Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  Shoving his hands into a small bowl of the hot water, he welcomed the burn. Anne ripped linen sheets and wound them into tidy bundles. She had carefully set all the sewing supplies on the tea tray, neat as any surgeon.

  He settled between Nester’s legs.

  Shite. Nothing. Maybe a few centimeters, if that. He had to get the child out. It would be useless to try for a normal delivery. Only exhaust the mother for nothing. He stood and faced the mound of white belly.

  “Lady Tippit, give her a bit more of the stuff.”

  The company looked at each other sensing the dire shift in circumstances.

  The world wound down, hushed murmurs stuttered and then stopped all together. Razor in hand, sweat rolled into his eyes. A cloth swiped his brow. Nora…

  No, Anne. This was Anne.

  “If any of you have any faith or sway with the Almighty, best to employ it now. Ivo, Beauchamp, hold her tightly. How do her eyes look, Lady Tippit?”

  “The pupils are small as the head of a pin. I should say she is feeling no pain.”

  Right. No more prevaricating.

  “Miss Winton, be ready with clean towels and the scissors and then tweezers when I call for them.” Anne’s earnest face was enough to spur him on. He would go through fire for this woman.

  Holding the razor over the lamp flame, he then felt for the pubic bone, measured three fingers up, set the knife, and pressed.

  A hiss, and the smell of burning flesh.

  Someone went down with a thunk. Beauchamp. Good, the man was useless and had been standing in his light.

  He glanced at Anne. She swallowed, clearly fascinated yet trying not to cast up her accounts. The body beneath his hands jerked.

  “Keep her still, I say.” His words rang in his head, a jarring melody to the bass of his heart.

  Anne mopped his brow again.

  “Press a clean cloth here.” Her hand appeared. “That’s it.”

  The drawing room became Barton Wainwright’s operating theater. His hands steadied. He’d done this before, at least twice. Of course, those women had been cadavers. No blood to deal with. No life to lose. No loss of freedom in the balance.

  “Now gently help me pull aside this fatty tissue. And now this bit—this is called the parietal peritoneum. Excellent. Here is the womb. Damn it, I need more light.” Someone moved a lamp closer. “Now, when it’s punctured, you must have a large cloth at the ready to mop up the fluids. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He spared a glance up at her. She looked a bit green, but by God, she stood transfixed.

  “Here we go.” Fluid gushed, and Anne mopped. She tossed the sodden rag aside and pressed another to the opening.

  “Now, let us see which end is up.” He flexed his hand and then plunged it into the uterine cavity. He pushed farther, his wrist and forearm disappearing. “Can’t turn the babe. Too much of a risk. Come on, you slippery fish…come on… There!” He felt an impossibly tiny foot. “I have it.” Gently twisting, he eased the baby out by its feet.

  No need to smack its bottom. Arms flailing, the tiny red-wrinkled face screwed itself up and wailed, clearly unhappy at the loss of her soft cocooned world. And who could blame her.

  One refrain rang out over his pounding heart and the child’s caterwauling, Not Lily. This woman was not Lily.

  He laid the baby between Nester’s legs. “Now, Miss Winton, cut a thread and tie it here.” He pointed to a spot on the cord. She did so while he tied another bit a few inches beyond hers and then, using Nester’s golden embroidery snips, he cut the cord. “I need a pot—anything.”

  Lady Tippit emptied a vase of flowers onto the poor rug and handed it to him. The placenta looked to be intact. He dumped it into the vase. The old carpet was soaked and covered with bloody footprints. It would finally have to be replaced. He laughed. Odd what comes to mind in times like this. He lifted the baby. “Take her and wrap her up tightly.”

  Anne reached out her arms.

  “No, Anne, I need you.”

  Huge hands took the babe. In only a moment, Ivo began to croon, trying to sooth this newest soul.

  “Ivo, rub her and make sure she is breathing. I want to know if she stops. Do you hear me?” Not like Lily.

  “I hear…” The huge man breathed, never taking his awestruck gaze off the child.

  “She is bleeding!” Anne reached for a new towel.

  A gush of fresh blood. Too much blood.

