Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  “Oh, how I have longed for this day, Macready. Let’s go.”

  “Glad to oblige, Lord Devil.” He whipped out a wicked looking blade. The light glanced off a hunting knife at least nine inches long.

  “I see chivalry was never a part of your upbringing.”

  “My upbringing, as you put it, was cut short by one of you butcher types slicing up me mum for your science. Beings I were only seven at the time, I never got my satisfaction from that scum, but I will from you.”

  “Satisfaction? You have no bloody idea, Macready.”

  The bruiser swung, but Dev feinted, easily dodging the blade. Sounds faded to only breath and the thumping of his heart. Macready was good, but heavier and not nearly as quick. Dancing to the side Dev spun away from another swipe. Damn knife.

  Springing back from yet another, he lost his footing. He dropped to the floor, playing hurt. The thug bent to finish him off. Timing was everything. Waiting until the last moment, he reared up, the top of his head cracking against Macready’s chin. His skull rang and Macready reeled. The knife slipped from his hand. No time to retrieve it, instead Dev kicked it away.

  Only way to beat this man was to wear him out. He feinted right and left. Back and forth. Macready repeatedly swung wide, missing his mark.

  “Stand like a man, ya poncey nacker!” Already Macready was blowing hard, frustrated.

  Ducking again, he set up a pattern, hoping the thug would see it soon.

  A slow smile spread over the man’s face. He pulled back primed to deliver a felling blow when Dev next moved to the left.

  Now! Instead he threw himself to the right and caught Macready flatfooted. He drove his fist into the larger man’s solar plexus. Macready staggered, bent over double.

  “No!”

  Havermere’s cry had Dev wheeling around. The fire roared fed by the drawings which must have fallen in the scuffle. His and Nora’s bodies writhed as the flames whooshed to devour them.

  “No!” Havermere leapt with surprising speed to the firebox. The half-full decanter of brandy toppled to the floor, soaking the shawl he kept over his shriveled legs. Fire rushed up the wool as if a dam had broken.

  “Ahhh!” The old man wailed, scrambling to get away from the flames.

  Austin pulled the shawl away, casting it into the firebox. Nora hoisted her husband up by the shoulders pulling him to safety. Havermere clawed at the tablecloth where his medicine bottles and the full glass of brandy sat.

  “Nora, get away!”

  “You will burn with me, you witch!” Havermere yanked and everything spilled at her feet.

  Nora’s huge crinoline skirt acted like a bellows to the fire.

  Dev dove, batting at the flames. Water hit him in the face. Austin stood with a vase upended.

  Nora screamed.

  Confused, he flipped her over, looking for more fire.

  “The portrait!” She flailed beneath him. “He’s going to destroy—”

  Flames licked up the easel where the painting rested. The paisley cloth covering the portrait curled with the heat. Macready stood next to it, a twist of flaming paper in his hand.

  “Ahh!” He rushed the easel colliding with Macready. The easel crashed to the floor, the painting sailing across the room.

  “You bloody bastard!” The man outweighed him by nearly two stone, but vengeance was on his side. His fist smashed into the keeper’s snarling lip and nose. Blood spurted.

  “To your left, Macready!” the earl croaked.

  The knife. In a flash Macready had it. Dev grabbed the man’s wrist just as he leveled the blade at Dev’s neck. Macready smiled through his smashed lips. “You’re done, Mad Marquess.”

  He smiled back. “I think not. But one of us surely is.” Bravado only went so far. He needed to be smart. The blade inched closer. Macready’s grin widened.

  Now, it had to be now. “Don’t shoot, Austin!”

  There was no second shot, but Macready turned for an instant. The pressure on the knife relaxed a fraction. Dev heaved himself sideways, and the blade struck the floor a hair’s breadth from his neck.

  “Why, you—”

  “I never said I fought fair either.” He flipped himself on top of Macready.

  “Damn you to hell, you worthless cur!” Havermere’s voice rasped. “Kill the bastard!”

  Macready’s face writhed in rage. Dev’s fingers closed over the knife. Macready reared up to butt heads. The knife pulled free.

