by Jess Russell
“Where have you been hiding these? They seem to be made to fit perfectly into my hands.”
Her teeth ground. Pinch them again.
But of course he could not hear her.
“James, please, I like—I would like—”
His lips closed over her nipple and he…sucked.
“Oh. My. G—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Crash! The terrible sound penetrated their intimate nest.
“Stop!”
The voice was not hers. Could not be his either, his lips still fixed around her breast. The shout came from the door which stood open, the small chair now on its side. The candle flickered as a figure stepped into the light.
“Bloody blazes Dev, what have you done?”
Chapter Seventeen
“For Christ’s sake, get off her!” Austin scooped up Anne’s dress and petticoat, threw them at her, and then turned his back. “Get dressed.”
Anne sat frozen on the bed, her clothes scattered around her.
Fucking Austin. Dev handed her the gown and held the petticoat up to cover her. She fumbled, trying to make her limbs work to find sleeves, her fingers to find tiny buttonholes. “Let me—” He reached to help her, but she pulled away. She ended up gathering the neckline of her gown and then holding her petticoat in front of her as she stumbled to the door.
“Anne.” He took her arm, but she shook her head and would not meet his gaze.
His mouth throbbed with life from her kisses, his insides yawned open, bereft with the loss of her.
She yanked her hair, caught under the neck of her gown, and he winced as it snagged on buttons. His fingernails dug into his palms. She would not welcome his assistance.
“Anne. This is not the end.”
“Miss Winton, now.” Austin stood at the door. “You will leave now.”
Bless her, she raised her chin, and like the goddess she was, she walked to the door and went through without a backward glance.
He shoved his feet into his breeches, yanked them up over his shrinking cock, and then buttoned his fall.
“Bloody fucking hell, Dev.”
He winced at his brother’s disgust.
“What the bloody—”
“Stubble it, Austin.” He grabbed his shirt and threw it over his head. His skin, still too sensitive, chaffed against the homespun linen.
“Unfortunately, I can’t. I am the vanguard. Father arrives tomorrow.”
He froze mid button. “The duke is coming to Ballencrieff?”
“As you say.” Austin shoved his fingers through his hair and gestured to the now closed door. “What of this woman?”
He shook his head and went to the door as if Anne might magically appear.
“Settle, Devlin. Settle.” Austin took his arm. “It will be all right.”
He yanked out of his brother’s grasp.
“Here, take this.” Austin pulled a vial out of his pocket.
Ah, the promise of blessed oblivion. His teeth ground, but he shook his head.
“Come, you are pale and shaking. You need to take the edge off. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s all right. She won’t say anything. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Leave her be, Austin. She is nothing to worry about.”
“But what are you—”
He wheeled on his brother. “What would you do if you were shut up like a bloody monk for months on end with only your hand as comfort? Leave it, I say. She was just a means to an end.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“She is nothing! Do not speak of her again.”
Austin raised both hands in defeat and stepped away. “That is well, because Father is bringing the girl.”
“What?” But he knew very well what, and who.
“Phyllis Thornton. Your betrothed. If you pass muster, the duke will see you married.”
****
Anne had ducked into the first door she had come to, the small room next to his cell, where she might gather herself and restore her clothing and person to some reasonable state of decorum. As if she could ever return to the woman she had been before this night. Her dream, gone. All gone in the blink of an eye.
A faint arrow of light spilled through a small hole at eye level. Hives’ spy hole. She turned, pressing her back to the wall.
“…just a means to an end.” His voice. His words.
“She is nothing! Do not speak of her again.”
The words lisped into the room like a snake, coiling around her, strangling her breath, but she could not move away. She had dallied with the devil, and she must take her poison.
Phyllis Thornton? She stuck her fist in her mouth to stop her cry. Betrothed? All this time he was betrothed?
Her sob lay wedged in her aching throat. She could not breathe.
