garden, there was only one carriage left present. His father was standing by the harness.

  “You took your time.”

  “Father, I…”

  “I never thought my son would try to fool me. I have to say, I don’t know if I’m impressed you actually have wit, or angry enough to flog the hide off you. Now, get in.”

  Nicholas stared at him. He felt his own fear lift, blasted away on a hot flow of anger that seemed fit to engulf his entire self.

  “You have no right to threaten me,” he said as he sat down in the carriage opposite his father. “And I have not attempted to fool you. I see no reason why you should object.”

  “No,” his father said, and Nicholas shuddered as the man grinned. “I suppose you don’t.”

  Nicholas frowned. What cryptic message wa
s that?

  He leaned back and looked out of the window, not wanting to look at his father. He felt sullied by being in here with him, as if the man’s very presence exuded some dark cloud of intrigue and cruelty.

  What has he done? What is it that he and Lady Weston planned to do?

  He glanced at his father when, after what seemed like an age, the fellow jumped down from the stopped carriage. He moved with surprising litheness for a man almost thirty years older than himself, and Nicholas frowned at his levity.

  He has just seen Lady Weston struck down with some terrible illness, so why does he seem so lighthearted? What has he done?

  He followed his father back up to the house, keeping behind him. He wondered why his father had not said more to him. Why had he not berated him, threatened him, impugned him? It was far more what he had expected. In fact, he would have welcomed it—to see something usual would have been good. That strange smile had unsettled him considerably—one last thing in a night of events he didn’t think he could ever understand, if he lived for five hundred years.

  “Thank you, Ralford,” he greeted the head servant, who took his cloak. He looked up to where his father was already halfway up the stairs.

  Taking a deep breath, he went up the stairs to his bedchamber, where he locked the door and sat down heavily. He was too alert to sleep. He was worried.

  What if Lady Weston has been struck to death by this shock? What will that mean to Martha and her family?

  He felt his fingers twisting in the fabric of his waistcoat, and made himself take a breath in, trying to relax. Worrying was not going to solve anything. All the same, he kept on seeing Martha’s weary, tense face. He felt as if he had caused her such suffering.

  He leaned back. They had all agreed to do it, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all his fault, that he had caused this chaos himself.

  He heard a knock at the door.

  “Wycliffe? Please go,” he called through the door. He felt his stomach tighten with nervousness, and hoped it was not the Duke coming to speak with him. He knew he could not face him right now.

  “My Lord? Can I fetch you something?” his manservant called. He shook his head.

  “No, Wycliffe, thank you.” He felt a little irritable—he didn’t want to see anyone, just to be left alone.

  He heard his manservant’s footsteps receding down the hallway and he stood and made sure the door was locked again before he disrobed and lay down to sleep. Tomorrow he would discuss the situation with Martha. For now, he tried to put his father’s disconcerting words out of his mind and get his sleep.

  Chapter 23

  Martha stood in the drawing room, back stiff. She was waiting for the physician to come in and tell her what to do. He had already visited the previous night, but now, with first light, he had come again to check on Lady Weston. Amelia was resting. Lord Alton had left.

  “My Lady?”

  “Yes?” she said, going over to join him. Her voice was cracked as she replied to the physician, who frowned.

  “Lady Weston is gravely ill,” he said. “I fear she should not be disturbed in any way. I have left instructions for preparations that she must take three times a day, but—apart from seeing that she is fed and cared for—I must request that she is left alone. Any sudden noise or shock could damage her irreparably.”

  Martha felt her own heart ache. “Yes. Thank you for your help.”

  He bowed low. “Of course, My Lady. I am always glad to be of service.”

  “Thank you,” Martha said again, and when he had gone, went to sit down. She was frightened. Amelia was in shock—she seemed, in some way, more affected than Mama, and Martha feared for her. She was also alone.

  She was nominally in charge of the estate, since Amelia, on whom that task would usually fall, was sick. And she had no idea what to do.

  Her first thought was that she could not do this alone. She wanted to write to London and fetch her father back from duty.

