The Madness of Lord Westfall

by Mia Marlowe

  Westfall was tempted to clout Stanstead a good one over the head. He moved away from his colleague before he could act on the impulse. He located the beautiful woman again in a blink. She was standing behind a gentleman at the whist table. Then she leaned over and whispered something into his ear. The man laughed, caught up her hand, and kissed it.

  Palm up. A lover’s kiss.

  Westfall’s insides did a slow boil. He didn’t have any right to those unsettling feelings. Didn’t want them.

  But there they were.

  As he drew closer to the whist table, he lowered his shield by the smallest of degrees, enough to target the woman’s mind only.

  It was always a risk.

  Very few minds were tidy, well organized, and ready for his inspection. Usually, when he opened himself to another, the mind in question flooded into his own like the Deluge, until he was swamped by their loves and hates and secret shames. To his surprise, very little trickled in from the woman.

  She was a closed book.

  Westfall frowned. He’d only encountered that level of resistance when he tried to peer into the minds of those who regularly trod the boards on Drury Lane. Because actors so embraced their roles, so became the characters they portrayed, nothing of their own lives, their own thoughts, broke through. It was deceit at the most elemental level, and Westfall recoiled from it in abhorrence.

  Whoever she really was, this beauty was clearly trying to be someone else.

  Names can be deceptive. People say they reflect the character of the person to whom they belong. I say they more accurately reveal the hopes of the person’s parents. When mine named me Honora, they no doubt expected a dutiful daughter whose impeccable behavior would do them credit.

  How very disappointed they must be.

  ~from the secret journal of Lady Nora Claremont

  Chapter Two

  Nora knew she turned masculine heads everywhere she went. It wasn’t conceit. She was merely being honest. And she certainly wouldn’t claim credit for it. Nature had simply made her this way. It had uniquely fashioned her to be an object of desire. Nora was chagrined to admit that a few duels had been fought over her, though she had done nothing to encourage that sort of barbarous behavior and had never rewarded the victor with her favors. She was simply used to men fawning over her.

  She was not accustomed to having one scowl at her.

  With the exception of his snowy linen shirt, the striking fellow was dressed all in black, the stark suit a perfect foil for his sandy blond hair. His ensemble was Brummellesque in its simplicity, but he’d never be considered the fashionable sort.

  For one thing, he was too big, too broad of shoulder, and far too tall, towering over most of the other gentlemen in the room. The way he moved was all wrong. Men in Lord Albemarle’s circles comported themselves with easy masculine grace. Walking slowly, ignoring the other guests, almost as if he were trying to escape anyone’s notice, this fellow was clearly uncomfortable in his own skin. Though the fit of his jacket and trousers was beyond reproach, he seemed rather like a dockworker in fancy dress.

  Even more surprising, despite his frown, the big man was coming toward her.

  Probably a fire-breathing evangelist or some other crusader for public morals. Though if that were the case, what he was doing at Lord Albemarle’s party was a mystery. She’d held her own against plenty of those “holier than thou” types. Never one to back down from a fight—and she certainly sensed one brewing—Nora decided to leave her place near Albemarle’s whist table and meet the gentleman halfway across the room. As soon as he was close enough, she dipped in the shallowest of curtsies.

  “Good evening, Reverend.” Only a man of the cloth would greet her with so disapproving an expression.

  His frown deepened. “You have mistaken me for someone else,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’m no clergyman.”

  “Pity. They often make the best lovers—all that guilt and angst seething beneath the surface desperately seeking release,” she said, her tone as sultry as she could make it and soft enough for his ears alone. If he was going to censure her with his severe expression, she was determined to give him cause. “Have you never heard the saying, ‘Repressed sex is the best sex’?”

  The man actually blushed to the tips of his ears. She was going to have fun with this one.

  “Do not have a conniption, I pray you, sir,” she said with a flip of her fan. “I’m not in the market for a lover. Not at present in any case.”

