Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  “Yes, that I can see for myself. Where has she gone, and more importantly when will she return?”

  The maid frowned, obviously not used to having her considerable battery of attributes ignored. “She doesn’t tell me what she’s about, your lordship. She keeps to herself, you know.”

  Halfway out the door the maid’s voice stopped him. “I don’t know where, but I do know she may likely be gone for a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she usually goes down to the pianoforte in the afternoon, and I come up to see to her clothing at that time. I am not fond of music, I suppose. I noticed two of her gowns were missing. The gray Kerseymere and the blue serge. At first I thought she had finally followed my advice and given them to the rag and bone man, but when I investigated further, I saw some of her other things were gone as well.”

  “What things?”

  “Well, some of her unmentionables, sir, and her brush and comb set.”

  He crossed to Anne’s vanity. Sure enough, the silver set Lady Tippit had given her as a wedding gift was gone. He flipped open a small inlaid box. The pearls lay in a coil against the indigo lining. A bit of ribbon was wound around an object. He pulled the end and two rings rolled out onto the table. The hideous one his father had provided when they were wed, and the opal.

  He slipped it on his smallest finger. It barely reached his first knuckle. The stone flashed as it caught a sliver of fading light. Idiot, it seemed to say. “Bloody, foolish, idiot,” he agreed.

  “Pardon, your lordship? You said something?”

  He’d forgotten he was not alone. The maid. Still trying to get a rise out of him.

  Twenty minutes later, after having quizzed his sister-in-law’s maid, the cook—who he was sure was hiding something—and five footmen, he finally found Margaret at the top of the house in a room tucked between the eaves.

  She was huddled in an overstuffed chair with a plate of cake on her knees, licking her fingers.

  His paintings surrounded her. Dozens of faces stared back at him. Ghosts from his past. Not destroyed as he had assumed, just hidden away, much as he had been.

  “Oh, dear!” Margaret began to rise and nearly lost her cake as she grabbed for a pillow next to her. “Lord Devlin. Is my husband with you?” She glanced over his shoulder.

  “No. I have not seen him.”

  “Oh, good.” She collapsed back into her nest of pillows. “How you frightened me.”

  “What are you doing here?” He stepped farther into the room.

  “You have stumbled upon my sanctuary. No one ever comes here, you see—well, except when Lady Devlin and I found the room. That is when I started using it.”

  “Anne was here?”

  “Oh, yes, though it was some time ago. I tried to persuade her to leave, but she had to look at every one.” Margaret glanced about her. “Odd, they have become like old friends to me now.”

  He had never paid much mind to his brother’s wife, but even he knew a woman seven or so months gone with child should have looked far more round. But she seemed to have lost her belly but gained a good three or more stone everywhere else.

  “Oh, you are shocked, I see.” She touched a small round pillow next to her. “Well, originally I thought to put on a few extra pounds to look as if I was still increasing. That way your brother would—well, he would leave me be. And besides, I could not bear to disappoint the duke who seemed to rally at our news.”

  “You are not increasing?”

  Margaret bit her lip and, discovering some pastry cream, licked it. She shook her head. “No, I am not. Not anymore, at least.” She shuddered. “Please, you must not tell Austin. He will be seriously displeased with me.”

  “Why would you indulge in this kind of subterfuge?”

  “Your father was so desperate. And my husband so very—diligent. He would not stop until he got me with child. We did not anticipate you leaving Ballencrieff anytime soon.”

  But why would they perpetuate such a farce? Hell, that was the pot calling the kettle black. Wasn’t he busy fabricating his own mythical child? Take the bloody mote out of your own eye…

  At one time he would have loved revisiting these portraits. Now they no longer interested him. He’d moved beyond them. Only a reminder of what he had been, and what he no longer wanted. “Do you know where my wife is?”

  “She usually practices the piano now, which is one of the reasons I found this place, being out of the way, you understand.”

  “Did she say anything to you about leaving?”

  “Leaving? Where would she go?” Clearly Margaret could not conceive of the idea of running away, or striking out on one’s own.

