Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  “Havermere?” Coffee sloshed onto the table linen. “What does the Earl of Havermere have to do with Ballencrieff Hall?”

  “Everything. His funds run the place.”

  If the floor opened and swallowed him whole, he could not be more thunderstruck. “What?”

  “He is the benefactor of Ballencrieff.” The duke mopped up the bloody juice from his beefsteak with a bit of bread.

  “But Hives said—” No, Hives had never actually said. Dev had just assumed the place was one of his sire’s charities. “Havermere? Not you?”

  “Good heavens, no. Ardsmoore and Ackermoore are enough to keep my plate full.”

  “But who? Who was in charge? Who did Hives take his orders from?”

  The old duke frowned. “Ballencrieff has always been the Earl of Havermere’s pet project. Had to send one of his wives away—female hysteria, I believe.” Another bite of blood-soaked bread went into his father’s mouth.

  Havermere? Fragments of Hives’ words and deeds pricked his memory, waking him up to what had been right in front of him. The terrible abuse. Hives had never wanted to heal only to torture and break him. On Havermere’s orders.

  “Poor man.” Oblivious, his father continued hacking away at his breakfast. “He always reminded me that I at least had a son to inherit. Unlucky, he was. Four wives and nothing to show for it. His heir, a poncey nephew. Queer that way, you know. Havermere thought the army would toughen the lad up, but he came back blind and lame. Pish! Ended up killing himself. Damned waste.”

  The duke’s words barely registered. By all the fires of Hell, it was Havermere all along.

  “The earl always took an interest in you. Always yammering on about wanting you to paint his countess. Humph. As if I had any sway with you,” he said stabbing his beef. “Came to me directly when you were ill, said he had a place to send you. Havermere and I were at school together, you know,” his sire continued as if being chums at Cambridge meant blind trust.

  The duke swiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed his mangled piece of meat away. “You must understand I did not know what to do for you. Despite Tally’s best efforts in staunching any gossip, the dam broke and the Mad Marquess was born.”

  By God, it all began to make sense. The earl must have found out about his and Nora’s affair. Havermere insinuated himself into the old duke’s confidence and proposed a solution for his son and heir. So easy.

  He shook his head, trying to make all the pieces line up. “I thought it was you. Hives made me believe you were behind the place.”

  “No, not me. But make no mistake, I signed the papers, Devlin. I thought it the best solution. But you did not improve. I wanted to see you for myself but Austin, and then my damned heart, stopped me.” He closed his eyes. “I was dying, and my heir was in a madhouse. Call it vanity, but Austin…well, as you know, it is doubtful he is mine.” The duke sighed heavily and his gaze found Dev’s. “I hatched that betrothal to the Thornton girl out of sheer panic and promised Hives a king’s ransom if he could cure you.”

  Yes, the tide had turned, then. The beatings and the deprivations gone, and Macready replaced by gentle Ivo. Hives must have switched his allegiance from Havermere to the duke.

  Still so many questions to be answered though.

  “I must go.” Time to confront this fiend.

  “Do not do anything you will regret, Devlin. Havermere has great influence and has always been a staunch friend.”

  “Trust me, sir, the Earl of Havermere is no friend of this family.”

  “You have the duchy and a wife to think of now. And if you have been doing your duty, there may yet be a child.”

  Yes, it could be. If God were generous. But all he could focus on now was getting some answers. A terrible thought occurred to him. Did Havermere have anything to do with Anne being indisposed yesterday?

  He ended up running to Upper Brook Street.

  “I will see him. Now!” The ancient butler fell back.

  The earl sat practically in the hearth of a huge fireplace. The blaze must surely singe the shawl shrouding the old man. Vials of medicines sat clustered on a table by his elbow.

  “Ah, behold! The bridegroom cometh!”

  “My wife—has she been here?”

  “You have to ask? Tush, this is how it begins, Devlin. We must keep a close watch on these wives.”

  “The marchioness, was she here?”

  “Calm yourself. You virile lads must always be flexing your muscles and making a show.”

