Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  He pushed the image aside, far more useful to talk of practical matters. “Listen, Austin, if you want to show your good faith, you could see that Margaret is kind to Anne and takes her under her wing.”

  “Of course, but won’t you be here to see to her yourself?”

  Biting his cheek he tucked the empty flask into his coat pocket. “I can’t really say at this point.”

  As it stood, he just might do her more harm than good. Who was he now? A husband? A painter? A man who eschewed drugs? Someone worthy to be a father?

  No, he was none of these. What he was, was a man who had not the slightest idea of how to gain footing in this old yet new world. Lord Devil was dead, he prayed. The Marquess and Worthy Husband must rise out of those ashes.

  And his brother…? Had Austin turned into someone unrecognizable as well? Keeping him imprisoned at Ballencrieff simply because he craved attention and power? Or was he a jealous, spiteful man who, perhaps, was now an enemy? One who would use drugs, or perhaps even poison, as a way to manage his elder brother and keep him weak?

  My God, Austin could have been plotting against him for years. Had the arrival of the police at the townhouse on Greene Street been Austin’s doing? Yet another ploy to play the hero, arriving just in time to get Nora Havermere to safety, but leaving Dev to suffer the terrible scandal as the police stormed into the house.

  Looking at the picture of his angelic, contrite brother, he honestly did not know what to believe. Austin was not the doting, benign little boy with the angelic curls, but surely he could not be so evil either. One thing was certain Dev could never think of his brother quite the same.

  “You must believe I had nothing to do with the disappearance of the painting. Well, other than trusting Ned Macready.”

  Suddenly cold, Dev turned toward the fire. If only he could disappear. If only he could retreat into a warm cocoon where worries were far, far in the distance.

  But he could not. He must deal with life as a marquess. He must take an interest in finances and the estates. He must eventually face a blank canvas and try to paint again. And he must put a babe in the woman who lay in the room just above his head.

  The door clicked shut. He had been so far away he had not even heard Austin leave.

  Self-absorbed is what he was. Always had been.

  His suit jacket suddenly felt like another strait-waistcoat, though it still gaped on his body. He ripped it off and flung it to the floor.

  A pea-sized ball of bluish-ebony rolled out. The opium lay like a bullet on the parquet floor.

  His tongue rolled in his mouth, almost able to feel the smoothness of that perfect round ball. A bit of his past come back to tease him. To make sure he had some options. To make his life infinitely harder.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “The tea is Darjeeling, your ladyship.”

  Anne glanced around before remembering she was her ladyship. The use of the title unnerved her. Inside she was plain Anne Winton and did not even feel like a lady, much less the Marchioness of Devlin. Though certainly it would help if Greely looked her in the eye when he spoke instead of addressing the air above her head.

  “The Drakes have always enjoyed the finest of teas,” he finished with a sniff.

  Only used to watered-down tea made with re-used leaves, this brew’s sweet and musky aroma perfumed the stuffy room. She smiled and nodded. “It is lovely—its fragrance puts me in mind of how I might imagine a bazaar in India.”

  Greely’s rejoinder was only to raise his eyebrows which, when lifted, pulled his lips even tighter. Perhaps he was really a wooden marionette puppet disguised as a butler?

  She took a sip of tea to stifle her urge to laugh. “And Lady Austin, will she be joining me today?”

  “I’m sure I do not know, your ladyship. I could have her maid summoned if knowing is paramount to your ease.” Greely rubbed his pristine glove over a satinwood table already polished to within an inch of its life. “However, if I were to presume,” his eyebrows rose—“and hazard a guess,”—his lips pursed, “I would not expect Lady Austin. She does not usually bestir herself to come down for tea—or indeed for anything—these days.”

  She shifted. She would have to use the necessary soon. How ladies ate or drank anything being laced so tightly was beyond her.

  Where was her husband? Likely holed up in the library again with Lord Austin and a bevy of stewards and financial advisors led by Mr. Tally.

