Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  Nora,

  The word held her as surely as if she had been snapped in a trap.

  I cannot get away as planned, but you must see the portrait. After all, you bore with me through thick and thin. I think you will approve. It was painted from the heart, and I trust my love shows through. It must, for I believe it is my best work yet. I have never been so inspired.

  I dare not let my Owl see. Not until it is hung and there can be no going back. It will likely be a shock to her, but I cannot help that. Indeed I am hoping it will be just the ticket to let us begin anew.

  I will meet you at twelve noon tomorrow. Call me egotistical, but I want to be there when you see it.

  I know you have lost your key, silly chit. I have left a new one above the doorsill on the right. I did not like the shady character I have seen lurking about. You should be careful as well. I look forward to the time when neither of us has to keep secrets.

  Dev

  A fat tear dropped not a hair’s breadth from the salutation. She quickly moved the paper just as another fell. The letters swam before her glazed vision. She dashed her arm against her eyes and then fled from the room.

  Only to collide with someone. Margaret.

  “My dear, Anne, what has you so upset?”

  She shook her head, her throat full and throbbing. She must get away.

  “Oh dear, you must have found out.”

  A hideous sob escaped. Horrified, she covered her mouth.

  “Come, my dear,” Margaret ushered Anne into her bedchamber. “Higgins, you may fetch tea.”

  She tried to tell Margaret she needn’t bother. She would surely choke.

  “Sit, my dear. Heavens, your hands are ice. Now, there.” Margaret settled a shawl around her shaking shoulders. “These men…well, they will be men. It is best to find out sooner than later, Anne dearest. No use deluding yourself. This way you know the way of things before you build up too many hopes.”

  Margaret sat heavily in the chair opposite. “Once married, we are nothing but breeding vessels. Indeed, I think Lord Austin had his—woman—installed as soon as the marriage lines were read. Most likely he never gave her up to begin with.” Margaret smoothed her hand over her rounded belly. “Frankly, I am just as happy. The marriage bed is a disgusting business.”

  The room had a roaring fire, yet she felt as if her bones were frozen against her skin—one move and she would break.

  “I did think of telling you of the assignations, but Lord Austin forbade me. He loves his brother, and he wants him to have a bit of happi—”

  Too much. The shawl fell to the floor as she lurched to her feet.

  “Anne. Oh, dear, I am sorry. I do put my foot in my—”

  Vessel. Yes, she was only a vessel. But she’d known that from the outset. Their marriage had been doomed the moment she lied to the old duke.

  Still, she had to see. She had to see them together to make it real.

  ****

  The next day a veiled Nora Havermere descended from her hackney cab in front of a large warehouse. Looking furtively about her, she climbed the steps and disappeared inside.

  Anne alighted from her own cab and slipped in the mouth of an alleyway to wait. Only eleven-twenty. She stamped her feet, trying to keep warm. A shadow paused by a large window at the very top of the building. A glimpse of red hair as the countess leaned out. So eager to meet her lover? He must paint her up there as well as—

  The figure disappeared.

  “Hey there, dumplin’. Ya been waitin’ ’ere fer me?” Fish and a dank musk filled her nose. Not looking back, she scurried across the street and right up to the building Nora Havermere had entered. Only three steps and through the door to safety.

  And Hell.

  Cold lanced through her gloved hand as she pushed down hard on the latch. Had it locked?

  She turned back to see if the man had followed, but he was gone.

  What had she been thinking? Like a scene from a Penny Dreadful, this madness of confronting her husband’s lover. Still, she gave the latch one final yank. The door swung open.

  A twisting set of iron stairs lay ahead. She set her foot on the first tread and then another, and another. Up and up she went. So silent.

  The key lay just where it should. Even before she opened the door she heard the splash of water and a soft soprano.

  The door thudded shut. Too loud.

  “Dev? Oh dear, is it so late?”

  The voice was music. Anne followed it like some pied piper, completely conscious of the danger this woman posed to her fragile world.

