Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  Immediately upon his return to English soil, the rumors that had originally blown on a cruel breeze from Sheffield to London had earned him the label of Lord Despair. Now that she was in residence in the Devere townhouse, boldly taking part in the little Season’s activities with no earl by her side, the breeze was becoming a tempest.

  “He is mad as a march hare,” twittered a young woman, hardly concealing her mouth behind her fan, as she stared at Jenny.

  “I heard they have restrained his arms and legs,” said another.

  “And he has to be fed like a baby,” loudly exclaimed a third.

  With most of the remarks that drifted to her ears, Jenny pointedly stared down the speaker. Occasionally, she rolled her eyes to show her utter disregard for their ridiculous speculation. However, lately, with her desire to sit down or to stay home altogether, standing tall and proud was becoming a far more difficult chore. She was tired. She was generally queasy from morning until nearly suppertime.

  At some point, perhaps in two months, maybe three, she would have to enter confinement. Then how shredded would both their reputations become?

  The missing earl and his disappearing countess!

  And would her babe be born with his or her father still missing?

  The tempest would reach biblical proportions.

  “Jenny, stop frowning,” her mother said, appearing by her side after doing the rounds of the room with her friend Lady Delia.

  Maggie appeared at her other side. “I wish you would dance.”

  The idea of spinning and twirling held positively no appeal.

  “Where is Lord Cambrey?” For certainly to see Maggie without him was an oddity.

  “We cannot dance more than two dances in a night without someone crying out the banns,” Maggie said, though it looked to Jenny as if that idea was not displeasing to her sister. “We have a dance coming up soon enough.”

  “Who is next on your card?” their mother asked.

  Maggie angled the square paper dangling from her wrist, then she made a face.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed in dismay, glancing at Jenny. “I nearly forgot. Your former fiancé sketched in his name before I even realized who he was, but I am certainly not doing him the honor.”

  Jenny felt ill for more than one reason but stayed silent. Hopefully, it was a coincidence.

  “Why would Lord Alder seek to dance with you?” Lady Blackwood asked her middle daughter. “He can be certain I would never allow an association between him and you, not after his shoddy treatment of our Jenny. I’m sure other parents feel the same way. Why, I can’t even imagine why he is here!” she finished with some vehemence, scanning the crowd as if she might scorch him from the room with her gaze alone.

  Jenny nearly smiled. Nearly. Her mother’s dander was well and truly up. Yet she couldn’t help wondering if Michael were using Maggie to gain information about her and, more importantly, her husband. The ton moved in such sneaky ways it wouldn’t be surprising. Except regarding the viscount, it did surprise her for he had never seemed the type to deal in gossip.

  “Mummy, I am more than pleased to miss this next quadrille,” Maggie stated. “I’m sure Lord Alder was simply being polite.” She looked sorry to have mentioned him at all. “Why, I doubt he will even show up to claim his dance.”

  Just then, another young buck, Lord Westing, the same who’d kissed Maggie’s hand at Lady Atwood’s, appeared in their midst. The only son of the Duke of Westing with dashing good looks to boot, the marquess had every girl’s gaze upon him.

  After bowing to each of the ladies beginning with the senior, he turned his attention to Maggie.

  “You are not dancing, Miss Blackwood, which robs the room of much enjoyment. It is too late to begin this dance, yet perhaps I may have the next?”

  Maggie eyed him up and down. Jenny, too, gave this new prospect the once over. After all, though Lord Cambrey was impressive, neither his attention was certain, nor were his intentions clear. Besides, Maggie had an entire Season and many young gentlemen to consider.

  What would her persnickety sister think of this one? Westing certainly cut a good figure in his jacket and breeches. His ascot was perfectly tied. What’s more, he had a chiseled jaw and very blue eyes under a thick head of dark brown hair. Both Jenny and her mother waited, breath bated.

  Maggie’s dazzling smile appeared as if she’d pulled it out of her glove and pasted it on, and she batted those glorious eyelashes.