  “You’re…I… I’m not having a conniption.”

  She flashed her brightest smile at him, the one known for bringing a man to his knees. “Then why are you frowning at me as if I were the town trollop?”

  He blinked hard. His eyes were the pale gray of the sky just before dawn. Nora should know. She’d seen enough sunrises, albeit through bleary eyes, after her all night carouses.

  “I’m not frowning at you.” He was still staring at her with complete absorption. “I’m… I was thinking of something else.”

  “Thinking extraordinarily hard about it, then. While Lord Albemarle encourages thoughtful discourse at his salons, this is not at all that sort of party.” She occasionally ran across a fellow whose attraction to her rendered him incoherent, but since this man’s scowl was still in place, she began to consider that perhaps the big fellow wasn’t destined to become another one of her conquests. “Have I offended you in some way, sir?”

  If not, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Something about him made her uncomfortable. She’d be just as happy if this man left Albemarle’s party. He wasn’t the jovial sort Benedick Albemarle usually cultivated at his routs.

  “No, you’ve given me no cause for offense. Though I suspect the world has offended you more than once,” he said. “I am sorry for it. You deserve a full measure of respect.”

  That took her aback. While she was arguably the most sought after high-flyer in London, no one had ever cared if they offended her. How on earth could this man know if she had been? Nora was scrupulous about maintaining her public reputation for gaiety.

  No one wanted to be around a depressed courtesan.

  First and foremost, she was an entertainer, in or out of the boudoir. If Polite Society deemed her a pariah, that was too bad. She made her living satisfying others, seeing that their needs were met and their vanity flattered.

  But that didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings. Or that she couldn’t be hurt.

  She had been. Often.

  In one moment, this stranger had sliced to a sensitive corner of her heart no one would ever have suspected was there. The balance of power in the conversation shifted.

  “Forgive my lack of manners,” he said with a stiff bow.

  Now that he wasn’t frowning, Nora admitted he was very easy on the eyes. One of the most attractive men she’d ever met, she decided—until he had spoken, of course. She didn’t need him to uncover the parts of her she kept hidden.

  “We have not been properly introduced,” he said, “but as there is no one to do the honors, allow me to present myself. I’m—”

  “My, my. There’s no need to be so formal, not at one of Lord Albemarle’s routs,” she chided, determined to keep their banter light. “After all, Adam and Eve had no one to introduce them and, barring the bit about the apple, they got on swimmingly.”

  “God presented Eve to Adam,” he said in all seriousness, “so they were arguably the most properly introduced couple in history.”

  “As proper as an introduction can be when both parties are bare as a baby chick,” she said with a laugh.

  “There was no shame in their nakedness,” he said, still refusing to rise to her teasing. “Besides, it is possible to be naked in other ways besides merely shedding one’s clothes.”

  “How?” She was considered an expert on all things sensual. As far as she knew, naked was naked and that was the end of it.

  “It is possible to so possess another, to become so close, that their very though
ts become yours as well.” His forceful gaze bordered on hypnotic. “When that occurs, the soul is naked, which is far more intimate than simply baring the body.”

  She’d never had a relationship that intense. “I don’t think I’d fancy that at all. Everyone needs to be able to close the door on their own thoughts.

  “Only if they are practicing deceit,” he said. “If a person lives without lies, there’s no need to hide what one thinks.”

  “Oh, I never hide what I think. I’m known for outrageous pronouncements. Ask anyone. Ask yourself. Hasn’t this very conversation demonstrated that whatever pops into my head tumbles out my mouth without a second thought?”

  “Outrageous I’ll give you, but I doubt very much that you do it without purpose. Everything about you is controlled and calculated.” The frown was back, but slighter now. “You are a woman of many secrets.”

  She crossed her arms under her breasts knowing full well as she did so that the man’s eyes would likely glaze over when his gaze was drawn to them. “Well, then, since you’re so perceptive, why don’t you tell me one of my secrets?”

