The Madness of Lord Westfall

by Mia Marlowe

  “The world is very black and white to you, isn’t it, Westfall? Are there no shades of gray?”

  “Not about some things.”

  “Then I wish you joy of your rigid views and hope that someday your refusal to bend does not break you,” Stanstead said. “Now, tell me what you have learned.”

  “Not until I can tell the duke, as well.”

  “Can you at least divulge whose mind yielded the information about the relic we seek?”

  Westfall sighed. Truth was his one constant, the touchstone in his life. If he surrendered that, he’d have nothing left to stand on. He didn’t want this truth to be so, but it was. “Lady Nora.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. She’s been Lord Albemarle’s mistress for about a year now. I wonder if he’s involved with the plot. Do you suppose—”

  “I can’t discuss it now.” Westfall didn’t want to hear more about Lady Nora and her patron. He rubbed his chest as if that would stop the roiling.

  “Suit yourself.” Stanstead yawned, slumped in the seat, and closed his eyes. “Cassandra isn’t sleeping well of late, and she’s been keeping me awake, too.”

  A vision of the fire mage who was Stanstead’s wife flashed across Westfall’s mind. The lady was lovely, but in the image that shimmered before him she was wearing only the thinnest of night rails. The lacy strap at one shoulder slid down.

  Then a curious thing happened. In Westfall’s mind, the lady suddenly looked much less like Lady Stanstead and much more like Lady Nora. Her hair was darker now, lush and unbound, falling to curl around her barely covered breasts. The night rail continued to slip off one shoulder until, like Diana the Huntress, one full orb was bared. It was topped with a taut, berry-colored nipple.

  Westfall ached to suckle it.

  He hastily erected his mental shield and glared at Stanstead. “Kindly keep your salacious musings to yourself.”

  Stanstead opened one eye. “There’s nothing salacious about a man thinking about his wife.”

  “That thought wasn’t about Lady Stanstead.”

  “Hmph! If it wasn’t, then I didn’t Send it to you. So if anyone’s to blame for offending your puritanical sensibilities, it’s you, my dear fellow.” Stanstead grinned. “And if you’re producing even one vaguely naughty thought on your own, I must say, I have renewed hope for you. In the meantime, stay out of my head.”

  “With pleasure,” Westfall said with a snort.

  Maintaining a mental shield took so much concentration, he had hoped to keep his down when he was only with Stanstead. The earl’s mind was surprisingly well ordered. Since Stanstead engaged in some of the same mental exercises prescribed by the Duke of Camden for Westfall, Stanstead’s thoughts were usually disciplined, too. Because of that, he was restful to be around, which, when Westfall reconsidered, probably did make the man his friend.

  But Stanstead wasn’t a restful companion when he was imagining ravishing his wife, even if Westfall’s mind did have a hand in enhancing the earl’s musings by changing the woman in question to the courtesan, Lady Nora.

  So the best Westfall could do was prop up his shield and hope that Stanstead would fall asleep between Lord Albemarle’s town house and His Grace’s. He’d never been able to listen in on someone else’s dreams, so a napping Stanstead would be as refreshing to spend time with as a philodendron.

  He closed his eyes and imagined the moist breath of the conservatory, the freshness of green growing things around him. A little sunlight, a little water, an occasional pruning. Plants were the most undemanding of companions. He could easily retreat into them and become a gardening hermit.

  But that wouldn’t give him a chance to make a difference in the world. Or prove that he was sane enough to take his place in it.

  …

  “Your report, Lord Stanstead,” the Duke of Camden said, prowling the perimeter of the room as was his custom. Except in the mahogany-paneled dining room of Camden House, Westfall had rarely seen the man sit. His Grace was a whirlwind with feet, all bustling energy, and raw power.

  “Westfall is the one with news this time,” Stanstead said from his place on the settee next to his countess.

  Lord and Lady Stanstead occupied the town house next to His Grace’s. Previously both residents at Camden House, the newlywed couple enjoyed the privacy of their own establishment, but the proximity of their home made it convenient for them to rejoin the group whenever a meeting of the Order of the M.U.S.E. was called.