  Biting her lower lip to keep from laughing, Jenny had to give her sister her due. Men found Maggie’s flirting to be beyond charming.

  “Why, I believe my next dance is free,” Maggie offered, without looking at her card.

  Jenny sighed. Woe betide the man whose name was in the next space as, knowing Maggie, there most assuredly was one. Whoever he was, he would be left like a ship without its sail, uselessly stranded.

  Westing took in the bustling room. “Perhaps we can go together to the refreshment table before our dance begins. It is less crowded there at present.”

  “A splendid idea.” With that complimentary phrase, Maggie let her new admirer take her arm in his.

  After bowing once more to Jenny and her mother, Lord Westing led her away.

  The remaining Blackwood women looked at each other, eyes wide, until Lady Blackwood spoke. “I’ve heard good things of that young man. Not only fine looking, if I may say from my advanced years, but well-behaved. And in line to inherit a great deal. Every eligible miss here is envying our Margaret at this moment.” She gazed in the direction they’d gone. “What do you think of such a match?”

  “Mummy, every dance with a man cannot result in a match. Yet I agree, he is a handsome man. As long as he is kind and loyal,” she added, thinking of Simon’s finer qualities, “and loves Maggie so much he never wants to be without her.”

  Dear God, tears were pricking her eyes.

  Her mother grabbed her hand and held it, clasped safely.

  “Are you all right, dear one? Shall I get you something to drink? That helped me when,” she lowered her voice, “when carrying each of you three.”

  “Something cold would be welcome,” Jenny allowed, and her mother nodded and hurried off.

  No doubt Lady Blackwood considered it a good excuse to spy on her middle daughter and see how she was faring with Westing.

  Tapping her toe quietly along with the music, Jenny remained alone until the dance ended. Lord Cambrey appeared, obviously searching for Maggie. Oh dear, was his name next on her sister’s card?

  “Both your mother and sister have vanished,” he observed.

  As the music started up for a lively polka, Jenny realized Maggie must even then be dancing with Lord Westing. Would Simon’s friend be annoyed?

  Deciding to hold her tongue on the matter, she only nodded, smiling and observing passers-by. Let Maggie make her own decisions. Jenny had other concerns, including a matter not to be overheard by anyone.

  With her mother still not returned, she decided to grab the broom by its handle.

  “My lord, will you take a stroll along the gallery?”

  Cambrey looked momentarily surprised, then quickly recovered.

  “Certainly, my lady.” And he offered her his arm.

  She hoped no one took notice of their exit through the double doors behind them. Others were doing the same, and she had a certain autonomy now as a married woman that she hadn’t had before. However, Lord Cambrey clearly wasn’t her husband, and if someone wanted to begin a nasty rumor, they no doubt could. She would ask her question as quickly as possible and return to the ballroom.

  “I will be brief,” she said to him as soon as they were alone at one end of the long promenade. It must be nice in the dead of winter to have such a stretch of a hall in which to walk vigorously back and forth, especially if one had a worrisome issue, like the absence of a husband, to contend with.

  “I simply wish to know if you’ve heard from Simon?”

  *

&nbs
p; As Simon reached out for the filthy jailor, he received a slap on the face. From whence it came, he couldn’t tell. He tried harder to get to the man’s neck, then he received another sting to his cheek. After another, he awakened in a strange bed in a strange room.

  Sighing, the earl knew precisely what had happened.

  Holtzenhelm had come to Simon’s apartment late in the evening and told him to sleep. And obviously, he’d awakened him in a manner that worked.

  “Thank you,” Simon muttered to the bespectacled man who sat on the chair beside him.

  “You’re welcome, though I take no pleasure in slapping you. Shall we begin?” Holtzenhelm asked.

  Simon nodded, feeling weary.

  “At the beginning. Every detail.”

  When Simon had explained the same dream in excruciating minutiae, he felt drained. After the doctor left, he took a walk in the frigidly cold city of Heidelberg.