  “By God I will kill you where you sit if I find you have hurt her.” He was halfway out the door.

  “Who would have thought your Owl had such fine tits.”

  The words slammed into him, surer than any blow.

  “But she looks to have a surprising handful. Quite a wanton really, your lady wife.”

  “By God, if you touched her I will rip your throat out, Havermere.”

  “Please, kindly remove your hands from my person. So much easier to conduct business when the parties are civilized.”

  “When—when was my wife here?”

  “Yesterday.” The earl straightened his jacket and cravat. “Rest easy, she left here fit as a fiddle and is still tucked up with the old biddy for now. According to my man, she hasn’t left the place.”

  “If you harmed her or filled her with your lies, I will—”

  “Leave off your histrionics, Mad Marquess. And please, let us not talk of deceptions.” Havermere rang a bell next to his medicines. “I believe when you see what I have on offer, you will be happy enough to deceive.”

  He stepped back, unsure of the earl’s game.

  A servant’s door within the paneled wall opened.

  “You require assistance, your lordship?”

  “Bring the marquess some brandy, Macready. I believe he is partial to Camus Frères.”

  “How do you know—”

  Wait. Macready? He wheeled to face the man.

  Tricked out in a powdered wig and livery, the servant grinned. His twisted leer transformed this trumped-up lackey into Dev’s old nemesis. Another piece of the puzzle slid into place. No wonder the henchman never lost his position at Ballencrieff.

  “Your old friend here has been invaluable to me. Been with me from the very beginning, haven’t you Macready?”

  “From nearly the time I were knee high to a grasshopper, my lord.”

  “You see, I needed a safe place to put my third wife. She had a terrible problem with drink, as well as with opiates. Barren, you see, and laudanum was her best friend. So Ballencrieff was born. Poor unfortunate died there, didn’t she, Macready?”

  “Had to scoop her brains up off the floor.”

  “Took a tumble, she did. Never steady on her feet.” The earl poured out two glasses of brandy. “You recall the minstrel gallery in the great hall is quite high. And the floor, stone.”

  The hideous picture leapt into living color in his mind’s eye.

  “I had to replace Doctor Oliphant after that particular incident. And then another. Much too squeamish to be of use. What was his name, Macready, I can’t recall?”

  “Dorson, sir, Doctor Dorson.”

  “Oh yes. Very dapper gent. Didn’t like the cold.” He carefully put the stopper back in the decanter. “Then Hives. Turns out the fellow had too much bloody conscience to finish the job. Ethics mixed with a healthy dose of greed. His bloody loyalty went right out the window when your father stepped in. Malvern could not leave well enough alone. Had to have his miracle. We had to be too damned subtle, didn’t we Macready? Don’t like subtlety, do we?”

  “Never saw much use in it, sir. Why use a bit of poison dribbled in here and there when you can use your fists?”

  Poison. He knew it. “Mercury?”

  “In the porridge. Among other things. Easy enough when Mac here was your keeper. Slipped it right in.” Havermere offered one of the brandies. “No?” The earl shrugged and took a long sip.

  Macready dance
d on the balls of his feet like he had to take a wicked piss. “I should have finished you off with the dose I gave you when I offed—when that molly Cummings hung himself. A lovers’ pact it were supposed to be. But you buggered it by bleeding the poison right outta yourself, by making them evil pictures on the walls.”

  “Yes, that did not go as planned.” The earl gave Macready a quelling look. “After that incident, Hives became squeamish.”

  Cummings? His sire had said something about Havermere’s heir being sent off to war. Major Cummings had been the earl’s heir? The fiend must have sent his nephew straight from the battlefields to rot in Ballencrieff. “By God, you have much to answer for, Havermere.”

  “What?” The old man shrugged. “The lad hanged himself, degenerate that he was. Best thing for him, I say.” He clapped his hands once. “Enough unpleasantness. I have something to show you. Macready, will you do the honors?”

  The servant grinned again and started for the door.

  “No, not that yet. The others first.” The earl waved to a picture on the wall.