  “Did she mention any new friends? Does she visit anyone?”

  “Not that I know of. She did want to visit the British Museum, but I told her I could not countenance the idea of looking at naked bodies and heathen Egyptian deities.”

  And yet his sister-in-law surrounded herself with nearly naked women.

  “Thank you. I will try the museum.”

  “Won’t you stay for some tea and cake, Lord Devlin? I have plenty and the tea pot is still hot.”

  “No, I must find Anne.”

  “You really love her, don’t you?”

  “With all my heart.” God, it felt good to say that.

  Margaret nodded sadly and stuffed a bit of cake into her mouth.

  Closing the door he heard a clatter. The door swung open. Margaret beamed waving her teapot. “Teapot! Lady Teapot!”

  “Teapot? Lady who?”

  “Now I remember, Anne mentioned a Lady Teapot once—” Her smile collapsed and the teapot drooped in her hand. “Oh, silly me, Lady Teapot. I have got it wrong. Who would be called Lady Teapot?”

  “I must go now, Margaret.”

  “Oh, of course. And you will remember our little secret?” She smoothed her hand over her belly.

  “For now, your secret is safe.”

  She nodded sadly again and closed the door.

  Lady Teapot, indeed.

  Venerable relatives lining the stairway stared down from their portraits as if to say, What a clod this one is. Not one of us at all. The third duke of Malvern was next to fire another insult. Must be bad blood on the mother’s side.

  Why not just heave himself over the banister as he had nearly done that fateful day at Ballencrieff.

  Teapot. Tip-pit.

  The second Duke of Malvern, a rather ruddy-faced man, seemed to wink at Dev.

  By God, it must be Tippit.

  The first, almost smiled. He must be truly barmy. The dukes of Malvern never smiled in their portraits.

  Could Anne be going back to Ballencrieff? Or could Lady Tippit have finally braved coming to Town?

  Ivo. Ivo would know.

  ****

  “Devlin,” Lady Tippit raised her quizzing glass. “Took you long enough.”

  Her ladyship had taken a good three inches off the height of her hair and triple that off her age. Dev suddenly realized she must only be in her late forties and not an unhandsome woman.

  “Ivo was the ticket, your ladyship. I only needed to ask him.”

  “Yes, he is remarkably keen, our Ivo. Knows which end is up, don’t you, dear boy?”

  The giant grinned, right as rain now he was tucked up inside a house instead of battling carriages and pedestrians.

  “Is she here?”

  “Yes, she is, but you cannot see her.”

  “Lady Tippit, please—”

  “She is indisposed.”

  “She is ill? Has a doctor been called?”

  “Do sit down. Perkins,”—she waved to a rather cadaverous-looking butler—“Lord Devlin requires brandy. And give him Poppa’s good stuff.” The butler unlocked a cabinet and set a decanter and glass next to Dev.

  “Shall I pour, my lord?” His thin reedy voice felt like spider webs, and Dev had the urge to swipe his face.

  “No, thank you. I can see to myself.”
r />   “Perkins, that will be all. Take Ivo to Cook for his cider.” She turned to Ivo. “And best to keep your little friend Pocket in your pocket. My cook does not have the best of humors. She is new, and I want to keep this one.”

  The walking-dead Perkins and the beefy giant made quite a pair as they left the room.

  “Why can’t I see her?”

  “Ah, suddenly you are the knight-errant?”

  He stood, the weight of the crystal glass too familiar and too comforting in his hand. He set it down.

  “Could you desist in your perambulations, Devlin? You are wearing me out. You know I do not care for exercise.”

  “Why? Why is she here? If she is ill, she should be home, at Malvern House.”

  Lady Tippit shrugged. “She needed a friend. Simple as that.”

  What could he say? He had not taken care of her while waiting for this ridiculous business to end when he might come to her with a clean slate. But he was ready now. Anxious to tell her he was ready to be the husband she needed. That he loved her.

  “In truth, I do not yet know why she is so grieved. I have given her some of Poppa’s brandy as well and sent her to bed.”

  “Might I at least see her?”

