Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  “Miss Winton, I gather you are shocked by what you see?” Mr. Lowery rose.

  She could not make any answer.

  “Miss Winton.” The man now stood directly in front of her and gestured to the painting. “Is this the—portrait—Lord Devlin made of you?”

  She shook her head not knowing where to look.

  “Are you saying this is not Lord Devlin’s work?”

  Again, she shook her head. “I—”

  “Surely this is a simple answer, Miss Winton.”

  Devlin jerked forward. “Tell them! You must tell them, Anne!”

  Oh, dear God, what to say?

  He strained against his keepers, his face so imploring.

  “He—that is, the marquess…” She squeezed her eyes shut. How could this be? “I never saw it,” she whispered.

  She heard a collective gasp.

  “What?” Someone rapped for order. “Will you repeat yourself?”

  “I—I have never seen the portrait.”

  “Miss Winton, am I to believe in all the days you were a subject for the marquess you never once saw the painting?” Mr. Lowery’s voice was incredulous.

  She could only shake her head. No breath left to speak.

  “Never? Not once?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  He charged back to the desk and found a paper. “In the forty-three days you never once peeked out of curiosity?”

  “He told me—not to look.” If only she had more breath she could make her words strong and true, but there was no air. Gathering her courage, she made herself look at James. Dear God, once again his house of cards had just collapsed. Only this time she was the devil that had razed his fragile world.

  Oh, what had she done?

  “I see. You there.” Mr. Lowery gestured to a young footman who stood behind the painting. “Take it away. I think we have seen enough.”

  The boy shot forward, no doubt eager to see what had everyone so up in arms. He stopped dead, utterly confused, and looked at the assembled company.

  “But there’s nothing here.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Horrified by his outburst, the boy jerked the painting off the easel and scuttled out of the room.

  Something was terribly wrong. Anne had seen the drawings he’d made. He had worked so diligently. So intensely. But all this canvas showed was a wall, a wall with some color, but ostensibly a blank canvas with not even the shadow of a figure. Very like his earlier attempt to paint Lord Austin.

  “I will be heard!” Mr. Macready burst into the room shaking off two large footmen. “Pardon, Your Grace, but I have something I think you should see.”

  “Who is this man?” The duke attempted to rise.

  The keeper could only be here to stir the pot of trouble.

  “Mr. Macready, you are interrupting. This can be dealt with later.” Doctor Hives moved faster than she had ever seen. He gestured to a footman and Ivo.

  “Oh, I think the duke will want to see these, Doctor.” Macready once again jerked out of the footmen’s arms and strode forward.

  “A maid found these in the marquess’ room under a floorboard and gave them to me. I think they may be very telling.” He held out a roll of drawings and a packet of what looked to be letters.

  Doctor Hives stepped forward, clearly unsettled. “Mr. Macready—”

  He ignored the doctor. “Your worship, I can hold my tongue no longer. Evil will out in the end.”

  “Once again, I ask, who is this man?” The old duke made his way with the help of his servant to stand before Macready.

  “Your Grace, he is a keeper here.” Doctor Hives bowed his head solicitously.

  “Do you believe these may be pertinent, Hives?” the duke said.

  The doctor’s lower lip worried the edge of his cravat. “Mr. Macready is no longer—”

  “Got too close to the truth, I did, so he got rid of me.”

  The duke gestured to lay the drawings on the table. “I will see them.”

  Mr. Lowery’s assistant cleared a space while the inquisitor untied the ribbon securing the scroll. The duke and others gathered around.

  Anne squeezed her eyes shut. She could not look.

  But for the shush of paper, silence descended on the room.

  His dreams. He had trusted her with his dreams. The terrible pictures that came out of his head. She had seen dozens of them. And now they were on display for all. Once again, she had betrayed him.

  No longer able to stand the silence, she opened her eyes only to find all their gazes fixed on her. She rose and approached the table.

  Not his nightmares.

  A woman. A nude woman. And beautiful.