  The servant crossed to a tepid painting of shepherds with their sheep and swung it open. Must be a safe behind. He pulled out a tube about two feet long.

  Yet another piece of the puzzle.

  Macready unrolled one of the canvases with a flourish.

  Yes. By God. He squeezed his eyes shut then reopened them. The horrible empty canvas that had haunted him vanished, replaced by Anne’s beauty. There she was, laid out on the fainting couch, her hair spread over pillows and brushing the floor, her mouth parted as if taking in a breath, her breasts thrust up to be cradled by one of her hands, her other tangled in her maiden’s hair—

  “It is mine.” His nails bit into his palms stinging as Macready’s dirty fingers defiled the painting. The other roll, still tucked under his arm, must be the other portrait. “They are both mine.”

  “Of course.” The earl smiled. “After all, what’s yours is yours. I have no quarrel with that.” Dev jerked the paintings from Macready. “But I will have what is mine. That seems only fair. You will get your Owl, and I will get my whore.”

  “What?”

  “Are you sure you won’t indulge?” The earl gestured to the untouched brandy.

  He ignored him and rolled the nude around the other portrait as if by doing so he was somehow protecting Anne from this terrible man.

  “Never thought your—Owl would be such a problem. But she botched our plans with her lies, didn’t she, Mac?”

  “I had to hie out of that pile of stones as if the very devil were at me.”

  “Was Austin—did my brother—?” He could not make himself finish the question.

  “Ah, Lord Austin. Bastard younger sons are tricky. They have a lot to lose. Or gain. But Lord Austin? Alas, no. Too risky. Your brother was only inadvertently useful. Busy with his own agenda being the ever-vigilant brother who wanted to keep you down while playing the hero.”

  A heavy weight lifted off his heart. Austin was not the enemy. Only too trusting and foolish.

  “Who is Brocket to you? I saw you with him at the opera.”

  The earl re-filled his glass. “He is useless to me, as it turns out. He claims to be a purveyor of art. But as usual, I have had to take matters into my own hands. Haven’t I, Mac?”

  The door opened.

  Nora.

  “Ah, the leading lady of our drama has deigned to make an entrance. We have the cuckold—a role I do not relish, by the by—the fucker, and now the harlot. We only lack the wronged little owlet to complete our play.”

  “What have you done?” Nora stepped forward.

  “Only what is just. Punishment will finally come. No coin can atone for your sins, I realize that now, my jewel. Your punishment will require a pound of flesh.” He took a long sip and set his glass aside. “The marquess and I were just discussing evening the score.”

  Havermere’s gaze bore into Dev. “My wife has been nothing but trouble ever since I acquired her nine years ago.” A large log broke and collapsed in on itself in the firebox, sending up a shower of embers. “She cost me a pretty penny. But I thought her worth it at the time. I had what every other man wanted. This stunning beauty all mine.” He gestured with his glass, in a kind of toast to Nora. Brandy sloshed and spilled onto the shawl covering his legs, but he took no notice. “But we both know she wasn’t, was she—all mine, that is. Eh, Devlin?”

  “I do not claim to be a saint, Havermere, but your wife never strayed until you drove her to it with your cruelty. I believe the countess and I have paid enough for our sins.” He turned to Nora. “Will you be well? I am anxious to see Lady Devlin.”

  Nora held her arms over her body as if to protect her person from her husband’s vitriol. “Yes, go. He will wind down without an audience.”

  “But what of our business?” The old earl slammed his glass down and half rose out of his chair.

  “I have no business with you. Not now. Not ever.” He tucked the paintings under his arm and started for the door.

  “Oh, but I think you do.”

  “Dear God, Havermere.” Nora’s cry stopped Dev cold.

  The sick look on her face made him turn and draw near.

  The earl held pages and pages of sketches. Nude sketches of him and Nora.

  “How did you get these? They were in my private home.”

  Macready closed the safe and stood behind the earl.

  “They may have been in your private home, but she, this whore, is mine. She is useless to me, but I will have everything that is mine.”