  Many of the shops were decorated with Christmas cheer, different than the English but recalling the spirit of the season all the same. Nikolastaug had come and gone, with all the children awaiting St. Nicholas, and even Herr Holtzenhelm had seemed to brighten days before when describing his two young sons’ excitement for what treats had been in their boots the following morning.

  Yet when the good doctor spoke animatedly about decorating the Tannenbaum and invited Simon to the end-of-the-year festivities, he felt an ache in his chest. As Holtzenhelm went on about the Christmas Eve dinner, describing the suckling pig, white sausage, and sweet cinnamon reisbrei, and then closed his eyes to describe to Simon the upcoming Christmas Day feast of plump roast goose, nutty, fruity stollen, and spicy Lebkuchen, Simon felt only sadness. He had spent the past three Christmas tidings away from England, recalling the celebrations and the familiar foods.

  Now, he felt a lump in his throat at missing his first Christmas with his wife. What would it be like to see the candles reflecting in Jenny’s eyes as they opened their door to carolers and toasted St. Nicholas?

  He simply wanted to go home.

  *

  “I’m sorry.” Lord Cambrey’s eyes, indeed, shone with apology. “I have heard nothing from him. It is as if Simon has disappeared into the heart of the savage nations of Europe.”

  As surely as he had disappeared inside her heart. Permanently, irrevocably. Hopefully, he would come out far more easily from the Continent.

  She only sighed though she wanted to weep. Her love for him was absolutely embedded in her being now, and she could hardly face each day without him. If she only knew where he was and when she might see him again, it would ease her mind.

  “I would ask you to trust him and not to worry. Why, he was practically singing Lady Greensleeves in your honor the first time he told me about you. In any case, he must return soon,” Lord Cambrey added.

  His words sparked hope in Jenny’s breast. “Why do you say that, my lord?”

  “Parliament officially opens in a few weeks, and he had best be there.”

  “I see.” The ramifications of an absentee representative in the House of Lords were not good, including a possible loss of Simon’s privilege.

  However, she doubted now she would see him for Christmas. Sure enough, when it came and went, she spent the holiday with her mother and sisters and with Lord Cambrey’s family who extended to the Blackwoods and the Countess of Lindsey more than one festive invitation.

  *

  “What stands out in your mind when you first find yourself in the cell?”

  Simon bit back a curt retort and answered the doctor as simply as he could.

  “That I am there again, or that I have never really left.”

  “It is that real to you?” Holtzenhelm asked. “You do not get the sense you are in a dream?”

  Simon hesitated.

  “What are you thinking?” Holtzenhelm asked.

  “Each time I awaken in the cell … that is, when I dream I am back in the cell, the dirt is soft under me. It must be the bed I’m feeling. I believe I always have a moment of wondering why the dirt is comfortable after so many nights lying on the hard-packed earth.”

  Holtzenhelm nodded. “That is very good. If we can convince your mind the soft dirt indicates a dream, you may be able to control your actions.”

  Simon nodded.

  “Is there anything else?” Holtzenhelm wondered. “The more signs we can reinforce to your sleeping self, the better.”

  Considering for a moment, Simon took himself through the dream that was more familiar to him than the environment in which he now found himself in the doctor’s office.

  “There is no stench. The absence of rats is also quite glaring. There were always vermin, and even more at night. They make noises, terrible noises.” Feeling sweat prickle his skin, Simon closed his eyes only to have the vision of a rat appear in his mind, large and terrifying. Instantly, he snapped his eyes open.

  “You seem to feel very strongly about the rats,” the doctor said. “Good.”

  Simon stared at him. Holtzenhelm’s ability to look dispassionately at Simon’s trouble irked him, yet perhaps it was for the best and gave the man more clarity. But good was the last word he could use in conjunction with rats.

  At seeing the earl’s expression, Herr Doktor shrugged.

  “I am sure you can use the absence of any strong odor and of rats in your favor.”

  At this, Simon barked out a laugh. “That would be a change, considering they were my nightly nemesis, and sometimes during the day, too.”