  “Stay where you are. I will be out in a trice. You must be early, no? Heavens, how eager you are. You are never early.”

  Splashing like rain on a tin roof came from behind a screen. “I am sorry, I can’t hear you. I always wanted to try it. Havermere will not think of modernizing. So clever, the way you have it rigged. A simple open of a tap and voila! a waterfall of delicious hot.” A burble of laughter. “I just could not resist.”

  The water stopped, just the patter of drips now. “I cannot lie; I took a peek. I know, I do not play fair, but then you never expected me to, did you? It is magnificent, and you are a genius.”

  Of course Nora Havermere had looked at the painting. Anyone would. Only a stupid, trusting Owl would hold fast to such an absurd promise.

  Paintings lay propped against the walls. But one stood on an easel covered with a piece of cloth.

  The square of canvas drew her. The fabric drape lay between her fingers. All she had to do was to lift it and see. Just one simple gesture.

  “Dev, there is champagne on the table. Make yourself useful and open it, would you? I cannot stay but a few moments. Havermere will miss me soon, but I have time to toast our success for I am claiming part of it, you know.”

  Cut crystal held a sweating bottle on the table by the bed. Two delicate flutes stood next to the wine. So perfect, so expectant.

  Anne let the fabric go. This time it was not breaking a promise that stopped her, but sheer cowardice.

  Off-key singing rose from behind the screen. At least there was something not perfect about this woman.

  The screen’s embossed leather felt like smooth pebbles under her fingers, and the silken gown hanging over it held the countesses’ spicy scent. Gritting her teeth, she peered around.

  Red hair with a hundred different highlights winked at her. Several tendrils had escaped and looped about Nora Havermere’s white shoulders. Swathed in a towel, the woman bent over her long leg, drying it with the edge of the cloth. Her lips were framed in a secret smile as she hummed.

  James and this woman would be so stunningly perfect together. His darkness against her bright copper. Their long elegant limbs intertwined. His mouth dipping to kiss her lush, ripe lips…his hand winding in her hair…

  “Dev?” The woman started to turn.

  In her haste to quit the room, this building, this city, she must have made a racket on the stairs, her boots ringing against the endless treads.

  Only when she was three streets away and her ribs aching did she pause to catch her breath and swipe the wet from her eyes. Her stomach heaved. Bile rose in her throat, choking her.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  She tried to speak, anything to make this good Samaritan go away so she could be alone, but she only managed a nod. Footsteps started away, hesitated and then faded to nothing.

  “Ugh.” She jerked her skirts away just in time.

  How long she huddled in a doorway, she had no idea, but the shadows had shifted and lengthened. She shivered, now in deep shade.

  By God, she was no sniveling coward. She took her handkerchief from her reticule and wiped her eyes and the mess from her mouth.

  ****

  “Norraaa!” Dev pounded up the last few stairs and burst into the garret.

  Nora turned in astonishment. “Where have you been? And what has you in such an uproar? Did I get the wrong champagne?”

  The ro
om looked empty. Nothing behind the curtains. No one lurking under the cot. He raced back down the stairs. Nothing. Back up the steps to Nora.

  “What has you so stirred?”

  “The door was standing wide open,” he said between breaths.

  He whipped the cover off the painting.

  There she was, in all her perfection. He sat on the bed, exhausted. “God, I just want this to be done. I just want to get on with our life.”

  “Be easy. Two days and this nonsense will be over. You know me, it is likely I did not shut the door properly.”

  “Nora, I told you to be more vigilant.”

  “Yes, I know. But that latch has always been tricky. You must speak to Cheswell.” She buttoned the topmost button on her dress. He turned away. “I suppose I have gotten a bit lax with Havermere so indisposed. I can almost taste freedom.” Her gaze caught his in the reflection of the window. “Is that terrible?”

  “No, my dear. God knows I would have shot the man long ago were I you.”