  “Doctor Hives?” The old duke leaned heavily on the desk, his manservant now supporting him. “What is this?” he said to the doctor, though his piercing gaze never left her face.

  Did they think this woman was she? Anyone could see this lady, so languidly laid out upon the couch, so sure of her beauty, so confident in her power to command love, could not be plain Anne Winton. She looked to James, sure he would refute their assumption. But he didn’t. He gaze only held an apology.

  Was this how he saw her?

  A tiny tingle of delight crept over her skin, but was quickly doused in the face of everyone’s condemnation. Their disgust cracked over her, soaking her with contempt. They did not see the beauty. These people only saw something shameful. She hugged herself, feeling as if she were truly naked.

  “Doctor, you will answer me.” The duke flicked at the drawings as if they were too rank to touch.

  “Your Grace. I am as shocked as you. She will be dismissed at once.” Doctor Hives, who had drawn near, tried to gather up the rest of the drawings.

  Dismissed? Of course she would be. But she was too numb to think of her future.

  The duke stayed Doctor Hives’ hand. “We will see them all.” The second set of drawings was unrolled.

  The nightmares. She shuddered, not from the gruesome images but from the terrible exposure of his mind purging itself of its poisons. Private drawings she had encouraged him to make. Crudely drawn, madmen and devils filled page after page. Blood dripped and insides festered, riddled with worms. Demon-faced rats feasted on hearts and coiled bowels. Angels plunged into the fires of Hell where they became grotesque creatures. A baby torn from its mother’s womb. This time she had no courage to meet James’s eyes.

  The duke gestured for his bath chair. He sat with the help of his servant. The old man gazed down at his hands lying open in his lap. No one spoke.

  Finally his hands fisted. “Is he mad?” The old man stared up at his son like he was some unknown creature. “Could a sane man produce this filth?”

  She made herself look. James stood utterly still, as if he had a noose around his neck.

  “We—” Hives’ gaze seared into her and then he turned back to the duke. “I have been doing some new work with Lord Devlin, Your Grace. Ah—it is largely experimental, but much like my theories on mesmerism, I believe these drawings help release your son’s demons.”

  “You are experimenting on a Drake, and the heir to the Malvern Duchy?”

  “In the most benign way, Your Grace.”

  The old man worked his mouth as if he wished to spit. “These do not look benign to me, Hives.”

  “They are only his nightmares, Your Grace.” She stepped toward him unable to remain silent. “Do you never awaken with your heart pounding and fear lodged in your throat? Haven’t we all experienced terrors in the dead of the night? Lord Devlin’s are just—very vivid. And he, unlike the rest of us, is able to draw them.”

  The duke frowned.

  Macready whispered to Lowery.

  “Your Grace, Mr. Macready has more to say, if you will hear him.”

  The duke rubbed his eyes but then waved his hand to proceed.

  “He says,” Mr. Lowery coughed, “he says he has proof Lord Devlin committed a murder. A Major Cummings?”

 
Anne gasped along with the rest of the company. Then the room went silent as if suddenly entombed.

  Macready stepped forward, taking the floor like an actor who had a brilliantly rehearsed soliloquy to impart. “The blood that he painted them walls with was not just his juice; it were the major’s as well.”

  Phyllis Thornton gasped and stood. “I won’t do it! You can’t make me—” Once again, her father shushed her and jerked her back in her seat.

  Macready rushed on, not to be upstaged by a vaporish girl. “After Esther—I mean the maid—found the loose floorboard, she called me up to have a look see. I found these letters, along with the major’s medals and a ring. It’s why the marquess went all daft the very day the major died. It were because he killed him, you see. A one-armed man hanging himself? Naw, he had to have help, seems to me.”

  “Why did you not bring this up before?” The duke looked to Doctor Hives, and then back to Macready.

  “I had a notion, but no evidence, as it were. I only just found his little cache just before you all was summoned to come here.”

  “Let us read these letters,” the duke said.

