Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ballencrieff Castle

  October, 8th

  Winton,

  A change is in the air. Mr. Beauchamp has declared that the planets are back in alignment and harmony restored. I cannot agree more. Poppa finally had the good sense to die, so I have decided it is high time to come home and re-join the world. One can only rusticate so long before one begins to rust.

  Mrs. Coates continues to hold down the fort since Hives’ defection. Rumor has it he got a windfall and hied off to India! Well, good riddance, I say. Those heathens may have him as far as I’m concerned.

  Phoebe and Grace will continue at Ballencrieff for the present, but since receiving your last letter, I have decided you need me far more than Phoebe. I shall be a buffer to the capricious ton which you face. By the way, you must not heed the papers. They are odious—always have been. Lady Markham, in particular, is a veritable vampire when it comes to sucking the life out of any young matron who attempts to wade into the rivers of society. You must not regard her or her like.

  I will arrive in town on Friday next. You will meet my train.

  Matilda Tippit

  “Winton.”

  Anne saw the hair first. Her ladyship would have made an excellent masthead as she parted the crowds at Kings Cross, her umbrella raised like some avenging angel come to vanquish all the lowly demons who dared thwart her.

  Anne did not correct her ladyship’s address. It was refreshing to simply be Winton once again.

  “Where is Barkley?” Her ladyship juggled her quizzing glass whilst jabbing her umbrella at an unsuspecting and innocent footman.

  An ancient man in an even more ancient livery tottered forward.

  “Here is a man,” Anne said dubiously. “Is this Barkley?”

  “Barkley, lud you have grown old. Where have you been? And where is the carriage? I cannot imagine how you could manage to hide a coach, but you have. Never mind, we shall depart now for Poppa’s house. No.” She jammed the tip of her umbrella into the ground. “I must remember it is my house now.”

  They settled into the ancient carriage while her ladyship’s luggage was being stowed.

  “I am seriously out of patience with you, Winton. Your last letter was not very forthcoming. You are holding out on me ,and I will not stand for it. Now I have come, you will give me all the particulars.”

  Her ladyship narrowed her gaze, taking Anne in from hat to boots. “Hmm, you have filled out some. That is well. Still too pale. Not increasing yet, are you?” Before she could answer, Lady Tippit barreled on. “No, I didn’t think so. He has bedded you though, hasn’t he? Yes, I can see that he has. Good lad. I’m sure he knows the right end of the stick. Yes,” she said again, “I can see he does.” She sat back satisfied. “Only a matter of time before he plants a babe. Never you fear.”

  “How is Mistress Phoebe, and Grace? Has she grown—”

  “Phoebe continues to be a ninny. I told her to come on to town with me, but she insists her despicable husband will either attempt to bed her or kill her. Likely she is correct, but she does not understand my considerable power. Of course I will have to reestablish myself, but now that Poppa is gone, I feel ready to take on Victoria herself.”

  The old carriage shook and then heaved as a particularly large trunk must have been loaded on.

  “Have a care, Barkley! Mama’s Boscher jewel casket is in there.” She patted her wig. “Now, Winton, when we arrive at Luscombe Hall, we will have some much needed tea, and then you shall rub my shoulders.”

  The house lay situated on a corner in Belgrave Square, one of the huge manses among the smaller terrace homes.

  “Here we are.” Her ladyship stood before the house. The coach rattled past them on its way to unload in the mews around back.

  “Lady Tippit? Are you well?”

  “What?” Her ladyship seemed to have forgotten Anne was there.

  “Shall we go in, your ladyship?” She gestured to the house.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I suppose we must.” Lady Tippit shivered but still did not move.

  A man, who could only be the butler, stood by the open doorway.

  “You are chilled, and you promised tea, madam,” she prodded.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I did. Tea solves a good deal, doesn’t it, Winton?”

  “Yes, decidedly, your ladyship.”

  Using her umbrella as a sort of cane, Lady Tippit ascended the stairs.