  “Well then, it is a good thing you are not me. I would not fare well moldering in Bridewell Prison. Let us toast, shall we?”

  Yes, he could use a drink, or twelve. He removed the foil and slowly twisted the cork. Pop. A misty breath of wine perfumed the air. Bubbles exploded into the glasses, popping and sputtering as they slid down into a pale pool.

  “To our freedom.” Nora’s long fingers wrapped around her glass as she raised it to his.

  “Yes, my countess, freedom is something I have craved for a very long time. I hope and pray this painting will be its beginning.” He raised his glass to meet hers. To freedom!”

  And to love.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Anne swallowed. Despite stopping for a cup of tea, she could still taste the sour bile in her mouth.

  From the street, Havermere’s manse appeared cold and formidable. As she approached the front door the impression magnified and she shivered. Not one thing was out of place but it was utterly soulless.

  How did one do this? Never mind, best not to think, simply knock on the door and demand to see the countess. After all, she was the Marchioness of Devlin now. It was time to behave like it.

  She was admitted at once, as if she had been expected.

  “Ah, Lady Devlin, what a pleasure.” The earl sat very close to a roaring fire, a blanket covered his knees. He was rolling up what looked to be a canvas. He finished and tucked it away.

  Lord Havermere might have been rather good looking as a younger man, but his expression was sour, and his smile looked more reptilian than genuine.

  “I have been looking forward to our meeting. You must forgive me for not rising. I am somewhat incapacitated of late.” He indicated the chair opposite his.

  Anne stood her ground.

  He cocked his head. “In truth, I thought you would come much sooner.”

  Several hours had passed. The countess had said she could not tarry with James and needed to be home. “I was hoping to meet your wife.”

  “Ah, aren’t we all, Lady Devlin. Aren’t we all.”

  She shifted her feet.

  “Please sit down. You will be doing me a favor. My eyesight is not what it used to be.”

  Unsure what to do she sat, putting her back to the fire.

  “My paramour has never been the most accessible of ladies, but these days she seems to be even more elusive. Believe me, I employ a stable of people to keep track of her, but to no avail. I fear her infamous—charm—has wheedled its way into their hearts. But, never mind, that will all change soon enough.”

  The heat burned her back and she rose. “I am sorry to disturb you, Lord Havermere. I really wished to speak with the countess on a personal matter.”

  “Yes, I would imagine you would.”

  The old earl’s gaze gave her the sudden urge to check if the buttons at her neck were all done up. She squeezed her hands instead.

  “I believe we have much to discuss, Lady Devlin. Please sit.”

  “I really must—”

  “You seemed to enjoy the opera. I don’t get out often, but the charms of Miss Lind lured me to the theater. I cannot resist true talent.” This time when he indicated the chair, his fingers brushed a sheaf of papers on the table by his elbow.

  About to make her apologies again, she stopped.

  The topmost drawing was turned away from her, but she knew even before the earl shifted it toward her that it was of her. Nora Havermere.

  And James.

  Like stopping to witness a terrible accident, she could not look away. But instead of blood and gore, there was only heartbreaking beauty.

  James must have set up a large mirror and hastily, yet so expertly, caught their ardor in just a few marks of pencil.

  Her stomach clenched, still unsettled from earlier. She sat.

  “Yes, I thought you might change your mind, my dear.” Havermere picked up the drawing, revealing the next beneath.

  James sat facing the mirror his long legs splayed wide, his sketchbook between them. Nora hovered just over his left shoulder, her hair a riot of curls as she nipped at his neck, a secret smile on her lips. One breast and a lushly-curved hip peeped out from behind James’s body, a baroque frame for his austere angles.

  Unable to stop, she reached for the rest of them. One by one she peeled them off. They fluttered to the floor like so many dead leaves. So many positions—another sketch—another position. She had done that one with James. It joined the others on the floor to reveal yet another—he had taken her that way as well.