  Westfall and Miss Meg Anthony were both houseguests of the duke for the foreseeable future, since they were still in intensive training. Westfall was unable to fully harness his psychic gift, so his days were filled with the duke’s experimental exercises to help him grapple for control over the voices in his head.

  Tiring as they were, they were miles better than the dubious “treatments” he’d endured while he had been committed to Bedlam.

  Miss Anthony was already in full possession of her ability to Find lost objects and people by metaphysical means, so she had no mental hoops to jump through. However, she needed to gain confidence and learn the convoluted rules of etiquette required to pass as a lady, so she could move in the right circles.

  Westfall couldn’t say which of them had the more daunting task.

  To assist Miss Anthony in her goal, the duke’s sister, Lady Easton, put her through her paces like the sternest headmistress at a finishing school. Lady Easton possessed no psychic abilities, but she was adept at smoothing the way for members of the Order in social situations and kept her brother’s household running as predictably and efficiently as a railway schedule.

  The other member of this cell of the Order was Vesta LaMotte. Like Lord and Lady Stanstead, she kept her own residence. Or rather, she was kept in one. Vesta was a courtesan nearing the end of her career, but still much in demand. If the Order ever needed an entrée into the Prince Regent’s inner circle, they could count on Vesta to supply it. Vivacious and amusing, she was always invited to Prinny’s entertainments and, as far as Westfall could determine, was on intimate terms with several of His Royal Highness’s chief advisors.

  But she was always late.

  “I do hope you haven’t started without me.” Vesta breezed into the parlor, wearing a diaphanous gown that would have been more appropriate on a girl half her age. However, in Westfall’s estimation, she did the ensemble justice, and could easily pass for a fresh young debutante in the sheer column dress.

  “You haven’t missed a thing,” Camden assured her. “Westfall was just about to tell us what he learned this evening.”

  “Oh, lovely.” Vesta flashed him a bright smile. “Does this mean you were successful in opening yourself to only one mind at a time? I do hope it wasn’t too hard on you, dear boy.”

  Westfall nodded gratefully. Vesta was the most empathetic one in the group. Only the courtesan seemed to realize how difficult his gift was to bear. “Erecting a mental shield and then lowering it slightly enabled me to detect the person’s secrets fairly quickly.” Even though Lady Nora’s mind was unusually guarded, he’d managed to catch wind of two of her private thoughts. The one about someone named Emilia had no bearing on M.U.S.E. business, and had been couched in so much anguish, he could barely stand to hear it. That secret wasn’t his to tell. But the other sounded exactly like the item they sought. “We’re looking for something called Fides Pulvis.”

  “Trust Powder?” Lady Stanstead said, displaying her knowledge of Latin. Not all women were as well educated as the countess, which was a pity, in Westfall’s opinion. Since he listened in on the thoughts of many ladies, he knew their minds were often as nimble as a man’s, if only they had the same opportunity for learning.

  “Exactly,” Westfall said. “Fides Pulvis means Trust Powder.”

  “Pulvis may also be translated ‘arena,’” the duke said.

  “It would be rather difficult to tuck an arena into one’s pocket, Camden,” Vesta observed. “And the relics the Order usually seek
s are inherently portable.”

  “Point taken. I’ve yet to hear that anyone is building an arena for the Prince Regent,” His Grace conceded.

  Camden’s gaze lingered longer than usual on Vesta’s form, and Westfall wondered about their relationship. Out of courtesy, he tried to keep his mental shield up during meetings of the Order. The last thing he wanted was for one of the members to feel violated by his gift.

  Unless it was Stanstead. Westfall didn’t care if he offended him.

  The duke’s steely gaze returned to him. “From whose mind did you glean the information, Westfall?”

  “Lady Nora Claremont.”

  “Ah! La Nora,” Vesta said as she lounged on the far end of the settee and tucked her feet up, displaying far more of her delicately curved ankles than she ought. “Lovely girl.”

  That was damning Nora Claremont with faint praise. She was the most exquisite creature on God’s earth, but Westfall didn’t dare offer his assessment. Stanstead would have a field day with him over it. He couldn’t bear to be ridiculed for feelings over which he seemed to have no control.