  “And who are you?” She gave the poor butler a freezing look. “And why are you letting all the heat out of the house? Stand aside and then shut the door. It is cold—what is your name?”

  “Perkins, my lady.”

  “Well, Perkins. We shall see. We shall just wait and see.” She nodded fiercely and then turned to Anne and nodded again, as if what she had said made all the sense in the world.

  The ladies settled next to a roaring fire in a large withdrawing room on the second floor. Tea had been brought and poured. Her ladyship seemed to be in better spirits.

  “Someone must have given Hives a good deal of money to leave his position so abruptly. Mr. Beauchamp managed to try to launch himself into the heavens again, but other than that, everyone has been remarkably tame.”

  “And Mr. Macready?”

  “Still no sign of him. Gone in a poof. Much like Hives. And good riddance once again. Ought to bring the whole drafty castle down and start over, if you ask me. But no one does ask me.” Lady Tippit stared at the walls around her, seemingly lost. Her hand drifted up to her breast, but only dangled there as if it had not the slightest idea of what to do.

  “Well, I am very glad you have come to Town, madam,” Anne said, refreshing their tea and setting a scone on her ladyship’s plate. “I could use a wise friend who knows what’s what.”

  “Yes, I dare say you could. Before I—that is before Poppa—before I went to Ballencrieff I could spot a cully right enough. And as for the ton’s female population, well, let us just say the spiders with their silken nets lie in every corner just waiting for an unsuspecting chit to put her foot wrong.”

  “Yes, I believe you will be invaluable to me, Lady Tippit.” Reaching over, she squeezed the lady’s chilled hand. The familiar face of Matilda Tippit had her blinking away foolish tears. She had not realized how quite alone she had felt.

  “But what of you and your marquess? Why is he not seeing to your entry into society? The ball was unfortunate, too much too soon, but surely Devlin has reevaluated and is ready to sally forth again?”

  A bite of scone, delayed her answer. Heavens, the thing was dry as dust. She took a swig of tea. Lady Tippit only pursed her lips and waited. No use prevaricating.

  “He did take me to the opera. But since then, he has been otherwise engaged.”

  Like the strings on a cinched purse, Lady Tippit’s mouth pulled tighter.

  “He has begun a new painting for the Queen’s Exhibition. It occupies much of his time, I believe.”

  “You believe?”

  “Lady Tippit, I might have done something quite mad.”

  “I cannot imagine you doing anything hare-brained, Winton. You are the most right-headed person I know.”

  “I have taken a huge risk and might have thrown away my little bit of happiness.”

  “Out with it. It is best to let air into these thoughts.”

  What a turn of events, her ladyship parroting Anne’s own directives from their days at Ballencrieff. “I have told James he must paint his countess.”

  Her ladyship raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. “His countess?”

  “Nora Havermere”

  “I see.” Her ladyship set her teacup in its saucer. “I still maintain you are the sanest person I know. No flies on you, Anne Winton.” Nodding her head once with such force, Anne feared her ladyship’s wig might topple into her lap. Unfazed, Lady Tippit pushed it back into place. “It is well I came when I did. You will hold your head up through whatever may come your way, I promise you that. We will p
ut things to rights.”

  Her ladyship patted Anne’s hand. “I will have my massage now, Winton.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  He had nothing.

  The painting was acceptable, even good, but it was not what he wanted.

  There was no time. It would have to do. Only three days left until the exhibition.

  “It is good, Dev. Really.” Nora was pinning up her hair.

  He turned away from the painting to the window. He couldn’t look at it another moment. Maybe if he got away from it for a day or two, he would gain some perspective.

  But he didn’t have a day or two.

  His eyes felt as if glass had been shoved beneath his eyelids. He hands shook with fatigue and lack of food. “You should go, Nor. It is late and no doubt the earl will make you pay.”

  “He has been quite tame these days. Which is worse than when he rants. He is up to something. I just have not divined what it is.”

  “Have you been careful?”