  “No!” James shouted.

  Everyone looked to him. But he only shook his head, his face a mask of terrible confusion.

  “I am sorry, Lord Devlin, but I must.” Mr. Lowery pulled the string on the packet and spread out the first letter. After reading, he set it aside and wiped his brow and then went on to the next and then a third and fourth. With each letter the tension in the room hitched higher. Anne thought she might be sick soon. Finally Lowery stopped and pushed the rest of the pile aside.

  “Well, what is it, man? What is the gist of these letters?” The old duke sat forward, gripping the arms of his chair.

  “They are love letters, Your Grace.”

  “Love letters? I don’t understand? How could this mawkish pap be evidence?”

  “You are correct, Your Grace. This is not evidence. Mr. Macready, you have it wrong. These letters do not incriminate Lord Devlin. They are merely a sad epistle to a degenerate life.”

  “Aye, degenerate, no doubt. But why did his lordship have the letters? And why were they tucked away along with the major’s ring here? The marquess didn’t want it known and had something to hide himself. Or mayhap he was as sickened by this unnatural creature and decided to rid the world of such a one. That, I can’t blame him for.”

  “Lord Devlin, did you know of the major’s…tendencies?”

  “Oh God…” James closed his eyes.

  “So which was it, Lord Devil?” Macready grinned. “Did you kill him because you hated him, or did you kill him because you loved him?”

  “Merciful God!” Mr. Thornton had sidled up to the table, his daughter lurking over his shoulder. He picked up a letter and began to read. “What is this obscenity?” He looked at James, utter disgust on his face. “I have seen enough. I withdraw my daughter. No amount of money or stature would convince me to ally my offspring with a man who is capable of—this!” Spittle flew from his mouth as he threw the letter down. “He may not be insane, but he is surely still the reprobate he has always been. Come, Phyllis.”

  Thornton all but yanked his still gaping daughter out of the room.

  James dropped his head in his hands and pulled at his hair. “I did not know. Dear God, I didn’t even know—”

  When he straightened, he was gone. The blank, fixed stare she knew so well sliding into place. That dead hopeless look. The one that protected him. The one she could not reach.

  The old duke rose with the help of Mr. Tally. “I have seen and heard enough. Even if his portrait of this woman is found, it matters not. My son must remain at Ballencrieff. Take him away.”

  No. This scenario was all wrong. Someone had played a terrible trick. And she had unwittingly been part of it. James would not survive in this place. He may not want her. He may have used her, but she would not leave him to die in his tiny room with no light and no beauty.

  “No!” She stood, her chair clattering backward.

  All eyes went to her.

  “You cannot take him away. I will not allow it.”

  “Am I surrounded by lunatics?” The duke sputtered. “How dare you presume to give orders.”

  “I dare because I am going to have his child.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The puppet-like people jerked into pictures, much like a Punch and Judy show. But he remained outside their frenetic world. They could not touch him. A word or two broke through the pounding in his head, but they no longer mattered.

  “…must remain…take him away.” His father’s mouth moved as he gestured toward Dev.

  A devil slipped from his brain to whisper in his ear, Now you will never be free!

  He shook his head but the devil held on. Pay attention! They are going to leave you here!

  He tried to cover his ears, but the footmen held him fast.

  Say it! Say you and the Owl are married! Save yourself!

  The room spun. He opened his mouth praying his words would be heard. We are married! She is my wife, and only she can keep me here! But the words lay trapped in his throat. It was all too late.

  She wasn’t his. He had never made her his. Stupid blighter. So confident he would escape this hell on his own merits. Even if the devils released his tongue so he could make this grand declaration, would she only call him liar?

  Just as well he could not speak. Anne Winton would not lie. Not even to keep him safe. Hadn’t she already demonstrated that when she only had to tell these vipers she had seen his portrait of her? But she could not. And who could blame her.

  “No!” The sound of her voice startled him, and his devils scattered in fear. His Owl stood like Joan of Arc against the fire. Such a brave girl, his Owl.