  Lady Tippit shook her head. “Drink up and then take yourself home. Give her time to calm herself. The poor mite is worn to a nub.”

  Lord, he had made such a hash of things. He stared at the brandy which he must have picked up again. His old friend. No, not a friend. Only something to dull his feelings. To manage himself. Once more he set the drink aside.

  A piercing scream came from the back of the house.

  Lady Tippit sighed. “That will be my cook. I should say former cook. Ivo cannot keep from sharing his little treasures, can he, the dear soul.”

  ****

  “You must see him sometime, Anne.”

  Somehow she had slipped from Winton to Anne between her third brandy and the hot soup Lady Tippit had insisted she at least try.

  “The Anne Winton I know is no coward.”

  “Am I not? I am not sure what I am anymore.” No wonder James liked brandy so well. After the initial burn it was very tasty stuff. “I was an orphan, a nobody, and now I am a somebody”—she giggled—“whatever that means. I wanted to be a healer, but it seems there is no place for that being a woman, much less a marchioness. I am not even a reasonable musician. My tutor, though very tolerant and kind, secretly despairs of me, I am sure. And I have managed to kill Mr. Hiro’s Bonsai tree. I snipped where I should not have.”

  “You are many things, Anne Winton. But regardless of your lack of talent for music, your horticultural skills, your appalling wardrobe, and your inability to tolerate any liquor, you will hold your head up and face those bacon-faced biddies and loathsome lords.”

  “But I am not beautiful. I am not—her.” Maybe the brandy was not such a good idea. She set it aside, her stomach at sea once again. “He doesn’t want me. He never wanted me. Will never love me.”

  “Balderdash and poppycock. Have you seen the way the man looks at you?”

  “Lady Tippit, you have only seen us in company together on perhaps three or four occasions. How can you say that?”

  “First of all, you shall call me Maddy, and I will try to think of you as Anne. After all, one must dispense with social barriers when one’s guest’s nose is leaking all over Mama’s best linen.”

  Horrified, Anne swiped at her nose with her sleeve.

  “Secondly, believe me, when the man speaks of you, I see a man in love. Oh, I know, you say, what does she know? A dried-up old biddy whose father had to fetch her back from Gretna Green. But I know. I have felt love, and I know love when I see it.”

  She could well imagine a younger Maddy Tippit, a woman full of dreams and not yet so damaged by life. Anne was not alone in her trials. “But—Lady—Maddy—I saw them. I saw her… How could he not love her? She is so utterly perfect. They are perfect together. They fit.”

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

  “Come,” Maddy called out.

  Perkins floated in. The man seemed to hover like a ghost. “Lady Tippit, are you at home?”

  “Who is calling at this hour? It is not the marquess again, is it?”

  “No, madam.” Perkins coughed delicately, “it is a woman.”

  “I am expecting Phoebe any day now.” Lady Tippit took the card Perkins handed her. “Ah, yes. Put her in the south drawing room, Perkins. I will be down shortly.”

  The butler nodded and drifted out of the room.

  “Is it Mrs. Nester? Has she brought Grace?” Anne stood, desperate for the sight of the child who was now just over three months old.

  “No, my dear it is not Phoebe. It seems the Countess of Havermere has come to call.”

  Her stomach heaved and the room spun. She just managed to avoid her lap, but Maddy’s mother’s linen was now beyond redemption.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Devlin, where is your wife?” his sire said looking up from his breakfast of porridge. Dev did not bother with an answer, only making a note to avoid the breakfast room in the morning. The old duke was becoming a habitual early riser.

  “This whole household is in chaos. Austin is ranting at Margaret. Apparently she is not increasing—merely fat.” The duke flung his napkin on the table. “I swear the duchy will go to those cretins in Guernsey. Hamish Swinton, a fourth cousin twice removed, and a certifiable idiot.”

  “Austin wasn’t any part of this sham?” Had Margaret perpetuated this pregnancy all on her own?

  “Who knows what to believe. He is certainly acting as if it is news to him. He intercepted one of the maids with a tray of honey cake and found her little bower.”