  It spurted between his fingers as he scrambled to find the source. Had he nicked an artery? “More light, damn it!”

  But had he ten lanterns trained on Phoebe Nester’s gaping stomach, he knew he could not see anything. Too much blood. His fingers slipped as he felt inside her womb. Even if he found the bleeder, he would never be able to tie a ligature without the proper tools. It could not end this way. More blood gushed. His fingers slipped again.

  The baby mewled as if sensing her mother’s peril.

  “Devlin,” Lady Tippit barked, “she is very pale. Do something!”

  Dear God, Phoebe Nester was going to die.

  He backed away.

  His hands dripped with blood. He stumbled back. What a fool he was to attempt this. His life now over as surely as poor Phoebe Nester’s.

  “Lord Devlin—James, please. Use me. I can help.”

  Someone smacked him. He turned. Lady Tippit faced him. “Devlin, stop this nonsense and listen to Winton!”

  Anne stood with her hands over Nester’s gaping belly. Her gaze radiated calm in the face of this tragedy.

  Yes, Anne. In his panic, he had forgotten Anne.

  He stepped closer to her warmth.

  “Tell me what to do,” she said in her beautifully calm voice. “Together we will save Mistress Phoebe.”

  Yes, her powers of healing. Her heat.

  “We must hurry.”

  Still he stood marveling at her calm.

  “I need you to guide my hands. Will you do that for me?” Her gaze so earnest, so forgiving.

  He could almost taste the iron of blood in his mouth. Before he lost nerve, he stepped up to the body and took Anne’s hands in his. So hot. She believed in him. So he must believe in himself.

  Together they delved back into the gaping wound. “Can you feel a rush of blood?” Her fingers fluttered against his, seeking. “Yes, just there. Do you have it?”

  But her hands became like fire. He had to let them go.

  She closed her eyes as if in prayer, her hands deep within Nester’s womb. Her brow furrowed with an intensity he had never seen. Her breath came out in a hiss, as if she were burning inside.

  “Anne?”

  She shook her head.

  Now her assistant, he mopped up the blood. He set the razor to the candle’s flame. The metal sizzled as blood met fire.

  But when he turned back the bleeding had stopped. Miraculously, cauterization was not needed.

  “She is looking better,” Lady Tippit said in hushed awe.

  Anne’s face relaxed into such serene beauty. She swayed.

  He flung the razor aside and reached for her.

  “No.” Her eyes opened. “I am well. What is next?”

  “Are you sure?” She nodded. He took her wrists and gently placed them in a bowl of water. Pink. Dark pink now. He took a needle from the tea tray and handed to her. “Can you manage to thread this?”

  She nodded.

  “It is silk, correct?”

  “Yes, from Mrs. Nester’s own embroidery kit.” And she gave him the threaded needle.

  “Very fitting. Now will you take these tweezers and pinch this tissue together? Yes, exactly. Very good.”

  Her hands brushed his. Still so hot. Again her brow furrowed, and she seemed to be concentrating all her will into her hands. He could imagine her willing the skin and organs to knit together. Willing his hands to be steady.

  “There.” He finished the last stitch. “It is lucky you are not the seamstress here, is it not Miss Winton?” He
gave her a smile, thinking of her poorly mended stockings. “Mrs. Nester should be thankful as well, though I am sure I will never hear any praise from her lips.”

  Not Lily. Lily was gone, but this woman and her babe lived. He had done it. No, not him. They had saved them, him and Anne together.

  “Now, a new cloth. Press this very firmly against the incision.”

  He lifted Phoebe Nester’s eyelid. She moaned and twisted her head away. “Lady Tippit, you are a brick.”

  “I am no feather-headed ninny, Devlin. I know a tinker from a tailor when it comes down to it.”

  He moved to the babe swaddled in Ivo’s hands. How tiny it looked. Pulling the cloth away, he examined her briefly. Small, yes, but a healthy pink and most unhappy to be uncovered. Finally, he knelt beside Mr. Beauchamp, who was just coming to. “Beauchamp, you have missed a celestial visitation. I believe the Almighty has come down to our poor realm to grant us a bit of grace.