  She desperately wanted to ask Greely if his lordship might be joining her for tea, but shouldn’t a wife know? The butler already looked at her as if she were something to be scraped off the bottom of his perfectly buffed shoe.

  “Thank you, Greely.” She nodded as she had seen Lord Austin do, but the butler remained. “That will be all. You may go now.”

  He sniffed, clicked his heels, and then quit the room, closing the massive door behind him.

  An ornate long-case clock ticked loudly—her only companion of yesterday and the day before and the day before that. She reached for a biscuit. Anything to soak up the tea. A log in the fireplace popped. “Oh!” Hot tea sloshed over as her cup rattled in the saucer, and her nose pricked with threatening tears. She thrust the cup and saucer down on the table, heedless of the ring it would undoubtedly make.

  Where did her husband go after seeing to business affairs? Why did he not come to her? She swiped at a small wet spot on her skirt. Tea or tears?

  Was she so odious now he had his freedom? Was this to be her new life? Swilling tea while holding conversations with frosty butlers and relentless clocks?

  Rain spattered at the windows, yet another reminder that she had nowhere to go, no one to see.

  The same imperious stares from the venerable Drake family censured her as she ascended the grand stairway, just as they had an hour or so ago when she’d descended for tea.

  As she passed his bed chamber door she hesitated. No sound. He was not within. One easy turn of the knob and she might enter. A few steps and she could be at his bedside where she might lay in the impression his body made in the feather mattress, bury her face into the pillow he slept upon and breathe in his scent.

  Fool. She let go of the knob and fled to her own room.

  Yet another day as a lady in waiting. Well she would lose herself in the mysteries of Africa. Again.

  But as she approached the bedside table with its stack of books her gaze snagged on a small square.

  A box, deep blue velvet, sat squarely on the white pillow. No note, just the box.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for it. The velvet felt plush and slightly cool against her fingertips. Her heart thumped with anticipation. A gift.

  She did not recall ever receiving an actual physical gift, excepting Lady Tippit’s silver brush and comb and Phoebe’s dressmaking skills. Her parents must have indulged her as a little girl. A well-worn fabric doll with two golden braids? Yes, she had named her Myrtle. But never a gift from a man. No, not true. She had forgotten Mr. Beauchamp’s crystal, which she kept under her pillow—

  Now a marchioness, she must get used to presents. Perhaps this was what husbands did when they needed to appease their wives.

  She took a breath and snapped open the lid.

  Nestled inside was a ring that held one perfect, smooth, milky-white stone. Its beauty was in its simplicity. But as she took it from its satin nest the stone came to life, flashing a rainbow of colors—brilliant blues and green, pinks and yellows, lilac and even orange and red. His choice of jewel so simple, yet within its polished dome lay a whole world.

  For the second time today, tears burned her eyes. He had called white the queen of color.

  Her old ring dropped with a clunk onto the table next to her books. Already she felt lighter. This ring of white fire slipped on her finger like it belonged there. Perfect. Gullible or not, she believed he had chosen it specifically for her.

  “Your ladyship.” Yvette, her lady’s maid, had entered.

  She hid her hand beh
ind her back as if she had been caught out. Honestly the girl always seemed to turn up at the worst moments.

  Lady Austin had looked at Anne as if she’d had feathers between her ears when she’d balked at wanting a lady’s maid. But she soon found out this was a battle she would never win so “Yvette” had remained. The girl’s French accent was as false as her simpering smiles. Anne had the urge to actually converse in French just to confirm the fact, but she could not be so cruel. Besides, when one is desperate for a friend, why risk making an enemy?

  “Will you be wanting za bath now, your ladyship?”

  Anne touched the ring on her finger. Immersing herself fully in the huge copper bath was such decadent pleasure. But much as she would like nothing better than to ease her tense body into a hot foaming bath, she could not.