  “I fear I don’t remember her,” the Duke of Camden said. “Information is only as valid as its source. What can you tell us about the lady, Vesta?”

  “Let me see.” Vesta’s blue-violet eyes shifted up and to the left, as if the knowledge might hover in the air above her. She was a repository of intelligence about the ton and its connections—even more thorough than DeBrett’s Guide to the Peerage because Vesta always knew the delicious details of scandal that DeBrett’s feared to print. However, she was no gossip. She only used her vault of information in the service of Camden’s Order.

  “Lady Nora is the third or fourth daughter of Lord Twicken. It’s hard to say which. Lord and Lady Twicken had a passel of daughters before she finally gave him a son. At any rate, the earl did right by his girls. He arranged brilliant matches for them. They all married well.”

  “She’s married?” The words blurted out of Westfall’s mouth before he could stop them.

  “I was about to say, with the exception of Nora. She refused the gentleman her father had chosen for her and wed without her parent’s consent. Off to Gretna Green and all that, with a penniless doctor-in-training—a certain Lewis Claremont. The fellow had no family connections to speak of. I believe his people were tenant farmers in Surrey.” Vesta wrinkled her pretty nose. “But young Lewis was evidently a brilliant sort and went through his medical training in half the usual time. However, that sort of thing weighs very little in the balance considering that he made off with an earl’s daughter. Lord Twicken disowned Nora and cut her off completely.”

  “At least with him being a doctor, he’ll eventually have more than two coins to rub together,” Meg Anthony said.

  “Only if he had cultivated the right sort of clientele,” Vesta said, “but Dr. Claremont relished caring for the indigent and the downtrodden of Whitechapel. Then he went to France to serve our brave boys. Unfortunately, cannon shot reached the surgeon’s tent during Waterloo, and he died. And so Lady Nora was widowed.”

  Westfall was ashamed of the relief that washed over him. It was a good thing he was the only thought thief in the bunch. How the others would despise him if they knew the unworthy sensations coursing through him.

  “Please tell me she was reconciled with her parents after that,” he said.

  Vesta shook her head. “If anything, the earl was more adamant than ever that Nora should suffer for having defied him. ‘She’s made her bed and now she’ll have to lie in it,’ he reportedly said. It was terribly cruel of him because her husband had left her penniless. However, instead of languishing in threadbare gentility and imposing on distant relations as her father expected her to, she decided to become a courtesan and lie in someone else’s bed.” Vesta examined her bejeweled fingers, the bright gems flashing when they caught the light. “Can’t say I blame her.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Stanstead said with a grin.

  “And you shouldn’t, either,” Vesta said. “It was the only way for her to support herself in style. She wasn’t a green girl, and she’d lived in poverty with her husband long enough to know it wasn’t for her. It’s a rare woman who knows her own mind about things. Nora made an informed choice.”

  “You make it sound as if being a courtesan is only a business decision.” Camden finally stopped pacing long enough to lean on the mantel. The duke seemed to fight it, but his gaze was drawn inexorably back to Vesta.

  She met his eyes directly. “You know it’s not just business. For a lovely young thing like Lady Nora, who can pick and choose her patrons, there are pleasures aplenty to be had. And why shouldn’t a woman take her pleasure like a man?”

  A bit of red crept up the duke’s neck. Whether it was embarrassment or anger, Westfall couldn’t say without lowering his shield, and he didn’t want to do that to his mentor.

  “We are straying off the subject,” Camden said. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Westfall?”

  That he’d fallen hopelessly under La Nora’s spell. That the idea of the lady taking her pleasure with anyone else had him tangled up in hopeless knots. That he was as smitten as a spotty-faced boy in the throes of his first calf-love.

  He couldn’t report that.

  Besides, it made no sense, even to him. He’d never been one for forming quick attachments, but there was something about Nora Claremont, something that plucked at him deep down. He didn’t understand what he was feeling, would have torn it from his breast if he could have, but he couldn’t deny it, either.