  These last were only very rough sketches. The mirror played no part now. No voyeuristic looking glass to peer into their deep intimacy.

  Poor owlish Anne Winton could never compete with this woman. What they had together was so incredibly beautiful. As if they were made for each other. Pure art.

  “I see you get the full picture now, Lady Devlin. I am sorry it is so hideously graphic, but sometimes it is better, kinder, to not have any illusions left to muddle your true and just feelings.”

  She stared at the papers scattered at her feet. She should gather them up, make sure they did not get destroyed, but could not make herself move.

  “You need not worry my countess will dally any longer with your husband. Once I get hold of her, she will be—disciplined. I do not enjoy playing the cuckold. I will not tolerate being made a fool.”

  “No.”

  “I knew you would agree.”

  “You misunderstand. I mean we should not interfere. I will not interfere.” This old bitter man and she were the interlopers. They were the ones keeping these two perfect beings from being together. “We must accept the inevitable and let them go. You must see that.” She said the words as if she had memorized them long ago, like the liturgy she had intoned by rote everyday at Ardsmoore. They were only words with no meaning, strung together to put a period on this part of her dream.

  “You are a little fool. He has cozened you as well. Have you fallen in love with him? Foolish woman. Do you know he has had the most elegant women in and outside of society besides my wife? You are nothing to him. Only a breeder—a means to an end. Are you increasing yet?”

  Warmth flooded her cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire being so hot.

  “By God, you are. Fertile ground. Well, as they say, ground nearest the dung heap always sprouts first. Do you imagine you have won with this babe? Have you never thought, once you whelp, how long he will keep you? Once he has his son you will be de trop, my dear lady. Make no mistake, he will pack you off to molder in the country. He might drop by in a year or two to plant a spare in you, but don’t look for anything beyond that.”

  She could not stay to listen to this terrible man. She heaved herself onto her legs. But the drawings surrounded her, a sea of paper, trapping her against the chair.

  “The marquess will be too busy trying to extricate his lover, my dear wife. He knows all too well what awaits her at Ballencrieff. That will break him. I will not ha
ve to do anything more, he will sabotage himself all on his own.”

  “Ballencrieff?”

  “Yes, I have the documents nearly ready. She is unstable, my dear countess. She needs care and discipline. Perhaps in a few years she will see the error of her ways.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I? I will not be made a fool again. By the time my lady wife gets clear of Ballencrieff, she will no longer resemble the willful shrew she is now. Her outside will finally match her black inside. And our marquess, with his—tendencies—will either be locked up with her, or will have moved on to someone else. Perhaps he might send you off to Ballencrieff as well. Ha! Wouldn’t that be a fitting end for both of Devlin’s bitches.”

  Dear God, she could almost forgive Nora Havermere for falling in love with James, now having met this monster.

  She had never seen herself as a fool. Naïve certainly, narrowly educated, but never a fool. She supposed she must thank the ton for showing her that side of herself. Yes, she had learnt a thing or two in these last few months.

  How could she suppose James had ever wanted her? Oh, he was good, very good. She did not look in the mirror often, but when she did, she could not help but see her deficiencies. Nose too long, eyes too large, hair too black. These features would cause much consternation in most females. But she had made peace with her face…until James. Her eyes pricked with childish tears. Damn him for making her feel beautiful. That she could never forgive.

  This new confidence was just a seedling, easily ripped out by the roots. But the notion of being a fool was not as easy to purge. The good news was she would have many hours—years—to learn to swallow it down.

  ****

  “Where is Lady Devlin?”

  “Good afternoon, your lordship. Might I be of assistance?”

  Anne’s maid was one of those modern beauties, her opulence put on display for all to see. She might have appealed to him in his younger days, but now he found her vulgar.

  “Yes, you can tell me the whereabouts of your mistress.”

  The maid made a moue with her generous lips and plucked at the neckline of her bodice.

  “Now.”

  “She is gone, sir.”