  Soft muscle gave way to bone as the knife slid past his ribs and up into his heart. Macready’s features loosened into slack surprise and finally to gurgling death as he slumped to the floor.

  Blood. So much blood.

  His hands glistened with gore. He dropped the knife and heaved himself off the body and onto his trembling legs. Blood spattered his coat and shirt front. He shook his head desperate to rid himself of this hideous scene.

  “Go, Dev!” Nora’s soot-streaked face pleaded. “You must go! You cannot be seen here, it will ruin you.”

  “But—” Merciful God, he had killed a man.

  “Go! Now! Thomas will help me.”

  He froze.

  Go. A year ago it had been him shouting at Nora to leave. Back at the Greene Street house. She had been thrashing and sobbing as he’d pulled her away from the white faced, vacant-eyed Lily. Dev swore Nora’s own guts were coming out of her mouth the sound had been so piteous.

  God, how had he forgotten that terrible sound? He had dragged her out of the room and thrust her into Austin’s waiting arms. Get her out of here. Her screams will bring the watch.

  Life had come full circle.

  The sting of a slap snapped his mind back to the here and now. “Get hold of yourself, Devlin.” Nora shook him.

  Smoky air filled his lungs and he hissed as his burned and bloody hands gripped her arms.

  “Dev, we must go!” This time it was Austin pulling him away, not Nora.

  “Austin—I am—by God, you are hurt!” Blood soaked his brother’s shoulder.

  “I am well enough. But we must go now.” Austin thrust a handkerchief into his hands. “We cannot have another scandal. Not now when you are so close to happiness.”

  Anne. Could Anne and he have still their chance at happiness?

  A door slammed somewhere and shouts were heard.

  “Listen to your brother,” Nora said wiping her hands on her skirt. “You must get away from this place. I will make up something about the body.”

  “But the earl—”

  Havermere lay on the floor, his mouth working like a beached fish. Must have suffered an apoplexy.

  “I will tend to him. Only think of Anne now. Think of your Owl.”

  A fine rain fell, a cool balm on his hurt and pulsing hands. Fog swirled, cocooning the brothers in its heavy mist.

  The portrait was safe beneath his arm, the drawings were gone, burned in the fire, but his other two canvases were securely rolled up in his brother’s hand. They stumbled down Brook Street toward Park Lane in the opposite direction of the firemen who ran toward the smoke.

  Chapter Forty

  The Queen’s Charity Exhibition opens this afternoon. How many little dramas will hatch among our countrymen’s brightest painters? This writer can think of several.

  Anne’s stomach was not up for more intrigue. Besides, Maddy would never know if she skipped this particular article. She continued reading farther down the page. “‘The Duchess of Monteford recently held a musical—’”

  The latest gossip rolled off her tongue while her mind spun out dire scenarios involving the Countess of Havermere and the hell Anne would inevitably have to face this afternoon.

  Oh, where was her gown?

  Madame Broussard had promised it would be ready this morning. Madame had been all too happy to accommodate the Marchioness of Devlin, and had listened attentively to her ideas. This gown would speak of her tastes. Not Margaret’s.

  Maddy had not said much of her interview with the counte
ss the evening before last. The countess could stay but a moment. She had been grieved to have missed Anne’s call, and only came to make sure she was well. Oh, and the countess wished her every happiness.

  A very niggardly report. Was Maddy holding out?

  At least a dozen questions pelted her brain. Didn’t Maddy think Nora Havermere the most beautiful woman she had ever seen? Why had she really come? Was she ready to give up James? And how could Anne possibly be happy with her marriage in ruins? Why hadn’t James come to see her?

  Better not to ask them. Not now when she was poised to put on her battle clothes and brave her majesty’s Exhibition.

  But where was her gown?

  “Go on to The Spectator, Winton. The Times is altogether too stiff.” Maddy reclined on a chaise drinking her chocolate.

  She picked up the other newspaper and flicked through to the on dit section. What? She sat up straighter.

  “What is it, Winton? You have stumbled on something juicy, I’ll warrant.” Maddy often slipped back to Winton, forgetting their new found intimacy.

