Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  “We cannot take that risk! At least, I will not.”

  Finally, she raised her tear-filled gaze to his.

  This is what I’ve turned her into, Simon thought. This sad-eyed creature.

  “You are sending me away rather than fighting to keep me,” she accused. “Then you cannot care for me as I do you.”

  She whirled away from his suddenly outstretched hand. When she ran from the room, Simon dropped his arm back to his side. He had persevered and won, the most terrible victory he could envision.

  *

  “Yes,” said Lady Blackwood, fingering another fabric in the pale palette suitable for an eligible maiden, even if it was Margaret’s second season. “That fabric is perfect. We’ve found four that suit you,” she said to her middle daughter, “and nothing yet for your sister.”

  “We’ve found plenty that would suit her,” Maggie argued. “If only she’d choose something.”

  Jenny raised her head when she realized they were talking about her. Sitting on a divan in the dressmaker’s lounge, she had been staring into her cup of tea, her thoughts taking her many miles away.

  “I do not need gowns, Mummy. I’m a married lady.”

  At least in name. Simon had let her remain his countess when he’d banished her to London.

  “Of course, you do, dear. You are an earl’s wife, after all. When the little Season starts, you will be in high demand, and you must represent your husband in the best light until he arrives.”

  “Yes, Mummy.” She didn’t have the spirit to argue. She feared the next question.

  “When is the earl joining us?”

  “This is about Maggie,” Jenny pointed out. “Simon may not come at all, until Parliament opens.”

  “Mm,” her mother murmured but kept her thoughts to herself. “Still, you will need gowns. He gave you an allowance, didn’t he?”

  “He did.” Jenny more than anyone knew exactly what she could spend. “Fine. I like the deep blue Maggie thought too dark for her. And the red silk and the cream and gold brocade. Done.”

  Setting down her cup, she stood. “If you will take my measurements, Madame Curry,” she addressed the seamstress who was finishing up with Margaret, “then I will leave the choices of trim and buttons to your expert taste.”

  Eleanor was getting only a few day gowns to replace what she had grown out of. For the most part, she would remain inside the Devere townhouse when Maggie and Jenny began the endless engagements. Knowing her youngest sister would be bored and resentful, Jenny wondered if she could use her newfound status as a countess to introduce Eleanor to other girls her age, those similarly marooned in London.

  In another half hour, they had left the modiste’s shop and were heading along the high end of Knightsbridge Street, when they ran into Lord Cambrey.

  “A pleasure to see you once more, Lady Lindsey. And so soon.”

  Jenny bowed and smiled, remembering her recent triumph and their champagne celebration.

  “May I introduce you to my mother, Lady Blackwood, and my sisters, Miss Margaret and Eleanor.”

  It was not lost on her that though Lord Cambrey paid respectful attendance to their mother, his gaze lingered long on Maggie, and he seemed not to notice Eleanor at all.

  Maggie, for her part, turned on her infamous charm and projected a dazzling smile. When Lord Cambrey could escape the pull of her sister, he turned to Jenny again.

  “I thought you had returned to the countryside.”

  “Yes, we had. Lord Lindsey is there still.” What could she say? “I am helping prepare my sister for the Season.”

  He glanced again at Maggie, and Jenny was certain of at least one name on her lovely sister’s dance card.

  “When is Simon returning?”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t say.” Did he hear the tension in her voice? She hoped not.

  When an invitation for his lordship to come to dinner at the week’s end had been offered and accepted, they moved on.

  “He is adorable,” Maggie said as soon as he was safely out of earshot.

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “He’s not a kitten or a young pup, for goodness sake.”

  Maggie giggled as if she were already half in love. “No, but he is adorable just the same. I wish I had a new gown for Friday.”

  “There are pret-a-porter at Mrs. Landsdowne’s,” their mother suggested. “Shall we at least go take a look?”

  “We should, indeed,” Maggie said.

