The Madness of Lord Westfall

by Mia Marlowe

  She caught his eye for a moment, but he didn’t signal for her to join him. Sometimes having her draped on his arm was a help and sometimes a hindrance, depending upon whom he was trying to impress. She’d given up feeling hurt or happy about it, no matter which he needed from her at the moment. She made her way back to his private box to wait amid the crushed velvet seats and gilt cherubs that cavorted around the box and above the stage’s curtain. The other opera-goers greeted their friends and acquaintances as they returned to their seats.

  A few of them glanced her way, but none sent her any hint of acknowledgment. This was the respectable crowd. The one that followed her exploits in the tabloids with glee while shunning her in person with equal delight.

  She lifted her chin to show them she didn’t care.

  When she had begun her career as a courtesan, her mentor had advised her that beauty was her stock in trade. She must be diligent in the application of lotions to protect her skin and keep it supple and youthful-appearing for as long as possible.

  No one had warned her that she also needed to make it as tough as a rhinoceros hide.

  The second act began. Benedick didn’t return until the opera’s unhappy prisoner Florestan was well into a wistful aria about freedom in his dank Seville dungeon.

  “Sorry, my dear,” Lord Albemarle whispered. “The business of the House of Lords waits for no man.”

  Some aristocrats served in that august body only to speechify about social injustice and rail against the oppression of the downtrodden. They made themselves feel important while accomplishing nothing. By contrast, Benedick was pushing through a number of reforms that would benefit his friends and confound his enemies. He made full use of the system of laws and statutes and bent it to his will.

  It wasn’t altruistic, but it was what he did best.

  She smiled at him. When she started to turn her attention back to the action on the stage, something caught her eye in the audience instead.

  Lord Westfall was taking his seat in the box across the theater from her. Why had she not noticed him there before?

  He met her gaze steadily and then looked down at the action on the stage. Her chest constricted as she continued to study him. When she’d first met him at Benedick’s party, she’d thought him awkward, a bit clumsy. Rather like an overgrown puppy.

  That was before he’d kissed her. He had seemed singularly accomplished for someone who claimed he’d never kissed a woman.

  Westfall was beyond odd. The things he said didn’t fit society’s rules for acceptable conversation. He made her feel exposed, as if he’d somehow seen her naked. She waited for a prickly opinion of him to sprout in her chest. Instead, she felt only confusion and the sort of soppiness she despised in other women.

  All because he kissed like a god.

  What a befuddling man.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Benedick’s whisper interrupted her musings. She jerked her gaze from Lord Westfall and fastened it on her protector’s face.

  “Only a penny?” she said with false gaiety. “Everything about me is far more expensive than that.”

  He chuckled. “And worth every sovereign, my dear. I don’t fault you for ogling Viscount Westfall. The man is striking.”

  Albemarle was on top of everything. Trust him not to miss her interest in Westfall.

  “However, I’d rather you not do it when Lady Waldgren is likely to catch you.”

  The Waldgren box was located next to Lord Albemarle’s, close enough that if Benedick wished, he could reach across and hand the beleaguered Lord Waldgren a handkerchief if he needed one to stop up his ears when his wife began nattering on. Now however, the waspish woman was gawking, not gabbing. Her lorgnette was trained not on the stage, but on Benedick and Nora.

  Nora cast Lady Waldgren a poisonous smile to let her know she’d been caught snooping. The lorgnette shifted guiltily to the singers below.

  “I understand Lord Westfall put in an appearance at my last party, but I didn’t get the chance to meet the man,” Benedick said softly. “Did you?”

  She was tempted to lie. It might be better to say that she knew nothing of Westfall, that she’d been staring off into space instead of mooning over him and reliving the feel of his lips on hers. Instead, she leaned toward Benedick. She had myriad acquaintances, but he was her ally in most matters, the closest thing she had to a friend. She owed him truth.

  “Yes, I met him, but he didn’t stay long. He’s not… Well, he didn’t seem comfortable in a crowd,” she whispered behind her fan. “Why did you invite him in the first place?”