Decorum be damned. She thrust herself from the wall, wadded her petticoat over her gaping bodice, and then pushed open the door. Tears blinded her as she ran down the dark hall, thinking only of the safety of her tiny room.
Nothing. She was nothing. Only a means to an end.
Chapter Eighteen
The hearing was to be held in what used to be the castle’s library, though from what Dev remembered, the shelves held no books. Row after row of emptiness. A fitting image for this pile of stones.
Austin bobbed and weaved, fussing with the fall of Dev’s cravat and some imagined lint on his coat.
“Are you sure you can trust Anne Winton to keep your—dalliance to herself? I never thought she would be a temptation. But I should have known, with your history—and what if Phoebe Nester had died? Or her child? It was a stupid risk, Dev. Why would you ever go back down that terrible road?”
Bucking, he threw off his brother’s hands. His old clothes chaffed his skin. Austin had brought them from London. The cobalt blue coat made by Poole himself, with its lining of charcoal gray silk, tailored to the barest millimeter—it had once fit his body like a second skin. Now it hung from his shoulders, making him look like a tricked out scarecrow.
“Here, look at me.” Austin took hold of his arms and forcibly turned him. “You must try to stop shaking your head. You need to get through this, and then we will stop the drugs. I’ll get you all the help you need.”
“Sod off, little brother.” His tongue still felt thick in his mouth.
“By God, Devlin, you may curse me to Hell, but you need me.”
This morning the good doctor had suggested a dose of laudanum “to quiet the marquess’ humors.” Dev had thrown the first vial against the wall, but then the suggestion became a mandate. Finally, when Ivo had refused to participate, dear Ned Macready was brought in. Resistance no longer an option. It seemed everyone was bent on having him dulled down to nothing.
They had shoved him into his strait-waistcoat, propped him up in his throne chair, and employed all nine shackles to keep him fixed in place. Then the laudanum.
And something else. Macready, or someone, had slipped in another drug. A new taste on his tongue, something he couldn’t identify. And the devils, which had been gone for weeks, came back with a vengeance. The leather band at forehead and temples bound him to the back of the chair where the fiends ripped into his brain, trying to obscure his thoughts.
The powers that be had left him there all morning. Then, about an hour ago Austin had come back with Ivo who’d shaved him, trimmed his hair, and then they both helped him into his suit.
Still slightly fuzzy, but the devils were, for the moment, blessedly banished. Well, all except Austin who paced and tore at his hair like some Greek tragedian going on about “for your own good” and “having no more sense than a flea.”
How was Anne faring? He would right that ship later when he could breathe free. Hopefully she would listen.
Thank heavens he would not have to use her—tying her to him in a sham marriage. Good thing because other than her scuttled seduction of two evenings ago, they had only indulged in a few kisses. Well, and he had made her come, but she
was so bloody tempting, and he was only human. If Austin had not burst in to interrupt them—well, he hoped he would have stayed true to his resolve not to take her virginity. He was a selfish bastard, but not without some scruples.
Once he passed this test, he would get out of this ridiculous betrothal. The portrait of Anne was his best work ever, his memories had returned, and he had saved Phoebe Nester and her child. He would be free without dragging his Owl into his coil.
He shook his head again, just for good measure and nodded to Austin. He could do this.
The huge library doors swung open. “Lord Devlin and Lord Austin,” a footman, dressed in the Malvern livery, intoned.
The rest of his father’s retinue dotted the room, standing guard in their old-fashioned frock coats and powdered wigs. Always one for pomp and propriety, his sire.
Tally, his father’s ever-faithful secretary, stood next to an old man in a bath chair. By God, his father…
He bowed briefly. “Sir.”
The gray, lined face flinched. His sire obviously shocked by his son’s appearance, but Dev could say the same of the duke. Much diminished. Certainly a contrast to the ranting, beet-red-faced man who’d had his son carted out of Malvern House nearly a year ago.
A runnel of sweat coursed down Dev’s temple to be swallowed by his cravat.