  *

  Simon had been without his wife a mere four days and thought he was losing what little was left of his mind. Oh, he was busy enough as there was always some task that needed handling on his estate or at one of his manufacturing holdings.

  Yet, he couldn’t focus on any one thing for very long. Since Jenny had left, his nightmares had only grown worse, evident by his bedclothes tangled upon the floor and sometimes himself as well, awakening only when crashing to the carpet.

  In the mornings, he was increasingly exhausted and at night, he was considering sitting in the chair again.

  “You coward!” he muttered to himself as he realized he was staring blankly at the shelves of books in the library instead of actually attending to the letter to his ale distributor.

  “My lord?” Mr. Binkley asked as he happened into the room at that precise moment.

  “Nothing,” he said glumly. “What is for dinner?”

  The butler blinked. “I’m not sure, my lord. You’ve never asked me before.”

  “I didn’t care before, I suppose. The countess told me every afternoon what she’d asked Cook to prepare. It does get one anticipating a good meal.”

  Mr. Binkley nodded. “I see, my lord. Shall I go ask Cook?”

  Simon hesitated. Everything tasted like the shavings from the sawmill since Jenny had moved out. What did he care whether dinner be lamb or beef?

  “No, never mind.” He had to focus on more important matters than what he would eat, especially since he didn’t give a damn if he ever ate again. Not seeing his wife’s beautiful face across from him at the table made every meal a torturous affair.

  “Who is Dolbert? Have you heard of such a person?”

  “Yes, my lord. He was the tutor Lady Devere employed for her children.”

  “I see. Where is he now?”

  “Gone, my lord. He has not been to the house in weeks.”

  “If he ever does return, please bring him to me at once.”

  “Yes, my lord. Will that be all?”

  As soon as Simon had dismissed Binkley, his thoughts returned to the same thing, his cowardice at not wishing to discuss his dreams with Jenny or with anyone. Wasn’t it enough having terrible visions flit through his head when he was awake? Did he have to dredge up the ones that haunted him at night and examine those as well? And to what end? He was not like a carriage wheel with broken spokes, easily mended.

  He did, however, begin to consider what could help, if anything. Crossing the room to the shelves of books, Simon ran his gaze along their spines. What could help him?

  Jenny’s words repeated in his mind, that he couldn’t possibly feel for her what she felt for him. Bah! The only time since he’d known her that she had been absolutely wrong. He loved her deeply. Hadn’t he told her? Apparently, not enough, and his words could never make up for his heinous actions.

  That she cared for him at all astounded him, for he was fairly sure if she beat on him each night, his ardor would cool.

  He wanted to scream his frustration. Instead, he grabbed at the first book his fingers touched. Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  With a sour expression, he shoved it back upon the shelf. Then, however, he espied the lowest shelf of works in foreign languages. His father had always had a collection of texts in French, German, and Italian. There, next to Perrault’s volume of fairytales were two books by Wolff, Psychologia empirica and Psychologia rationalis.

  “A man does not cure himself,” Simon muttered aloud, then turned quickly, thi
nking somehow Binkley would be there once again, overhearing his master’s strange ramblings. But he was alone.

  In any case, these books were in Latin, and Simon had no way of knowing if an answer was in there. He doubted it. But what if there was someone somewhere who knew what was happening to him. He didn’t even care why. He only wanted a cure.

  One thing was certain, the best place to find the answers was not in the Sheffield countryside of England. Nor could he traipse around London looking for assistance. Not only was Jenny there, but so were many people who knew him, and they would begin to ask questions.

  No, he had to seek the answer somewhere on the Continent.

  *

  Jenny welcomed John Angsley, Lord Cambrey into her London townhouse, all the while thinking herself a fraud. She was no more Simon’s true countess than she was the lady of Belton Manor from which she’d been unceremoniously tossed out and banned.

  Still, she could play the part of Lady Lindsey until … until Simon did actually decide to divorce her. In any case, Lord Cambrey was a gracious guest with stories of London that were of the appropriate nature for all parties at the table.