  “Because he and Lord Stanstead are both known associates of the Duke of Camden. Since I can never lure His Grace to one of my fetes, I thought I’d start with his friends and work my way into the duke’s good opinion through that backdoor,” Benedick explained. “He may be a recluse, but Camden swings a good deal of weight in some very important circles. Circles I may find myself in need of someday.”

  “And you hope to make him an asset,” Nora concluded. Almost every relationship in Benedick’s life was balanced by how it might benefit him. Even his relationship with her. Yes, he found her company amusing, and they’d formed something approximating a partnership, but if she ceased being useful to him, she doubted he’d trouble himself over her long. Not that he’d be cruel. Benedick wouldn’t send her away without a generous pension, but then he’d move on to someone who would benefit him more.

  “The Duke of Camden an asset? Lud, no. Someone of Camden’s stature is no one’s ‘asset.’ Unless I discover that His Grace hides some hideous secret, I’d never be able to bend him to my will.” Benedick sighed. “No, in the Duke of Camden’s case, I have to be content with politics as usual. Quid pro quo and all that. But we still might be able to help each other in areas of mutual interest. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to get close enough to the man to find out what those might be.”

  “So in the meantime, we should cultivate the duke’s friends.” She stressed the “we” a bit to remind him that she did bring something to the table besides her pretty face.

  He patted her forearm. “Yes, my dear. You may pursue Lord Westfall, if you like. But be discreet.”

  “When am I not?”

  He arched a brow at her. “You mean other than a few minutes ago when you were practically disrobing the man with your eyes?” Benedick tossed an appraising glance across the theater toward Westfall. “Not that I blame you.”

  “I was not disrobing him.” Now that Benedick had mentioned it, all she could think about was what Westfall might have hidden beneath his superfine jacket and starched cravat. The male form held no surprises for her, but every man had his own unique strengths and, sadly, weaknesses as well. Westfall was a large man, broad through the shoulders, and tall. She wondered if he was proportional in other places as well.

  “Frankly, I’m more puzzled by him than attracted,” she lied. “What’s this I hear about him being…committed?”

  “Now we come to it. I wasn’t going to burst your bubble, since you’re clearly besotted with the fellow. Don’t fret. The gossip wasn’t about him being engaged or otherwise committed to some young lady.” Benedick smirked. “It’s actually much worse.”

  Since Lady Waldgren was glaring in their direction again, Benedick took Nora’s hand and brought her knuckles to his lips. When he released her hand, she let it settle on his leg. Then she ran her palm up and down from his knee to mid-thigh.

  Might as well give the old biddy something to gossip about. Of course, by the time Lady Waldgren was done with her account of the exchange, the tale would be that Lady Nora Claremont and Lord Albemarle had all but rutted each other blind in the dim light of the opera house.

  For the gossip’s sake, Benedick leaned over and bussed his lips on Nora’s neck before continuing to whisper, “According to all reports, your Lord Westfall is mad as a hatter.”

  “Mad?” Her hand stopped its light massage. He wasn’t her Lord Westfall, particularly if he
was mad, but this was not the place to argue the point.

  To further scandalize Lady Waldgren, Benedick removed his pristine white gloves, then tugged off one of hers. He took his time about it, stroking her palm before lacing her bare fingers with his. With this sort of attention to detail, Nora suspected Benedick was a gentle and thorough lover, though she’d never know from actual experience.

  “Westfall’s family tried to hush up his condition, of course. Evidently, the problem showed itself when he was quite young. He was tutored at home instead of being sent to Eton or Harrow. They kept him in the country as much as they could, but when his father died and he came into the title, it was impossible to keep his madness a secret any longer.” Benedick shrugged eloquently. “His uncle had him committed to Bedlam a few years ago.”

  Bedlam. Something inside Nora stiffened at the sound of the name. Its proponents argued that Bethlem Royal Hospital for the Insane was a necessary evil to protect society from lunatics. But rumors about the cruelty of the dubious “treatments” practiced on Bedlam’s inmates leaked from its walls like filth from a cracked chamber pot.