The old man gestured to Tally, who solicitously pushed the wheeled chair up a few feet. The bulldog of a secretary now reduced to more of a nursemaid than a shrewd man of business.
Doctor Hives sat stiffly on a very uncomfortable looking bench, expression number one fixed in place. Ivo, dressed in some footman’s castoffs, which were much too small, shifted from foot to foot. His huge hands, encased in gloves, hung from his body as if they were foreign objects. Poor man, a footman’s livery provided no pockets where a beloved mouse might be stowed.
A man Dev did not recognize sat with a young woman next to the windows. No doubt this poor girl was Miss Phyllis Thornton, who would be shackled to him for the rest of her natural days if all went according to the duke’s plan. She ducked her head after gawping at him like some bovine. He had the urge to moo at her.
What a cast of characters.
“Good morning, Lord Devlin, Lord Austin.” A be-wigged man rose from his seat behind a large desk in the center of the room. “I am Mr. Lowery.” He made a bow. “I am from the Lunacy Commission, but His Grace has asked that I be here in an unofficial capacity. I will be asking you a few questions, Lord Devlin. Your father wishes to ascertain if you are ready to take up the reins of the duchy should the need arise. Do you understand?” Lowery chirped as if they were all gathered for a picnic instead of determining his fate.
He considered a rude gesture, but only nodded.
“Will you take a seat, your lordship?”
The bookshelves seemed to move in closer. Austin glanced at him with a tight smile. He pulled the chair Lowery indicated back a few inches and sat.
“Very good. There are several tests which the Lunacy Commission uses to determine a sound mind. Your sire, the duke, will hear your answers to these questions. We have already heard and read much of the testimony of various people who have surrounded you these past months. I am glad to say we are generally heartened by their accounts.” The man spoke to him as if he were a babe in leading strings.
The quill-driver seated next to Mr. Lowery skritched on a paper.
“Can you state your full name?”
“Yes.”
They waited.
Mr. Lowery coughed and looked to the duke who only raised an eyebrow. “Pardon. Will you state your full name?”
“Certainly. James Henry Nathanial Drake, Marquess of Devlin.”
Lowery nodded and smiled as if Dev had divined some here-to-fore unknown proof. The underling made a note in his book. Lowery pushed a stack of coins toward Dev. “Will you count this? Please? Take your time, there is no rush.”
Stacks of silver and gold. “Twenty-one pounds, seven shillings and three pence.”
Lowery sat up straighter. The clerk took the money and tallied it up, just to be sure and then nodded to Lowery.
“Enough for a good poke at Madame Floras and dinner, if you’ve a mind to splurge.” He grinned. “Well, perhaps you may have to leave off the good champagne. What do you think, Austin? I have been rusticating so long, I can’t be sure if inflation has driven up the price of a good whore.”
Someone let out a small gasp. Miss Thornton. Her father hushed her.
The duke frowned. Dev had forgotten, the man had absolutely no sense of humor.
Lowery cleared his throat. “Make a note Lord Devlin computed correctly.” The poor man seemed a bit less jubilant now. Thank God. “Do you recognize your father in this room?”
Dev nodded.
“Will you point him out?”
He indicated his sire.
“Excellent.” Lowery nodded his head fiercely and the scribbler made a note. The commissioner seemed as proud of Dev’s small triumph as if he’d hung the moon. “Now, will you take the candle from Mr. Turner?” The man next to Lowery set down his pen and rose. “And will you now light it?”
Like some sort of trained monkey, he obliged, and then blew out the twist of paper.
Mr. Lowery smiled and bobbed his head, pleased as punch. Dev had the absurd urge to turn a cartwheel.
“There has been no instance of madness in the Malvern line since the creation of the title in 1639. Nor in the Hammel line, either.” Lowery shifted papers, stacking them into a neat square.
His freedom drew nearer and nearer. His devils could go to Hell. He swallowed and made himself breathe.