  “His new toady dogs me. But fortunately, the man is not very clever or does not know London very well. I can usually lose him when I visit Lady Bentley or at the Burlington Arcade.” She scooped up her bonnet with its veil. “The Beadle there is a friend of mine.”

  “Yes, I imagine he is.”

  “Don’t bother to walk me out. Thomas is waiting in the Rose and Thistle. I think he is sweet on a serving girl there.” She touched his arm and then gave it a squeeze. “All will be well, Dev; you must have faith.”

  The door closed and her footsteps faded as she descended the stairs.

  The tiny dark spot of a veiled Nora crossed far below him. She ducked into the tavern and emerged within a few minutes with a large man, her Thomas. A moment later a young girl, a maid’s cap on her head, stood in the open doorway watching the couple climb into a hansom cab.

  He rubbed his burning eyes, wishing a brilliant painting would greet him when he opened them. No such miracle.

  Canvas after discarded canvas stood along the walls of the garret. Some fully realized and some only half-finished, the paint scraped off, the cast of ghostly painted-out features bleeding through.

  He had not gone forward, he had regressed. These canvases stood as evidence to his mediocrity. Even this last of Nora.

  Who am I if not a painter? Am I simply a title dressed up in a fine suit of clothing?

  At least at Ballencrieff he had his devils to distract him. Now, he was supposed to be cured—fixed. The devils were at bay, but what did he have to replace them? The ladies scattered throughout the room raised their mute voices to echo, Nothing.

  “Nothing.” His pronouncement sounded shocking and inane in the dead quiet of the room. Is there truly nothing left inside me to give the world? To give to Anne. Other than a title—which she never wanted—and a cock.

  Time to admit it, he needed his devils. Needed a bit of madness to forge ahead.

  That devil still lay coiled in his pocket next to his breast where it had hidden all these weeks. His heart pounded beneath it making it seem alive. It called out to him.

  Release me. Just this once and I will free you.

  The waxy ball rolled so smoothly between his paint-stained fingers. So simple. To feel it in his mouth, the acrid taste on his tongue. That slow, loose feeling would steal over him, allowing his frenetic mind to rest and for his passions to take over—that place of stillness and focus where magic could be born.

  That place lay but a moment away from his lips. Yes.

  Just once, and I will stop.

  A ship bell clanged calling him back to the window. Sea birds rose wheeling in the sky. A ballet of infinite beauty, their spread wings flashing with the light, and then, in the next instant, almost disappearing as they turned as one.

  How did they know? To turn right or left? To soar up or down? Who directed them? God? What freedom to have the infinite sky as home. To be tethered to nothing except the wind.

  As if in answer, the flock gathered into a thick knot. He held his breath, waiting for their next miracle. Pulsing once, then twice, they bloomed into a huge sky flower that put Vauxhall’s garish fireworks display to shame.

  Churning ’round again, they flew straight toward him. He didn’t know if he should be frightened or push forward to meet them. Closer and closer they came.

  Yes, come for me. Take me away with you so that I may fly free!

  Only a moment more and he could reach out and touch their joy.

  But at the last second, they turned and flew up, a brief curtain for his window. Then they were gone.

  He craned his neck, leaning far out of the casement. Come back! Minutes must have passed with no sign. His arms ached with the strain of holding on.

  He hauled himself back inside, clawing at his stifling cravat. He nearly strangled himself jerking it off. He ripped open his silken waistcoat, the buttons flying. Next, he wrenched his shirt from his breeches and then over his head flinging it away. He rushed back to the window.

  But for all his drama, his feet still were made of clay. He had sprung no wings.

  I will give you wings.

  The tiny pea of opium still remained clenched in his fist. Waiting.

  He brought it to his lips.

  So easy.

  A cry had his gaze snapping toward the sky. His birds again. Farther away now, but still in sight. Again they gathered against the deepening sky, nearly disappearing as their gray melded with the clouds.

  What picture were they plotting? What ephemeral delight would hatch from their close deliberation?

  Their pulsing knot exploded in a burst of white.