  “I understand,” the doctor said, though Simon knew the man couldn’t possibly truly understand the conditions. Nor could he know the emotions the cell invoked. The fear and anger and sadness. And guilt.

  “Is there anything else? We must go through the dream again,” Holtzenhelm said.

  Simon retold the dream again. Awakening in the cell, no rats, the guard, his anger. Over and over. There was something else. Something on the edge of his brain, but he didn’t want to think about it.

  Instead of whatever it was dancing at the edge of his mind, he decided to think about Jenny, her sweet smile and shining eyes, her soft, pleasing voice. His Jenny.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” the doctor said. As he reached the door, the man added, “I bid you sweet dreams.”

  Did this short German have a sense of humor or was he mocking him?

  Simon merely nodded.

  That night, unfortunately, was no different. The dreams that had begun to happen less frequently during his brief months with Jenny now came nightly once again.

  And each time he awakened, whether entangled in his bedclothes or landing on the rug, Simon thanked God Jenny was not beside him to be harmed. Would he ever find his way back to her?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Then the unthinkable happened. Another dinner party was underway in which Jenny was seated between two aged men with whom the hostess deemed acceptable for a married woman to converse all evening without causing a scandal.

  Jenny hid her yawns behind her serviette and turned from the tediously boring man on her left who wished only to boast about his acreage and his grown children in excruciatingly minute detail to the leering, hoary nobleman on her right who kept his eyes fixed on the swell of her breasts as he inappropriately complained about his wife. That unfortunate spouse was seated as far away from her husband as the table allowed, no doubt having entreated their hostess, Lady Chantel-Weiss, to make it so.

  To the old lord’s only defense, Jenny’s bosom had blossomed in recent weeks, and she had not yet had any of her gowns adjusted to hide the fuller figure of her condition. She doubted he had noticed her face once since they were seated together.

  And then a late guest appeared, and Jenny felt a stirring of discomfort, Cousin Ned!

  As soon as he caught sight of her, she knew he would cause her trouble for slighting him. His eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned while turning up as if in a smile. With a nod by way of greeting, he took his seat next to a lady halfway d
own the other side of the table. Jenny breathed a sigh of relief.

  Normally, she and Ned might not even have cause to speak since it was simply not done across the middle of the table between the candles, the many crystal glasses, and the flowered centerpieces. However, since he’d arrived late, their hostess was determined to make him earn his dinner.

  From her seat at the head of the table a few chairs down to Jenny’s left, Lady Chantel-Weiss tapped on her fluted champagne glass with the long tines of her silver dinner fork.

  “Everyone, hush now.” Very quickly those at the table quietened and turned to their hostess.

  “Since Sir Darrow has seen fit to amble in nearly an entire half hour after we have all been seated, I demand from him reparation.”

  Knowing what was coming, many started to laugh, some slapped hands on the tablecloth in encouragement.

  “Yes, my lady,” Ned said at once, practically preening at being the center of attention where another might look abashed by his own rude behavior. “Whatever reparation you wish, I shall endeavor to satisfy and do so as befits this gentle gathering.”

  Jenny wanted to roll her eyes, only thankful she was not in fact Mrs. Darrow, nor even generally known as Ned’s second cousin. His affected speech made her want to bring back up the shrimp paste on toast points that had greeted guests on tiny plates as they sat down to dine.

  “You must tell us an entertaining story,” Lady Chantel-Weiss said. “Isn’t that right, my lord?”

  However, Lord Chantel-Weiss either didn’t hear her or didn’t care, for at the other end of the table, on Jenny’s right, the good man continued slurping his potato soup.

  “But hear me, Sir Darrow,” their hostess continued. “Your story must be novel and interesting, or you shall be shown the door.”

  Many laughed again, but when Ned’s eyes turned upon her, Jenny felt a frisson of dread. There was something in his gaze, a malicious glint.

  “Very well,” he said. “A story?” He steepled his fingers a moment in front of him as if considering.