  “Once someone enters Bedlam, they rarely emerge,” she said. Unless they are wrapped in a shroud.

  “It is a wonder that Westfall is out and about in society.” Benedick nodded. “Blame it on the Duke of Camden. A few months ago, His Grace inexplicably interested himself in the fellow. He crossed enough palms with coin that he was able to have Westfall released to his care. Heaven only knows what that cost him.” Benedick’s gaze flicked to the viscount and then back to her. “I must say, the poor man cleans up well, but still, one wonders why Camden bothered.”

  Obviously, Benedick suspected this was the tip of some secret that might serve his interests. Nora had never met the Duke of Camden, but she blessed him for his compassion.

  Bedlam, of all God-forsaken places, and sent there by his family, to boot. Good Lord, what Westfall must have endured. “What does Lord Westfall’s family think of him being out?”

  “His uncle is less than pleased, I’m sure. After all, his nephew is the only thing that keeps him from inheriting his dead brother’s title and lands.”

  “So Westfall’s commitment may have been motivated solely by greed. Perhaps he isn’t truly mad at all,” Nora said softly as Benedick stroked her forearm. If he meant anything by the caress, she might have found it pleasurable.

  “Aren’t you the clever girl? I believe I’m rubbing off on you.” As if to suit his actions to his words, he nuzzled her neck. “But unfortunately, no. Westfall is quite dotty. The fact that his parents recognized it in childhood proves his troubles predate his uncle’s actions.”

  Then Benedick turned suddenly to Lady Waldgren, who was still leering at them from the neighboring box. “Perhaps you might wish to hire a painter, Madam. If you capture Lady Nora and me on canvas as we take ease of each other, you may gawk at us at your leisure.”

  Lady Waldgren sputtered. “Well, I never—”

  “Probably not,” Benedick interrupted. “Therein lies your problem. Good evening, my lady.” He nodded to Lord Waldgren who was half asleep in the chair behind his wife. “My lord, you have my deepest condolences.”

  “Why?” Lord Waldgren asked, blinking stupidly as he jerked to full wakefulness. “Who died?”

  “We are at the opera. Everybody dies,” Benedick quipped. “But I refer to your patience, sir. It must be totally expired by now. Good evening.”

  Benedick raised Nora to her feet and started to shepherd her out without asking if she wished to stay until the entertainment’s end. He’d accomplished what he wanted with that group during intermission. It didn’t matter a jot to him that Nora was engaged in the opera and wanted to know how the story ended. She cast a glance at the stage where the heroine was still searching for her imprisoned husband amid the forbidding cells. Then she looked once more across the theater toward the Duke of Camden’s box.

  Lord Westfall’s gaze was fixed on her, a look of concentration on his handsome features. It wasn’t the glazed-eyed stare of lust she was expecting. It was more as if she were a museum piece whose meaning he was trying to unravel.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  Or of him.

  Everyone always talks about the advance of scientific knowledge as if it’s an unqualified good thing. The vivisectionist, for example, has added considerably to our knowledge of the body and how it all works. He is hailed as forward thinking and courageous, because he is willing to brave certain taboos as he hacks up his living subjects in search of further understanding.

  However, no one asks his subjects what they think of the process.

  ~from the secret journal of Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall

  Chapter Seven

  Water spewed from his mouth and nose. This was it. He was dying for certain this time. He’d never get enough out. He gagged and sputtered, fighting to clear his airway. Then he gasped and, God be praised, the dank air of the subterranean chamber invaded his oxygen-starved lungs.

  I’m going to live, shrieked through his brain.

  No one was more surprised than he.

  His head lolled forward. He fought the gathering blackness at the edge of his vision. If he sank into it, his tormentors would only use the cattle prod to revive him again. He forced himself to look up at his doctor’s face.

  “Very good, Mr. Langdon,” the quack said. Pierce couldn’t remember the man’s name. Couldn’t remember ever hearing it. Or if he had, subsequent water “treatments” must have rinsed it right out of his brain. “You came through that surprisingly well.”