  He needed a drink. The stopper was out of the decanter and the glass half-full before he remembered. No more.

  Food. He needed something in his stomach. Beefsteak, eggs, toast, coffee. He filled a plate and then sat down.

  “I have changed my mind, you know.”

  No, he did not know. Did not care. He cut into the rare beef.

  “About the girl.”

  “The girl?”

  “Your wife. Anne.”

  He sat up straighter, waiting.

  “She will do. I did not see at first—she is such a tiny thing, but she is…very…” The old man frowned furiously as if his not being able to find the word he wanted was the greatest insult. “She is…”

  Still Dev waited, not giving the duke an inch.

  Suddenly, the furrows in his father’s face released like a sheet being snapped taut. “Complete.” He nodded once. “This woman is complete.”

  Complete? Yes, by heavens, that was just the word. Complete.

  Staring into the eyes so much like his, he felt his own well up. Ridiculous, but this one exchange brought him closer to his father he’d been in years.

  First to break the connection, the duke delved back into his congealed porridge. “She healed me, you know.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Ack! Take this pabulum away and bring me a beefsteak, Yancy.” The duke swept his porridge aside. The footman leapt to take the stuff away. “She has healing within her.” His father gripped the table, his gnarled fingers spreading over the white damask cloth. “Her hands are—”

  “Hot.” He resented his father speaking of Anne’s gift. No, what he really resented was he knew nothing of this incident, so out of touch with his wife’s daily life not to know of her encounter with the duke. That she had even ministered to him. The old man did look much improved. Preoccupied with his own affairs, he had not really seen his father. But more appalling, he had not seen his wife.

  Well, not strictly true. He knew damn well she had no complaints with one part of their marriage. But he was ready to be a whole man now. To love her completely, as she deserved.

  His father held his hands up in front of his face and slowly flexed his fingers. “Yes, burning. Extraordinary. I never felt anythin
g like it.” Yancy delivered the steak. “She has come to me several times now. Sent those quacks with their leeches and purges back to their lairs. She is all I need.” His father cut into his beefsteak with relish. “She is not increasing, is she?”

  He stopped mid chew.

  “Your wife, Anne, is not with child.”

  Enough lies. He swallowed. “No.”

  His father nodded. “It seems you owe her a great deal, Devlin. She wanted to stay at Ballencrieff, to ‘be of use,’ she said.”

  Yet another blow, this shared confidence with her father-in-law. If only he could to push her dream aside as a whim, but he could not. Not anymore. “Yes, she did. But I couldn’t do without her, you see.”

  He could not wait to get to her. To see her. Touch her. Lady Tippit would not turn him away today.

  The old man nodded slowly. “I do. See, now.”

  “Yes, I think you are beginning to.” He laid his napkin on the table. “Child or no, I will not go back to that place. I cannot go back there.”

  “No. Ballencrieff was a terrible mistake. Austin did not provide a clear picture.”

  Easy enough to pull his shirt up and give his sire a ‘clear’ picture, but it seemed petty now.

  His father laid down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth, and sat forward. “I honestly thought it would do you good. Get you away from your vices. Give you time for reflection. I did not know—”

  “Let us not dwell on the past.” He shifted in his seat, unused to this contrite father.

  The old man looked as if he wanted to say more but must have thought better of it. “No, you are correct. The past is the past. Besides, you are cured. I’m sure Lady Devlin had a great deal to do with your recovery.” He dug into his beef. “Speaking of moving on, Hives has decamped from Ballencrieff.”

  Good riddance.

  “Apparently the blunt I gave him was enough for him to hie off to India where he is going to study with some heathen priest.”

  The coffee burned his throat. Too damned hot. The piece of beef leaching blood on the plate in front of him made his stomach heave. He pushed it aside and then jammed toast into his mouth. He could be at Lady Tippit’s home in thirteen minutes or so if traffic was not a quagmire.

  “Don’t know where Havermere will find another doctor. He seems to go through them like a cutpurse through a crowd.” His father was surprisingly talkative.