  It could not be—

  He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut to get a fresh glimpse, yet he dare not waste a moment or she might be gone.

  Anne. It was Anne. Her face rose with the birds. They wheeled into the air, a swirling tide of pure white. The sun had broken through as if to baptize this vision. The birds disappeared once again, but the sun remained. Anne remained in his mind’s eye. Her dark eyes so calm and steady. So very beautiful.

  He imagined her hot hands on him, on his breast as they had been the first time she touched him back at Ballencrieff. The look in her eyes. Her utter fearlessness in the face of his madness. She had believed in him even then. She had not tolerated his theatrics. She had only shown him simple truth. The devils were not inside him, only poisons. He could see her now. Quietly waiting. Waiting for him to wake up. To be worthy of her. Yes. Yes.

  Anne.

  “I love her.”

  Three simple words. Yet an enormous leap to bring them from deep within his heart to his lips. “Dear God, I love her.” The heaviness in his heart evaporated as if his words unlocked a tightly sealed portal. “I love Anne Winton!” he shouted at the now setting sun.

  Realization dawned that he had always loved her. He’d been so focused on himself and his trials he could not seen the light beyond. Could not see his own light. He was worthy of love, her love. He was worthy simply because he loved her with all his heart. He did not have to be an artistic genius. He only had to love her. Love was enough.

  The pellet of waxy opium rolled off the tips of his fingers and fell into the world below. Gone. Finally gone.

  A strong breeze blew and he sucked in a huge draft. A new beginning.

  He turned, took up his pallet knife, and carved away the old layers of Nora Havermere, exposing hidden colors beneath.

  The light had gone, but he didn’t need it. The picture was right there in his head, in his body. The sitter so fixed in his mind’s eye. So imprinted he had no need of models and light.

  Daft fool. He had circled around, trying to find a way in, but if he’d only stopped and looked, he would have seen it clear as day. So busy feinting and parrying, he had not seen what was right before him, the painting that was living in his heart.

  He kept the pallet knife and picked up pure white on its edge and laid it to the canvas. Colors mounted one on top of each other as he found a rhythm an
d the shape. He scraped and flicked, and wiped. Brilliant color filled the canvas in bold slashes, raw with feeling and movement. Sweat rolled into his eyes. He shook his head and blinked it away. Lastly, one more color, a highlight of bright orange just at the center.

  He stepped back. By God, yes!

  Dawn’s glow crept into the room as if drawn to the light within the canvas. He had worked all through the night with only a few lamps and tapers for light. The last stub of candle guttered, a kind of bow to the woman’s brilliance. He tossed his pallet down and wiped his shaking hands over his chest. She stared back, luminous.

  A tide of laughter hit him. He laughed as he hadn’t in months and months. Ha! Nora will be pleased. And slightly smug.

  He collapsed on his cot, every muscle, every bone, every fiber used up. Only peace remained.

  For the first time in years he felt clean. Just himself, not sheltered within Anne’s arms, not within the haze of brandy or drugs that gave him false comfort, but deep within his own skin.

  He dared to peer into the future.

  It was not a blank canvas. So many colors yet in his life. It stretched out, a long road before him. The concept was not unpleasant, just foreign.

  A wife, a child—he hoped—a new home, the duchy, tenant farmers, and estates to manage. On and on. He would have balked before, wanting no part of all the responsibility. But now… Now he had Anne. She was strong enough for the both of them, but she would no longer have to be. He could be strong. Life would not always be easy, but he had just proved he could be a man worthy of her. The proof lay right before him on the canvas. Even if he never painted again, he now knew he could. His gift was not a sham, it lay within him.

  He closed his eyes. He would go home in a few hours. But now he only looked for sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Do not bother yourself, Yvette. I will fetch paper from his lordship’s desk.”

  Lady Tippit required a full-fledged reply. No hastily scrawled missive for her ladyship.

  A letter lay on the desk.

  His writing.

  She should not look. She should tuck it securely under the blotter and walk away. But she did not.