  Pierce was strapped naked to a wooden chair whose surfaces had been scoured smooth by countless thousands of gallons of water. The only rough spot was under Pierce’s bare backside, but that discomfort was minor compared with the other indignities he suffered. He shivered so hard his teeth knocked against one another. If his tongue got in the way, he’d bite it in two. He had no sensation below his ankles. Cold leached up his shins from the wet stone floor.

  “As you can see, my device is a significant improvement over Van Helmont’s full immersion therapy,” the doctor jabbered on to his colleague who was taking copious notes. “It completely pacifies the belligerent patient and puts him in a suggestible state.”

  “Not to mention that the patient, he is less likely to drown than with Van Helmont’s method.” The new doctor had an Italian accent. His nasal tone danced up and down Pierce’s spine, pausing at intervals to grind in its sharp heel.

  “Quite. I’m happy to report we’ve only lost four this month.”

  The Italian made a noise of approval. The men’s thoughts, small-minded and self-aggrandizing at the same time, vied with each other for supremacy in the air over their heads. Pierce tried not to listen to them. The words coming out of their mouths were confusing enough.

  Instead, he stared at the drain in the floor. It was between his feet. He thought they were his feet, but he couldn’t be sure because he couldn’t feel them any longer. The last of the deluge pooled around his blue toes and glumped down the drain in belching hitches, ready to be forced through a system of pumps back into the massive tank above his head.

  “A quantifiable improvement, indeed. What is Signor Langdon’s diagnosis?”

  He might as well have been a dumb beast, the way they spoke about him as if he weren’t even present. Perhaps he wasn’t. Not in any way that counted.

  “Pitiable case, sir. Pitiable. You’d never know he was a lord to look at him, would you?”

  No one looks lordly if you strip them naked and strap them to a chair, Pierce thought defiantly, but he was careful to keep his eyes downcast lest the doctors see bloodlust swirling behind his irises. If he wasn’t so weakened by the “treatments,” he’d tear off his bonds, cheerfully strangle the pair of them, and sleep like the just, once the deed was done.

  “But his title is no proof against what’s going on in his poor brainpan,” the doctor went on. “He first prese
nted with mania, claiming he heard voices. Even more incredible, Langdon believed he was hearing the thoughts of those around him. He was quite adamant that I believe him on that point and, I must admit, he did come up with some rather amazing guesses that might have fooled those who are disposed to believe such rot. However, after a few weeks of treatment he stopped trying to coerce me into joining in his manic fantasy and became sullen and uncooperative.”

  The Italian doctor made a tsking noise. “Melancholia, you think?”

  The first doctor nodded. “Now I fear he may be slipping into dementia. He often cannot remember his own name.”

  “Neither would you if someone half drowned you every day,” Pierce mumbled, but the words were so garbled as to be unintelligible.

  “He speaks. Oh, good. It’s very important to implant the desired change when the mind is at its most pliable. Now, Mr. Langdon, I want you to repeat after me. I CANNOT HEAR THE THOUGHTS OF THOSE AROUND ME. Say it. Say it just once and the orderly will come and dress you and you can return to your cell. I CANNOT HEAR THE THOUGHTS OF THOSE AROUND ME.”

  Pierce forced himself to focus on the doctor’s gaunt face. The man was so pale and his cheekbones protruded so sharply as he leered down at him that Pierce couldn’t shake the thought that he was looking at a skull.

  “I can see your bones,” he muttered.

  “Dear me, now he’s delusional,” the doctor said, making a mark on the paper in his folder. “Fill the tank again, if you please, Dr. Falco.”

  Pierce screamed.

  “For the love of God, no!”

  His own shouting woke him. All his muscles were clenched. Even though he recognized his surroundings, and he knew he was safe, it was some minutes before he could slow his racing heart.

  Only a dream. It was only a dream.

  Westfall wasn’t still held captive in the lower reaches of Bedlam. No quack was about to administer yet another treatment. He was warm and dry and comfortable on a thick feather tick in one of the Duke of Camden’s sumptuous guest quarters.