  Moreover, to her delight, he brought his young cousin, Beryl, who was staying with his parents in Town. And immediately, it was decided she and Eleanor would be fast companions when they had to sit out the Season’s many events.

  “Thank you,” Jenny said to Lord Cambrey as they were leaving the dining room for the drawing room. “It was thoughtful of you to notice Eleanor and bring her company. That has eased my mind. A young girl experiencing loneliness, especially in London, can get up to no end of mischief.”

  Out of earshot of her family, he asked, “And how about a new wife?”

  Jenny looked at him sharply. There was no possible way he could have gleaned anything from a single meeting on the street and a dinner party.

  “I had a letter from Simon,” he continued.

  Why did that make her heart start to pound? Good God, had he told his friend before his wife he intended to break their vows?

  “You look alarmed. I apologize. He said only that he was not planning on coming to London at present, but rather, he has set off for the Continent.”

  She felt ill. If she were not the hostess, she would excuse herself at once so she could go sob in her room.

  Lord Cambrey touched her arm. “I’ve made it even worse. Again, my apologies. Of course, I assumed you knew. Simon asked me to check in on you and your family in his stead. And it is a pleasure, I assure you, not a task.”

  She could hardly listen to him. Why was Simon going across the channel? And for how long?

  “I appreciate your attentiveness, Lord Cambrey, but I’m sure my mother and I can shepherd my sister through a Season.”

  “I know perfectly well how capable you are, and if the rest of the Blackwood women are anything like you, then Miss Margaret’s Season will be a rousing success. Yet, I would be honored to escort all of you to any functions you wish. Most likely, I would be attending them anyway.”

  “What are you two discussing over here with your heads together?” Maggie asked. It was boldly asked and implied something almost untoward. Except Jenny knew her sister was simply trying to enter into the conversation. She also knew she ought to back away and let them converse.

  “We were discussing the best way to navigate the offerings of the bon ton. Why don’t you tell Lord Cambrey which events we are planning to attend while I go see if we have any more of that delicious Spanish wine in the pantry.”

  Jenny walked away from the couple. In truth, a glass of madeira would certainly ease the sting of learning secondhand that her husband had left for parts unknown. Still, more and more families were returning to London from their country homes, and before long, the Christmas season would be upon them. Why, she would hardly notice her loneliness when the celebrations began, from Christmas Eve to the Epiphany.

  Yes, that’s what Jenny was counting on, a thoroughly busy end of the year and beginning of the next, and then the rounds of the Season as soon as Parliament resumed. Oh joy! And she wouldn’t think about when or if she would ever see her husband again.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Simon lifted the heavy knocker, letting it fall with a resounding clank. When no one answered, he pushed the door open and climbed the flight of stairs as he’d been directed. The man he’d come to see, this good doctor of philosophy, had supposedly studied all there was to know about his particular affliction. Indeed, when he found the right office, there upon the learned man’s door under his nameplate were the words “Praktiker der Psychologie.”

  Simon rolled his eyes, barely countenancing his own weeks of futilely chasing a cure. And now, he was hoping to be seen, diagnosed, and treated by one Carl von Holtzenhelm.

  “Enter.”

  Taking a fortifying breath, Simon pushed open the door and entered the small office on the upper floor of a dingy grey building in Heidelberg.

  At a small desk sat a man who looked up as Simon entered. For a long moment, the doctor took measure of him. Then he rose and leaned over the desk.

  “Come closer, Herr Devere. Open your eyes to their widest.”

  Simon did so.

  “Stick out your tongue,” came the next order.

  Again, Simon complied.

  “You look healthy and sane,” Holtzenhelm said at last.

  “I hope I am both, Herr Doktor.”

  “Have a seat, and we shall begin.”

  The man of science waited while Simon took the only other chair. It was slightly undersized and extremely hard, with a seat that was too short for his thighs and a plain wooden back that dug into his spine. Nevertheless, Simon tried to remain still and not wriggle like a child.