  She was bleeding, just near the end of her cycle, which never lasted more than a few days. Thank heaven with all the stress her courses had been slightly late. If not, the duke, had he persisted, insisting on an examination, would have known in a moment she was not with child.

  “Shall I ring for za water to be brought up, your ladyship?”

  Unused to having a maid, she did not trust Yvette’s dogged fussing. Knowing all too well how an ember of gossip could become a full-fledged inferno.

  “No, just a bowl of hot water, please. I will attend myself.”

  Yvette looked utterly offended, humphed, and swung her generous hips out of the room.

  Now refreshed, Anne was just donning a wrapper when someone knocked.

  James? Perhaps he had come to see if she approved of his ring. As she passed by, the mirror showed flushed cheeks and parted lips.

  “Oh, Lady Austin.”

  Margaret Drake stood at the door.

  She had made an overture of friendship with her gift of the nightrail and wrapper on Anne’s first evening. “My lovely bridal night clothes were utterly ruined—but you—well, at least that nasty bit is over for you.” She had shuddered. “Still a horrid business, if you ask me. But one we wives must endure.”

  Endure? Anne had pretended to understand. Her little experience with love making had felt miraculous and not in the least bit horrid.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Lady Devlin, but I could not contain myself. I nearly came down to tea, but the thought of getting dressed overwhelmed me.” In her condition, Anne had yet to see Margaret in anything other than a dressing gown, and not once beyond the upper floors.

  “Please, come in, Lady Austin.” She would never get used to these silly titles but did not feel as if she should be the one to suggest they dispense with protocol. “Thank you.”

  Margaret Drake fairly danced into the room.

  “Shall I order tea?” The thought of more tea set her teeth on edge, but this woman was company and it was important to do things correctly. “Please sit down, Lady Austin.”

  “Sit? Oh, heavens no, I am entirely too excited to sit. So many plans to make. So much to do. I wonder if Cook is up to the task. Perhaps we should hire a French chef for the occasion? Oh, but they are so hard to come by and the duke can be stingy at times.”

  “I am sorry, I am not following you.”

  “The ball, Lady Devlin. The ball!”

  What ball?

  “Surely the marquess has told you?”

  Anne shook her head, a sick feeling of dread inching around her belly.

  “Oh, these men. The duke is throwing a ball in your honor! Your introduction to society.”

  Oh, please no. Her stomach heaved in sympathy.

  “We have never entertained properly at Malvern House. What with the scandal—” Her ladyship covered her mouth with her hand. “What I mean is the duke has not been well. But, no matter, now we will finally have a grande fête, and I will be able to dance before I am forced to retire. Oh, do not look so shocked, Lady Devlin, I am not as far along as you would think. I have gained a stone or two, but who could blame me with nothing to occupy myself with all these endless months.”

  Lady Austin finally sat, and Anne happily followed suit, but her ladyship popped up again a bare moment later. “Lord Austin only told me of the plan this morning. Apparently, the duke is anxious to get you seen and accepted before… Well, before you retire for your confinement.”

  “Confinement?”

  “Yes, the babe. Believe me, once you become too large, everyone wants to shuffle you out of sight as if you had some dreadful disease. I will be allowed to make an appearance at the ball and then I shall retire. I warn you, this baby business is tedious. But it must be done. I own, I am relieved you have come to take the burden from me. With any luck it will be a boy.”

  Anne looked away.

  “Then I suppose you must try for the spare just in case…” Lady Austin touched her rounded belly distractedly as she gazed out at the rain. But in the next moment she set to pacing the room again her momentary melancholy seemingly forgotten. “I hope the duke will not change his mind. He suffered another bout of palpations last evening. The doctor was with him this morning.”

  Anne rose. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Again Lady Austin looked at her as if she had two heads. “Do? What would you do?”

  Deflated, she sat.

  “Here is the best part. I thought to bring in my modiste for the ball gown. We can have some other things made for you as well, but the gown must be one-of-a-kind.”

  “Is all this necessary?” One look at her sister-in-law’s face told her it was most definitely necessary. “Very well. I am at your disposal.”