  “By God, it was you, wasn’t it? It was you all along.” He had never known who had brought the police that terrible night Lily died, or been the one to leak the supposed murder to the papers. In his poisoned mind, he had sometimes wondered if it had been his own brother. But, no, it had been Havermere from the first. He owed Austin a sincere apology.

  “The irony is you are the only one who did her justice. You captured her beauty when no one else could.” He touched the pages reverently. “Even in these crude drawings. Why should that be? Why should a whore be so beautiful and a devil so talented? It never made sense. Why should the Mad Marquess be heir to a duchy when I have nothing?” Havermere seemed lost as he lovingly caressed the drawings.

  “I saw these”—the old man held the pages up—“and I wanted more. I want them all. I will have every picture you ever painted of this harlot. Then you may go off to your Owl, or whoever next catches your fancy. The countess, however, can never repay what she has stolen from me. But she will begin to. Yes, she will endure her share of hell before this is all over and I am in the grave.”

  “You are the madman, Havermere. If you think I would turn even one painting over to you, you are more delusional than I thought.”

  The earl smiled a terrible smile. “Macready, I believe the marquess is ready to see our piece de resistance. Could you bring it in?” Ned Macready nearly danced out of the room.

  Nora’s gaze caught his. Whatever had Macready so primed could only mean disaster.

  “While we are in such delicious anticipation, I wanted to share some news. I have a new doctor installed at Ballencrieff. Doctor Pinnix is experimenting with lesions on the brain and inducing high fevers to burn away madness. He also believes removing the teeth may be efficacious. Very experimental.” He turned to Nora. “Lord Shaftesbury and his commission on lunacy have been quite helpful in seeing your—deficiencies, my dear.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “A terrible shame, as you have such perfect teeth.”

  “You will never get away with this, Havermere.” But his words were only bravado. Shaftesbury was rumored to owe the earl a small fortune.

  “Oh? You are naïve, Devlin, if you really believe that. All I have to do is release just one of these drawings to the papers and your world will collapse. So easy. Much like I did when you butchered that whore. What was the brat’s name? Lily?” Nora gasped. “I don’t suppose your old father’s heart will survive
this scandal.”

  He lunged for the papers, but Havermere drew a pistol from beneath his shawl. “I wouldn’t. You may be heir to the Malvern duchy, but I am no two-bit child-whore who you can murder and get away with without paying a steep price.” He aimed the barrel at Nora. “You are spoiling my surprise with your antics, Lord Devil.”

  Macready entered, carrying a covered canvas.

  His gut clenched and bile rose in his throat.

  “By God, Havermere,” Nora said shaking her head. “You may have your revenge on me, but do not wreak havoc on innocents.”

  “Innocents, you say? I see no innocents here. I have been patiently waiting to unveil this masterpiece, and then we will see what these innocents have been up to. Finally I will have what is rightfully mine!”

  “Husband,” she was pleading now. “If you ever cared for me at all, you will stop this.”

  “Shut up. I will die soon enough, but you will never recover from the scandal.” He turned to Dev. “So, what will it be? Will you walk away quietly and leave this whore to me, or will you ruin your life and be the death of your father? “

  The door banged open, crashing against the wall. Austin burst into the room and slammed the door shut.

  “Austin, stay back!”

  “Nooo!” His brother charged the earl. “Never! Never again will you hurt my family!” Austin threw himself at the earl.

  Dev sprang forward to intercept his brother. But an arm around his neck and then a punch to his ribs could only mean Macready.

  A shot cracked, filling the air with the acrid smell of burned powder.

  “Austin!” Dev twisted, frantic to get free.

  Through a haze of smoke, Austin wrestled the pistol from Havermere. Thank God, the shot must have gone wide. Dev jammed the heel of his boot into his tormentor’s foot. The vice around his neck slackened, and he jerked free.

  A solid left to the lackey’s jaw and his powdered wig slipped sideways. A right jab at the throat and Macready’s oily hair shone in all its glory. Now that’s the man Dev knew and loathed.

  “Bloody toff, think you can fight?”