  Westfall cleared his throat. “I had the distinct impression that the Fides Pulvis, whatever it is, is in Lord Albemarle’s possession.” As was Lady Nora herself. His chest began to heat again, but he tamped it down. He had no business being jealous over the lady. Especially since she wasn’t terribly ladylike.

  He’d been raised to value chaste and demur women. Nora qualified as neither. Stanstead had told him once that the heart has a mind of its own. Such an irrational thing made no sense and had certainly never happened to Westfall.

  Until now.

  “Very well, that narrows the field of search to Albemarle’s town house.” Camden turned to Miss Meg Anthony, the Order’s only Finder. “Do you think you can locate the item now that you know its name and general vicinity?”

  “I’ll try, Your Grace,” Meg said, ducking her head in a deferential nod. “I can find a person easily that way, but for an object, a description of the item is better than what it’s called.”

  “Will you make the attempt?”

  “Of course. I never meant for anyone to think I wouldn’t.” Meg laced her fingers in her lap and closed her eyes before they had the chance to roll back in her head. Her body went rigid, and then limp. To other members of the group, she seemed to be deep in a self-imposed trance.

  Westfall knew different. He opened himself to her mind as her spirit left her body and began sending back detailed images to her brain. Meg seemed to flit over the rooftops of London, quick as thought. She dived through the slate roof and whipped through each room of Albemarle’s town house like a disembodied wraith, always seeking, always surging forward. She hovered over the powdery flour sacks in the scullery. She stopped for a blink to watch a serving girl empty a coal hod filled with ash and dust into a bin in the alley behind the residence. Lord Albemarle toyed with a snuffbox in his firelit study. Lady Nora draped herself over the back of his chair, reaching around to massage his neck and shoulders. The two seemed deep in conversation, and Westfall was grateful when Meg’s consciousness darted away from them.

  He didn’t want to see Nora and her protector in such a cozy, domestic scene.

  Meg fluttered from one room to the next, like a garden faerie leaping from blossom to blossom, pausing to inspect a dust-like substance on a vanity here, a horn of black powder draped over a musket there. Finally, her search complete, she shot back to Lord Camden’s parlor faster than a pistol ball.

&nb
sp; Meg’s body jerked as her spirit reconnected with her flesh. Her eyes popped open, and she blinked in rapid succession. Then, blushing furiously, she looked around as if surprised to find everyone’s attention fastened on her.

  “What did you Find?” the duke demanded.

  “Give her a moment,” Westfall said. He alone knew what it cost Meg Anthony to exercise her psychic gift. She risked not making it back to her body every time she went on one of His Grace’s quests. Of course, she never complained. Never even explained the danger to herself, if indeed she understood her peril. It was not in her nature to grumble. Besides, she would say she owed His Grace more than she could repay. If there were a more grateful soul on God’s earth than Meg Anthony, Westfall had yet to encounter it.

  Meg cast him a shy smile and dabbed a handkerchief at the corner of her mouth where a small bit of foam had formed. Then she relayed all the types of powdery substance she had found in Albemarle’s home.

  “But I can’t say which of them might be the Fides Pulvis we need to find. I’m not sensitive to psychic energy like His Grace is,” Meg explained.

  “There was nothing in a wall safe? Nothing under lock and key?” Camden asked.

  She shook her head. “His lordship keeps a goodly stack of banknotes and a cache of jewelry in the safe behind the painting over the head of his bed,” Meg said. “Nothing that we need concern ourselves with, but I collect there’s a number of folk in Whitechapel what would love to relieve him of it.”

  “My money’s on the snuffbox,” Stanstead said.

  “Don’t discount the others. It might be that sack of flour in the scullery. Something called Trust Powder could be baked into anything.” Lady Stanstead seemed to delight in contradicting her husband. “Is Lord Albemarle hosting the Prince Regent for a dinner any time soon?”

  “We need to find out.” Camden motioned to Mr. Bernard, the steward who kept scrupulous notes of the Order’s meetings. The faithful servant nodded and scratched away on his parchment. He’d no doubt make use of the servants’ grapevine to contact his counterpart in Lord Albemarle’s household. Those who lived belowstairs in the great houses of London always seemed to know more of what was really going on than the families they served.