  “Trust me, you can do no better than Madame Bathilde. She is de rigueur these days, but I know she will come posthaste for me. I am one of her most loyal clients.”

  “I thank you for your help, Lady Austin. As you see, I know nothing of fashion.”

  “Yes, I can see that all too plainly. Plainly, being the key word. But, no matter, we will have you looking a la mode in no time.”

  Anne tried to smile despite the sick feeling in her stomach.

  “I adore designing gowns. I vow if I were not high born, I would have made my fortune as a dressmaker. I am sure if I write immediately, we can get Madame Bathilde to come within the hour.”

  “Today?”

  “But of course. You must remember you are the Marchioness of Devlin not to mention the Duke of Malvern’s daughter-in-law. Soon you will be the duchess!”

  Anne tried another smile. “Not too soon, I hope.” Perhaps Margaret Drake would be a friend.

  True to her word, a scant hour later, Anne stood in her shift being prodded and measured by Madame herself.

  “She ez tres petite.” The woman had circled her three times already, tisking and poking a limb here and there. Finally she stopped her perambulations. “But I can work wiz it.” she pronounced, as if Anne had managed to pass some arduous test.

  By the time they were finished, Anne had been nearly smothered in swaths of silks and satins, stabbed at least seven times. “Do not bleed on zee fabrics!” Madame had screeched. Her head and feet ached and she had been roundly admonished when she had the temerity to ask to use the necessary. Madame was to return on the morrow where Anne could expect the real work to begin.

  At least she had not been alone today. Margaret, as Anne had been given leave to call her, had found her pet project. And Anne was happy enough to acquiesce if it meant some company.

  The next afternoon, having been subjected to another round of pokings and proddings and hearing of her various deficiencies, Margaret had offered to give a tour of the mansion.

  “What is this room?” Anne stopped by a door at the end of a long, narrow hall. She and Margaret were now at the very top of the house.

  “I don’t know. It is likely locked.”

  Anne turned the knob. Yes, locked. After giving one last twist, she was about to turn away when the tumblers gave way and the door swung open with a groan.

  Shadowed faces stared out from the walls.

  “Oh my, I had forgotten.
” Margaret must have followed her into the room. “I suppose this is where they got stashed.”

  Not only were the walls filled with portraits, they were also leaning against them, stacked one behind another.

  “The duke insisted all Devlin’s paintings be collected from his studio and townhouse after he—went away.”

  Anne looped back the heavy and dusty drapes, but it made little difference in the lighting.

  Woman after woman looked out at her from the shadows. Blonde, brunette, ginger, smiling, pouting, in various states of undress, sitting, standing, lying—mostly lying.

  Margaret flopped down in one of the chairs after it was clear they were not leaving any time soon.

  One woman stood out. She had been painted many times. Anne could see why. Dark red hair, white flawless skin, eyes the color of violets in the spring. But it was not her extreme beauty that drew Anne as much as her expression. Wistful, poignant…full. Yes, full seemed the best word.

  This woman had known her husband better than she. What had she meant to James? Perhaps, still meant to him?

  Do not torture yourself. She moved on to the next beauty, one who had also likely shared her husband’s bed, but the red-haired woman would not let her go, and she found herself once again staring into those hooded and sultry eyes.

  The first impression of languid, and poignant grace still held true, but deeper within the layers of paint, James had captured some terrible sadness. She wanted to hate this woman who had so clearly captivated her husband, but could not.

  “Oh, I see you have found the famous beauty, Nora Havermere.”

  Nora. “Of course, his Nora,” she said out loud before she could catch herself.

  The Nora he had called out to while delivering baby Grace.

  Dozens of violet-blue eyes stared back at her from around the room. Paint what is in your heart, the eyes seemed to say.

  She had never asked him about the countess. Indeed, she had barely spoken ten sentences to her husband since their marriage, and five of those had been her marriage lines