  She expected him to use the opportunity to say something self-serving, like she secretly wanted him to take her up to one of the many sumptuous bedchambers in Lord Albemarle’s residence and let him have his wicked way with her. Ha! If they found themselves alone in proximity to a bed, she’d be more likely to have her way with him.

  But instead, he cocked his head and considered her through narrowed eyes. Surprisingly, his gaze did not dip to her artfully presented bosom, but concentrated instead on her face. His brow furrowed and his jaw tensed. If Nora didn’t know better, she’d swear the man was being subjected to thumbscrews.

  Then he closed his eyes, and the taut muscles in his face relaxed a bit. He suddenly looked years younger. When he opened them, his gray eyes were sad.

  “Emilia,” he said softly.

  No! she almost screamed.

  The man flinched as if she had.

  No one knew about Emilia. Well, only two other souls in the world knew, but they were sworn to secrecy.

  He didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

  And yet he did.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Good evening, my lady,” came a welcome interruption. Garret Sterling, who’d recently been elevated as the Earl of Stanstead, suddenly appeared at her side. He was a charming fellow who always put others at ease. Her alarm over the big man’s perceptiveness drained away a bit, simply from being in Stanstead’s presence.

  “I see you’ve met my friend, Lord Westfall,” Stanstead went on.

  “No, we haven’t been properly introduced yet,” the stranger said and then glared at Stanstead. “And you and I are not actually friends.”

  Stanstead chuckled. “Always joking, that’s Westfall for you. All right, old son, we’ll do it your way. Lady Nora Claremont, may I present Viscount Westfall? Westfall, the incomparable La Nora.”

  Westfall made an elegant leg to her, a throwback to the previous generation. “I am charmed.”

  “Now who’s being deceitful, my lord?” She made it a point to my lord him. Men who were entitled expected it. Plus, it took the sting from her needling. “You don’t find me a bit charming.”

  “If charmed means compelled, the word fits to perfection,” Viscount Westfall said. “I confess I have been compelled to your side. Enchanted, one might say.”

  She sidled close to Lord Stanstead, slipping a hand companionably through the crook of his elbow. “After his fierce scowl, I never expected fair words from your friend.”

  “In truth, I never expected them either,” Stanstead said with a laugh that sounded genuinely surprised, “but then that might be because, as he says, we’re not really friends.”

  Westfall grimaced at him. “We need to leave.”

  “So soon?” Nora said, feeling equal parts relief and dismay. Now that the big man was speaking prettily to her, she was ready to hear more from him.

  “We have what we came for,” Westfall said to his companion, “and you have a wife waiting at your hearth.”

  What they came for? To Nora’s knowledge, the pair hadn’t sampled so much as a cup of the rum punch. They hadn’t made it as far as the next parlor where a string quartet played and the furniture had been moved against the walls to create space for dancing. She hadn’t seen Stanstead or Westfall at any of the card tables. They hadn’t even approached Lord Albemarle, their host, to bid him either good evening or good-bye.

  It was true that, given the guest list, the party was bound to turn boisterous as the evening wore on, but right now everyone was behaving themselves. Besides, Benedick would never allow one of his gatherings to descend into an outright orgy. Even his bacchanalias were conducted with exquisite taste. Any lewd behavior, which admittedly sometimes ensued, was kept behind carefully closed doors.

  Stanstead eyed his friend for a moment. “I suppose you’re right. Now that my dear Cassandra is in ‘an interesting condition,’ she does appreciate me keeping regular hours.”

  So the new Countess of Stanstead was with child. Even though the doors of Polite Society were closed to her, Nora was still interested in the doings and news of the ton. It was the world she’d been born to, after all.