“Your Grace, would you care to question the marquess?”
“Austin said something about a painting?” It was the first thing his father had said. Memories of admonishments and shame rushed Dev’s head sinking like cold fog to surround his heart.
Mr. Turner whispered in Lowery’s ear. “Oh, yes, the picture.”
Austin stepped forward. “Sir, I do not think we need bother with the painting. Let it suffice that my brother has fulfilled all the requirements you deem necessary.”
“Nonsense, Austin,” their father said. “I have heard you nattering about this painting for months now. Even the papers have made a to-do over Devlin’s bit of artistry. We will see what has been occupying my son’s time.”
Something was off. Why would Austin not want the painting shown? It was his best work yet.
“I have no objection, Father,” he said with more bravado than he felt.
“Excellent, then let us see this masterpiece.”
Two bagwigs left through a side door and returned bearing an easel and the painting shrouded under a linen cover. They set up the stand and placed the picture upon it.
Lowery himself rose and, in a flourish, whipped the cover from the painting.
“What the—” Dev jerked his gaze from the painting to his brother. “You bastard!”
****
The knock on her door startled Anne out of a fitful sleep. Up much of the night with baby Grace and Phoebe, she had just closed her eyes to rest.
“Miss Anne Winton?” A footman stood at attention outside her door. “You are summoned before the duke.”
The Duke? Dear God, had Lord Austin betrayed them? He couldn’t. It would do irreparable harm to his brother to have their tryst brought to the fore.
One of the duke’s minions had already interviewed her. Everything written neatly in a ledger. Full name, age, education, duties, perceptions of the patient, etc. etc.
What more could she possibly have to say?
As they progressed through the halls and various rooms, Anne thought of only the most mundane of things: the man’s heavy footsteps with their distinctive click of his heels, while hers were more of a whisper against the stone floor. A pin slipping from her hair. She did not move to fix it, only noted its progress with each step she took. Would it fall in another three steps, or would it take perhaps
seven?
Two. Only two steps. She felt her hair against her collarbone just as she heard the ping on the floor. The urge to rip every pin out and tear at the wanton hair that refused to bend to her will made her grip her hands into fists. They stopped at a large set of doors. The castle’s library.
The man paused, knocked, and then he opened one of the doors, gesturing for her to go through. “Miss Anne Winton, Your Grace.”
Lord Devlin—she would not think of him as James—stood across the room, directly in front of her. No, stood was not the right word, he was being held up by two burly men, one wigless, the other’s ridiculously askew. She wanted to laugh, but shockingly a sob broke through instead. Mortified, she quickly turned away and covered her mouth.
A plain girl, who could only be Phyllis Thornton, sat with a man who must be her father. Again, Anne had to stifle a laugh-sob. This woman was nothing like the bride she had imagined for Jam—for his lordship. Though the girl was seated, she seemed very tall and rather plump, yet she cowered next to her father, sniffing into a well-used handkerchief. She looked terrified.
“Miss Anne Winton?”
Her gaze snapped toward the voice calling her name.
“You are Anne Winton?” The man behind a large desk spoke. She nodded. He introduced himself as Mr. Lowery.
An old man, the duke, sat in a bath chair, his face so like his eldest son’s. Lord Austin stood at his side. Blood dotted a handkerchief he held to his nose and one eye was swollen shut. She looked back to Lord Devlin.
He shook his head as if he were trying to dislodge something.
Her hands tingled. Had these men hurt him?
“Anne—I—” He shook his head again. “Miss Winton, you must tell them—this is wrong!”
Confused she followed his gaze.
How had she missed it? The painting stood in the center of the room.
She stepped back, nearly tripping on her petticoat. No, it couldn’t be. Every face focused on her as if she might provide an answer.
“For God’s sake, get her a chair before she swoons,” someone said.
Another someone pressed her into a hard chair. The edges cut into her fingers as she gripped the seat. She embraced the pain, hoping it might root her to reality.