  “Grace.” Phoebe Nester murmured. “Yes, she will be called Grace.”

  Lamp flames quivered as the door swung open. Macready and Esther stood in the doorway.

  “What the bloody blazes—”

  “By crickies, it’s a baby.” Esther gawped and looked at Dev as if she were not sure if he was God or the Devil.

  “Mr. Macready.” Lady Tippit’s voice dripped every bit of her ten generations of breeding. “The marquess has safely delivered Mrs. Nester’s babe. If you value your position, you will take yourself and this inferior gel off and do something useful. I for one could use some tea and a biscuit or two.”

  Grace added her outrage by wailing. Ivo wrapped his smallest finger in a bit of the swaddling cloth and stuck it in her mouth.

  “I knew you was going to get up to something eventually.” Macready looked slightly green. “Flaying open that cat was only the beginning. I just had to bide my time, didn’t I?” The two stepped farther into the room.

  Esther, her face screwed up, tried not to step in the blood. She was unsuccessful and screeched.

  “Let’s go, Lord Devil. You’ve done quite enough here this day.” Macready strutted forward like a rooster through a brood of hens.

  “No need for brutality, Macready.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I am very happy to go into the cold pool. I could certainly do with a bath.”

  “Oh, you’ll get more than a bath, your lordship, don’t you worry.”

  Anne stepped between him and Macready.

  “No, An—Miss Winton. You must remain with Mrs. Nester and Grace. I will be well enough, and my job is done. Besides, Macready and I are old friends.

  Ivo looked mutinous.

  “No, you must stay as well, Ivo. Make sure the babe stays pink and breathing.” The giant seemed torn between his new charge and his old one. But when Grace mewled, he instantly fixed on her, weeks of bonding with Dev supplanted in a heartbeat. Well, he could not blame the man.

  “Miss Winton, when Mrs. Nester is up to it, you must see if Grace will nurse. Give willow bark tea and the laudanum for pain when she needs it. And, she will. Also, you might apply honey to the incision for the first few days then let it open to the air.”

  Anne held her hands over Phoebe Nester’s belly like a benediction, but her gaze never left his. Hundreds of words flowed between them. Not one of them spoken aloud. Yet he knew of her pride in him, her wonder, and her love…he thought he heard her love.

  “Come now, none of your theatrics, your lordship.”

  Dev walked calmly up to Macready. By God he felt invincible. “I am yours, Mr. Macready. Do your worst.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Sit down, Miss Winton.”

  How many times she had stood before Doctor Hives in this very room and not once he had offered her a seat. She sat.

  “I have examined Mrs. Nester and baby Grace and they appear to be thriving. I believe you had a large role in saving Mrs. Nester’s life. Indeed, I am told she would have perished without your assistance.”

  “Lord Devlin is the hero, sir. I acted as a nurse, as you say, assisting his lordship.” She sat up straighter. “I hope you have removed him from Mr. Macready’s—care. The marquess deserves praise, not punishment.” Emboldened, she continued. “And I trust his actions will go a long way toward securing his release.”

  “Do you? Well, you have always been forthright with your opinions, but in this case, I agree, Miss Winton. Now everyone can move on.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “What I mean to say is, I am confident his lordship will be leaving us in a few short weeks.”

  She only nodded, her throat too constricted to speak. This was what she had prayed for, but the death of her foolish dream of love left her feeling hollow and empty.

  The doctor narrowed his eyes as if trying to determine if she were friend or foe. “Lady Tippit vowed that your hands literally stopped Phoebe Nester’s hemorrhaging.” He held up a staying hand when Anne would speak. “This was corroborated by Lord Devlin. I have been skeptical of your talents, but I believe it is time I felt this “gift” of yours for myself.”

  This was the opening she had been waiting for, a chance to demonstrate her worth.

  “Now, Miss Winton.” He touched the pads of his womanish fingers together, forming a steeple. “When you observe me, what do you see—or feel?’

  “May I come closer?”

  “Yes, of course.” The doctor slid his chair back to afford her more space.