  Lady Stanstead’s pregnancy explained why her husband had come to Albemarle’s rout without her. Expectant mothers were coddled and tucked away and generally not allowed to have a speck of fun. But before Cassandra Darkin had become Lady Stanstead, she had cut a wide swath through the ton during her come-out Season and had a reputation for being a force to reckon with. That was probably why Stanstead was in the company of Westfall. Before his marriage, the earl had been something of a rake. The upright viscount could be counted upon to keep Stanstead in line and out of trouble.

  But if, as Westfall asserted, the two gentlemen were not friends, and Nora was inclined to believe him because she’d rarely encountered two more direct opposites, why were they on the town together?

  As the men made their obeisance over her gloved hand and took their leave, Nora’s curiosity arched like a cat’s back. Westfall was unlike anyone she’d ever met, and his knowledge of Emilia was more than unsettling. He would bear watching. She followed his progress until he reached the door, wondering if he would pause and look back at her.

  He never did.

  If a child suffers from weak eyes, he doesn’t know he ought to be able to see individual bricks in buildings or separate leaves on trees. He assumes his uncorrected view of the world is the same thing everyone else sees.

  So it was with me and the voices. I forgot there had ever been a time when I couldn’t hear the thoughts of those around me, as if they’d spoken them aloud. I assumed others could hear my thoughts, as well, and would not object if I commented on the unspoken elements of conversation.

  I could not have been more wrong.

  ~from the secret journal of Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall

  Chapter Three

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew the lady?” Westfall demanded as he climbed into the Duke of Camden’s elegant carriage.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Stanstead followed him into the equipage. Then he rapped the ceiling with the silver head of his walking stick, signaling the driver that they were ready to go. “It was far more fun watching you meet La Nora on your own.”

  “You were not there for your own amusement, Stanstead. We were tasked with a mission for the Order.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked steadfastly out at the row of town houses they passed. The Georgian-style homes were all identical, in number and placement of windows, in their mathematical proportions, and in the intricate dentils on the cornices. The sameness soothed him. He needed it after meeting such an unconventional woman. She made him feel jumpy, uncomfortable in his own skin. “La Nora. Why do you call her that?”

  “Because, my dear chap, she is a Cyprian of the first water and all the glittering birds of paradise must have a nom de
plume.”

  “A Cyprian,” he repeated. That unwelcome boiling sensation he’d experienced when Lord Albemarle kissed Lady Nora’s hand returned to his chest. “You mean she’s a prostitute?”

  “No, nothing so gauche. The lady is the daughter of an earl, after all.” Stanstead removed his topper and set it on his lap. The chances that they’d hit a pothole hard enough to make their heads touch the ceiling and ruin their hats was small in Mayfair, but to be on the safe side, Westfall followed suit. “But Lady Nora is a courtesan, which is very different than your average light-skirt.”

  “Not in any way that matters.” It made no sense that he should care that the lady was a kept woman, but the boiling sensation raged hotter all the same.

  “I beg to differ. La Nora is very particular about her patrons. In fact, I doubt she’s had more than a handful throughout her entire career.” Stanstead chuckled. “You were clearly smitten. What was that business about being ‘charmed’ and ‘enchanted’?”

  “We were there to gain information,” Westfall said, embarrassed that he’d said those things to Lady Nora and worse, that Stanstead had heard him say them. “I was taught that one attracts more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  “Always supposing that more flies is a thing to be devoutly wished for,” Stanstead said with a grin.

  “Did you Send me a suggestion about her?” Westfall asked. He was normally aware that the extraneous thoughts careening through his brain belonged to someone else, but Stanstead was able to slip his suggestions in so subtly, it might not have stood out as foreign. It was the only thing that made sense. Stanstead was to blame for the odd way he was feeling.

  “Lud, no. Why would I?”

  Westfall turned away to peer out the coach window again. Sometimes, being a party to another’s thoughts meant their sorrows became his. And in the brief time he’d allowed her mind to wash over him, he’d learned that Lady Nora had had her share of grief. Perhaps that was why he felt this strange tenderness for her, despite his abhorrence over her occupation.