  “He should be here. He can run the estate, and I cannot.”

  She walked briskly out of the room to go and draft a letter.

  She needed help—she was only one person, and her priority was to care for Amelia, and to see that their mama recovered well.

  “Haley, I may have a letter for you to send away.”

  The butler bowed low. “Of course, Lady Martha.”

  Martha hurried to her bedchamber, heart pounding almost painfully.

  When she had finished drafting the letter, she put her quill back in place, covered the letter with her blotter, and walked quickly to Amelia’s bedchamber. There, she knocked at the door.

  “Who is it?” Rochelle, Amelia’s maid, called.

  “It’s Martha,” Martha called through the door. “May I come in, please?”

  Rochelle opened the door a crack, showing a slim, pert face framed with lots of brown hair. “Please, do come in,” she said, her voice soft. “Lady Amelia will be pleased to see you. Only, don’t stay long…she is very tired.”

  Martha nodded and slipped in. She sat down by Amelia’s bed. Her sister was lying back, her head propped up on some thick pillows, the covers tucked up under her arms. A pale hand lay on the white coverlet and Martha squeezed her fingers.

  “Amelia? Are you feeling any better this morning?”

  Amelia turned to face her. She smiled, though her face was pale, her skin sheened with sweat as if she had a fever. Maybe she did, Martha reflected—she knew a shock could sometimes bring on an illness that had been lurking before.

  “Sister. It’s good to see you,” Amelia said in a small voice. “I feel so tired. How is Mama?”

  Martha took a deep breath. She stifled the flash of anger she felt towards their mother, knowing it would only cause unhappiness in Amelia. “She’s resting,” she said carefully. She did not want to frighten Amelia with the physician’s full description.

  Amelia nodded slowly. “She is feeling better?”

  “I think so,” Martha said, carefully. She was sure she must be feeling better—after all, she had three servants in there, making sure she was not feverish and that she was taking the treatments the physician prescribed. Amelia, on the other hand, looked gravely ill herself.

  She feels guilty about Mama, and I don’t think it’s right.

  Amelia smiled fondly. “Martha…why are you scowling at me?”

  “I wasn’t scowling at you, Amelia…I was just thinking that it is typical of Mama to get ill at such a crucial moment.” She tried to laugh. Amelia frowned.

  “Mama didn’t mean to be ill.” She sat up, coughing. Martha reached forward, dismayed.

  “Shh. I’m sorry. I know Mama didn’t mean to be ill. I am sure she’ll be better soon…the physician left all manner of things for her.”

  Amelia lay back on the pillow. “That’s good,” she said.

  Martha felt her heart twist. She found it so distressing that Amelia, who wouldn’t even think ill of someone, was in such distress and pain about their mother, when their mother would happily have bartered Amelia into a life she didn’t want.

  And all for some strange arrangement that was impossible to understand.

  Martha frowned, but pushed the thought away. She wasn’t going to concern herself with the mystery of her mother’s agreement with the Duke of Dellminster. Not when Amelia was in distress.

  “Is there anything I could fetch for you? Anything you might like to eat or drink?” She asked softly.

  Amelia took her fingers and squeezed them gently. “Martha, you are kind. I would like some tea, I think. And I hope I feel well enough to play the pianoforte later.” She shifted on the pillow a little.

  “Yes,” Martha nodded, feeling her heart lift. “I look forward to hearing you play.”

  Amelia smiled fondly. “Martha, you know you could play, too. But I would like to try to play one or two tunes. I will try to be well enough later today.”

  “Don’t distress yourself,” Martha said, feeling wo
rried. “Rochelle, could you fetch some tea, please? Would you like milk with it?” she asked her sister.

  Amelia shook her head. “Just a little tea. With maybe a touch of sugar in it?” she asked.

  “I’ll fetch it right now, My Lady,” Rochelle assured her. Martha stayed where she was as the maid left, shutting the door behind her.

  “Thank you for coming in,” Amelia said as Martha stood to take her leave as soon as Rochelle came back with the tea.