  “It is a blurb about the Earl of Havermere.”

  “Go on.”

  “‘A fire broke out in the Earl of Havermere’s home on Upper Brook Street yesterday. Some papers and medicinal vials seemed to have been the cause. The earl was not available for comment. The countess said he was resting. But a servant was mortally injured whilst trying to save the earl. There will be an inquest, as a matter of course.’”

  Maddy raised her quizzing glass to her nose as if by doing so it would allow her to read. Impatiently, she gestured for the paper.

  Anne rose to oblige her friend. No wonder the earl had been burned, he had sat so close to the flames.

  “Poppa knew the earl.” Maddy sniffed as she snapped the paper open. “He came to look me over, but I did not like him one jot. Thank the gods he was still married to his second countess at the time. Let’s see… Nora Havermere must be…” Maddy raised her quizzing glass once more to her eyes. “Number four.”

  James’s portraits hinted at such deep sadness. He had not painted a merely beautiful woman he had painted Nora Havermere’s truth.

  “Well, apparently there will not be a chance for a fifth. Says here, the old earl is not expected to survive.” Maddy slapped the paper down. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  Anne could not say she was sorry, though it would mean Nora Havermere would finally be free.

  But James would not.

  A knock sounded and, at Maddy’s command, Perkins entered bearing a long box. The gown. Her stomach, which had just begun to settle, churned anew.

  The dress lay in its box on the bed. She circled it like a bee around a flower. Nancy, Lady Tippit’s maid, hovered discreetly by the dressing table, arranging combs and brushes.

  “Go on, girl. It’s not going to leap up and bite you. Though I suspect it might stop a few dead in their tracks.” Maddy rose and shook out her skirts. “Time to get you dressed. It is well to arrive late, but not too late. Nancy still has to wrangle that mass of hair into something resembling English civility. I shall be in the next room completing my toilet. Nancy, you will knock when her ladyship is dressed, and I will come in to fawn and ogle.” The door clicked shut as Maddy left the room.

  “Now, milady, shall we see what’s what?” All thought ceased as Nancy peeled back the layers of tissue concealing the dress. Would this new gown provide the outer confidence to prop up her shaky inner self?

  The maid stepped right up to the gown and then shook it out as if it were not the most exquisite confection, but merely fabric held together by thread in order to cover a body.

  “A stunner, milady, if you’ll pardon my forwardness.” Nancy narrowed her gaze judiciously. “Best by candlelight, but I suppose one needs natural light to see all them pictures.”

  Nancy prattled on, but Anne was not really listening, only dutifully raising and lowering various appendages so the maid might dress her. Though this creation was made of the lightest silk, for her purposes it might as well be made of chain-mail and hammered steel, and the exhibition room, her battleground. She would stride onto the field and take her blows but remain standing. Perhaps not the victor, but she would not let one painting fell her.

  The plan was to look her fill, nod regally to all the gaping hoi polloi, and then she and Maddy would get in their carriage and never look back. The waiting finally over and she could pick up the pieces of her life and begin anew. She had her child and Matilda Tippit as family. They would have to be enough.

  “Sit you down, milady, while I do your hair. I’ve been waiting to work my magic on this lovely mass.”

  A bit dubious as to Nancy’s talents—after all, she was in charge of Maddy’s nest of hair—but as the girl worked, Anne’s mind eased. No curling irons were wielded. No hair wrenched or scalp left stinging. In fact, she could have gone to sleep if her nerves weren’t ratcheted up to the nth degree.

  Nancy had insisted Anne not look until she was completely dressed hair and all.

  “There.” The maid slid something into the back of her creation—a comb of some sort—but other than the coolness against her scalp, the ornament felt light as a feather.

  The girl crossed to knock on the adjoining door. “She’s all dressed, your ladyship.”

  If she had any doubts about Madame Broussard’s talents, looking in the full-length mirror now, all those worries evaporated. Madame could be counted an ally and friend. And Nancy, a bosom beau.