  Heated words flew around him, but he could not decipher their meaning against the roaring in his head.

  His father barked at Anne, and Dev jerked forward. No! But no one paid him any mind. Leave her be! But again, no one listened.

  The air vibrated with tension. Everyone in the room strained toward his Owl. She was speaking. He needed to hear.

  Desperate he shook his head. Hard.

  Her voice came ringing through. “—going to have his child.” Her gaze found his through the thick air. She touched her belly.

  The pounding in his head stopped. His child?

  “She lies!” Macready pointed at Anne as if she were the devil. “Don’t you see, she’s part of this? Under his spell, she is. She will do and say anything to spare him. She is his whore!”

  Austin stood to hush him. Macready pulled away.

  His father shuffled forward with the help of Tally and stared at Anne as if his eyes might flay her open. “Who is this woman?” he hissed.

  “She is from Ardsmoore…brought in as a nurse-companion…female patients.” The doctor alternately poked his head up, and then down into the folds of his cravat. His words kept fading in and out. “I assure you I had no idea—”

  Waving Hives away, the duke started toward Anne again, shaking his fist. “Do you imagine…” Dev strained to hear. “…my son to marry a common slut?”

  Slut? Damn it. He could not make his brain follow, if only he could speak to Anne. His child? But they had not—

  “What is your name, girl?”

  Leave her be, I say. But though his mouth moved, the words stayed locked within him.

  “Anne Winton, Your Grace.”

  “Well, Miss Winton, you are undoubtedly a grasping chit who saw the opportunity to cozen a madman and took it. Never mind, you are easily dispensed with.”

  Tally moved to the duke and whispered something in his ear.

  “What? Nonsense, Hives says the girl is a charity case, from Ardsmoore.”

  Tally bent again and held out a paper pointing to a place on the page.

  Anne took a step forward, her brows furrowed in that earnest frown he so loved.

  Lying. His Owl was lying for him. There was no chi
ld. Could be no child.

  His sire slowly lowered the paper and looked at her as if she might be one of Mr. Beauchamp’s otherworldly creatures. “What was your mother’s name?”

  “No! Leave her alone. She is innocent!” The footmen on either side of him clamped down on his arms. Faces turned to him. By God, he would not let his father tear her apart. “It was me. I took advantage of her. I preyed on her, trying to use her to aid me. She is blameless!”

  “Silence, Devlin!” his father cried, showing a flicker of the powerful man he used to be. He turned back to Anne. “Your mother’s full name, girl.”

  “Eleanor DeVere Winton, Your Grace. Despite being an orphan, I am a lady.” She raised her pointed little chin.

  The old man’s face dropped as if all the earlier fire had suddenly burned from it. “Eleanor DeVere?”

  Anne nodded. He motioned for her to come nearer and then looked deeply into her eyes.

  “Devlin, is this true? Is this girl carrying your child?” His father’s voice sounded warped and far away.

  He shook his head. If only he could see her clearly. Why? Why would you do this for me? Should he deny her words? Set her free? She looked away from him. He could not blame her.

  His gaze tracked over the room to settle on Austin. Too many questions crowded his mind. How had that empty atrocity replaced his portrait of Anne? How had Macready found his drawings? And Major Cumming’s things? Only Austin knew of the hiding place. Eyes stared at him, waiting. His jaw line twitched, and he willed the muscles in his face to turn to brick; an impregnable fortress to shut out the prying eyes and the painful questions.

  “Devlin, you will answer me. Now. I will not have this subterfuge.”

  He shook his head. As if his brain were the clapper of a bell, scarlet pain rang against his skull, into his teeth and jaw. He could save himself. Use her and take her offering.

  Could he possibly make her happy?

  He didn’t know. But what difference did it make? When it came down to it, he was a selfish bastard.

  “Yes.” His voice sounded raw and painful in his ears. “Yes.” He looked at her. “My child.”