  She rose and approached Hives. She closed her eyes and lifted her hands, palms facing him. Intense red light flared at the area around his brow and down to his ears. A greenish-gray color wrapped around the doctor’s neck. Her hands became hot and the tingling started. After a few deep breaths, she opened her eyes.

  Hives mouth hung open, his palms only a hairs-breadth from hers. “I can feel the heat without even touching your palms.”

  She brought her hands to his forehead and then his temples. Red ebbed away as a tide of cool green took over. She opened her eyes and stepped away.

  Hives’ face had relaxed to such a degree that his mouth was nearly swallowed by his cravat.

  “Your headache is gone?”

  The doctor only nodded.

  “There is something wrong with your neck. A growth. Perhaps Derbyshire Neck.”

  Doctor Hives touched a fold in his cravat. “Yes. A large goiter.”

  “I believe you needn’t worry. With proper care, it should shrink. I would have seen if it was cancerous.”

  “Well, we must take the proper care then.” The doctor rose. As they stood eye to eye, she sensed a palpable shift in their relationship. Perhaps even a glimmer of respect on his part.

  “Miss Winton, Lady Tippit made some mention of leaving Ballencrieff soon and bringing you with her as a companion.”

  A painful lump in her throat rose. “I—excuse me.” She swallowed. “I have told her that is not possible. I am committed to you and Ballencrieff.”

  “Good.” Hives touched his neck again. “Well, I will leave you to your duties, Miss Winton.”

  She turned to leave, but the elation she ought to experience lay heavy in her gut.

  ****

  Dev felt raw—newly cleansed. And the feeling had nothing to do with Macready nearly drowning him in a freezing pool or burning his body with purging cups and stinging lashes.

  Only a scant few hours before, Hives had arrived putting a stop to ol’ Mac’s ministrations, still, the keeper had used his time very creatively. The man would be duly punished, Hives assured, but Dev would believe that when Mr. Beauchamp flew to the heavens.

  Memories now spun out unfettered, filling the empty spaces in his brain, as if the recollection of Lily and her death had punctured a wall of his prison and now a surge of memories razed the remaining barriers to rubble.

  Days lost to drink and too many indulgences. The thrill of winning Lord Harvey’s matched pair and then racing them all the way to Richmond. Combing the Spitalfields with Wainwright and persuad
ing a young, grieving mother she had much better take their coin for her dead son’s body than trusting Josh Hogan of the watch to bury the lad. Their blunt had put food on her table for her five surviving children, and saved him and Bart the trouble of having to fish the corpse out of the Thames where Hogan would have dumped it.

  The rush of euphoria while sparing at the Clapton Boxing Club and felling a bruiser who’d been two stone heavier and had a left hook that came out of nowhere. Hell, he hadn’t been able to hold a paintbrush for a week. But the pain had been nothing compared to bragging rights and seeing the utter surprise on the huge Irishman’s mug.

  Who had he been painting at that time? By God, he could remember in minute detail a three minute boxing bout, but could not put a face to the woman he’d been tupping. He did have a vague recollection of dodging a vase when he’d put her off while he healed, but beyond that—nothing.

  There had been so many women. Still, it was no excuse. His paintings emerged clearly, but the names attached to the models remained a blur. All except Nora.

  How was she faring? Last he saw her she was in shock and covered in Lily’s blood. Austin had hauled her out of the house before the watch descended. Thank God.

  The first time he’d seen her was at the Haymarket—he couldn’t recall the play—so smitten he was by her astounding beauty. Havermere, the cruel bastard, delighted in displaying his young wife like some trophy for all to admire but never touch. Dev vowed he wouldn’t touch, but he must paint her and had pursued her with a fiendish drive. Only later, when she revealed her utter despair and his words of comfort had not been enough, did they become lovers.

  Poor Nora. He’d been too caught up in living to stop and see he was really dying. And he had nearly taken her down with him. If Nora had been found amongst the carnage…

  Nora and Lily. They had been locked inside his mind all this time, revealing themselves in his nightmares. And now in his dream-drawings. All his lost memories were there, buried within those scribbled lines.

  He had never truly loved Nora Havermere. He knew that now. And she deserved love. Was the old earl still alive? Sodding Satan, he hoped not.