  The dress fit her upper body like a second skin. A wide neckline highlighted her bone structure and hugged her shoulders, which were capped with tiny sleeves. The simple bodice boasted three perfect pleats tapering to her still tiny waist before fanning out to a graceful bell. The silk fabric, a rainbow of subtle colors, was the dress’s real ornament. First, golden-pink, and then, when the light changed or she moved, shimmering to a silver-blue. Much like the opal he had given her. She touched her bare finger. Never mind.

  Loathe to look away from the astonishing stranger reflected in the mirror, Maddy’s verdict was more important.

  Her ladyship sailed into the room decked out in full regalia and then stopped as if she had struck an iceberg.

  “Turn to me.” Anne did so as her ladyship raised her quizzing glass. “Now the other way. And now the back.” She snapped her glass shut like a general would his scope after surveying his troops. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. You have done wonders, Nancy. Not that I had any doubts. You have the goods, Anne Winton. You simply needed the direction of people with some sense and style.” Maddy Tippit patted her hair.

  “If I may, madame,” Nancy offered. “The trick of it is not to overload Lady Devlin’s small frame with too many gewgaws and such.”

  “You have the right of it, girl,” her mistress added. “One must be very judicious in one’s decoration.”

  Anne smiled. Poor Margaret had it all wrong. This gown displayed not a ruffle, not a flounce, not even a single poof.

  Nancy held a hand mirror up angling it so Anne might see her shoulders and the back of her hair.

  Her locks had been wound into an intricate basket-like chignon. So elaborate, yet the effect so simple and elegant. A filigree butterfly, its jewel-dusted wings quivering above, completed the coiffure. She wanted to touch it, but could not risk disturbing one strand.

  “You needn’t worry, Lady Devlin.” Nancy assured. “It will not come tumbling down should you take it into your head to perform an Irish jig. I used to work at the docks weaving nets afore I come into service.”

  “Hmmm.” Lady Tippit laid a boney finger against her cheek. “Do not get any ideas about poaching her, Anne. I may have her try something similar with my hair.”

  A knock on the door announced Perkins. “The carriage is ready, your ladyship.”

  “Thank you, Perkins. We shall only be a few more minutes.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  “Are you ready?” Maddy snapped her quizzing glass against
her gloved hand and gave her breast one quick squeeze.

  Casting one final look in the mirror, Anne felt as if she could conquer the world. Certainly the mere upper ten-thousand that made up the ton.

  “Yes, Maddy, I believe I am.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Certainly not a beauty, but I’ll give you arresting,” a long-toothed matron in an overstuffed gown said grudgingly as she lowered her quizzing glass.

  “I suppose. But who wants ‘arresting’ when they might have beauty? For my part, I much prefer his earlier portraits.” Another viper waved her fan at the painting. “Of course his subjects were often not the most upright of women—”

  “My dear Lady Percy, they were not ‘upright’ at all but draped about as if they had just been…well, you catch my meaning.”

  “I wonder at her holding an orange?” A third harridan now joined the other two. “For all her quiet demeanor, it is somehow…unseemly.”

  Buzz, buzz, buzz. God, Dev wanted to rip his suit from his body. Where was she? He fished his watch from his waistcoat. Six minutes after five. The exhibition closed in less than thirty minutes.

  “Where is this muse?” The older witch looked around.

  He ducked his head. Would that he could disappear into the elaborately marbled floor.

  “One would think the chit would be here to bask in her glory.”

  “They say she went to the country. I would imagine the Mad Marquess is quite a handful,” the fan woman tittered. “Though by the looks of this portrait, he is no longer devilish but quite done in.”

  Gone to the country? Had she?

  Lady Tippit had assured him ‘all would be as it should.’ Whatever that meant. And he should ‘trust in his wife, let her come to him,’ her ladyship advised. He shook his head trying to dislodge the fear that wedged its way into his brain. But the reality was she had stayed away.

  The Queen had come and gone. She seemed well pleased. At least he thought so.

  She had stood for a long while gazing at the painting and then wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “You have employed quite a different style, Lord Devlin. Very wild, for my taste. But I see you are smitten. That is well.” She nodded once quite vigorously and sniffed. “You must savor every moment, for all too soon it is lost.”