  “It’s uncomfortable on purpose,” Holtzenhelm said after staring at Simon.

  “Why ever for?”

  “Keeps you from being able to dissemble or to create layers of invented happenings and excuses that would muddy the waters between us and the truth.”

  Really! A damned painful chair did all that? Or perhaps the man was nothing more than a quack.

  “I have your letter here somewhere. I know you went to see Reichenbach. A smart man. We both have these on our shelves.” With those words, he gestured to the books on the nearby shelf with titles Simon either couldn’t translate or, if in English, didn’t recognize. Nonetheless, it gave him a sense of confidence to see such works of philosophy and psychology in the man’s office.

  The small practitioner steepled his fingers and considered. “Why did you come to me?”

  “Reichenbach suggested it. He’s studied my issue, which he called somnambulism, but other than labeling me a ‘sensitive,’ he couldn’t help me.”

  Simon fidgeted and crossed his legs. “He thought perhaps you could.”

  “Hmm.” Holtzenhelm grunted. “Maybe. Tell me everything. Leave nothing out. I need to hear it more thoroughly than in your letter. The descriptions of your actions were too vague.”

  Simon swallowed. He had specifically not gone into detail with what had occurred.

  “I fail to see how the particulars matter. I am utterly asleep when I become violent. I have a wife, and I cannot trust myself to share a bed with her.”

  “You have injured her?” Holtzenhelm asked.

  Simon nodded.

  “You are dreaming, of course, at the time, and acting out your dream,” the small man added. “Is it always the same dream?”

  Simon considered. “The details vary slightly, but the dream is quite consistent.”

  “Tell me.” With those words, Holtzenhelm leaned back in a chair clearly more comfortable than the one upon which Simon sat stiffly upright, for slouching brought only more discomfort to his back.

  “I am in a very recognizable cell, in Burma. I was there for two years. In the dream, I am convinced I can overcome one of the guards and save my cousin.”

  “Is it always the same guard?”

  Simon frowned down a
t his lap. “I believe so. No, maybe not. But I always want to kill him with my bare hands.”

  “Because then you can escape?”

  Shaking his head, Simon nearly answered no. “Because then I can save Toby.”

  “Toby is your cousin?”

  “He was. He died in the cell.”

  “Do you feel responsible for his death?”

  “I am responsible,” Simon intoned.

  Holtzenhelm’s forehead crinkled. “Why do you say that? You were both prisoners, no?”

  “I was bigger, stronger. I should have protected him. It’s the only reason I went along. He only wanted water.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t,” Simon insisted. “He had a wife and children.”

  “I’m sorry,” Holtzenhelm offered.

  “And our guard was so … puny. On any given day, either Toby or myself could have beaten him with one hand. But that worthless scum ran him through for asking for water!”

  The man across from Simon nodded.

  “In your dream, you are not intent on escaping, only on saving your cousin?”

  “I don’t understand your question. If I kill the guard, both will happen.”

  “Is Toby alive in the cell in your dream?”

  Simon thought a long time, going over any of the dreams he could recall, and realizing the answer. “Yes, he is alive.”

  “In your dream, you save him by killing the guard. In reality, you can only save yourself.”

  “I shouldn’t live while Toby died.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I hope you see that. Of course, your cousin should not have died, but neither should you. Nor should you punish yourself or feel the tremendous guilt I can hear you are carrying with you still.”

  Simon jumped to his feet. “I am not carrying anything.” Then he marched to the far end of the room in two strides, realizing he was beginning to sweat.

  Turning, he shuffled back to stand behind the hard chair.

  “Good God, man, this room is not much larger than the cell I was in. How do you stand it?”

  Holtzenhelm shrugged. “I work with the boundless reaches of the human mind, the psyche if you will, and no room can confine it. I need only a place for you and for me to talk. Right now, confined in this room, can you recall the dream any better?”