The Madness of Lord Westfall

by Mia Marlowe

  But he couldn’t seem to stop shivering.

  Fortunately, the servants at Camden House were accustomed to all manner of strange noises coming from his room and no longer came running when a nightmare chased him from sleep. However, someone had probably heard him cry out. He cringed with embarrassment over the fact that his weakness had been exposed once again.

  Westfall forced himself out of bed and got dressed. His wardrobe needs were simple. Besides, he didn’t want to bother with a valet’s attentions. It would only mean one more mind from whom he’d have to shield himself. As usual, a servant had slipped into his chamber while he slept and left a breakfast tray for him. He suffered through suppers in the dining room with the entire household, but this small concession saved him from having to sit with the other minds around a table for his morning meal as well.

  So far, Westfall was allowed to live in monk-like seclusion whenever he wished. Eventually, however, the duke would expect him to be more sociable with the other residents and guests of Camden House.

  Since he’d been venturing out into society on behalf of the Order and he had to erect and maintain his mental shield most of the time, he appreciated the leisure of being able to relax his vigilance in the mornings. After taking his tea and wolfing down three rolls with clotted cream and jam, he wandered down to the solarium.

  The fresh green breath of plants met him at the door. The duke’s gardener cultivated a number of exotic species, but the man was careful to make himself scarce when Westfall entered. The duke must have left orders in that regard. Since Pierce had demonstrated a knack for it, the gardener even allowed Pierce to do some of the watering and a bit of minor pruning.

  Plants were so much easier than people.

  A number of African violets needed repotting, so Pierce removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and went to work. It felt good to get his hands dirty, to feel the tender roots loosen and then settle into their new home.

  If he could hear the thoughts of plants, he suspected they’d be breathing a sigh of relief and saying, “Thank you.” He smiled at the imagined chorus of greenery expressing their gratitude. They’d have sweet, bloodless voices.

  Like angels.

  He’d always enjoyed his own company and rarely felt solitude was a burden. For the first time, though, he began to wish he could tolerate someone else’s presence well enough to share his passions and pleasures. Would anyone else be amused by the thought of his angelic violet chorus? What would Lady Nora think about it?

  “Where are you hiding? Oh, there you are, Pierce.”

  He’d wished for company, and now he had it. “Be careful what you wish for,” he grumbled to himself as he quickly refastened his cuffs and donned his jacket.

  Vesta LaMotte stepped gingerly down the narrow path between the new beds.

  “I was hoping I’d catch you alone,” she said gaily.

  “Of course, I’m alone.” As if he ever sought out the company of others. Still, Vesta was always unfailingly kind to him, and he had the sense that she carefully guarded her thoughts when she was near so as not to shock him unduly. Her mind never battered away at his shield like Stanstead’s did.

  “How are you?” he asked because it was the “done” thing to inquire.

  “Getting old,” she said because it was not the “done” response. Vesta often advised him that if one couldn’t be witty one should at least strive to be surprising. “But I suppose I ought not to complain, considering the alternative. Now what’s this I hear about you turning into a recluse again? Camden tells me you have gone to ground since the opera last week. You’d been making such great strides prior to that. Why are you refusing to venture out?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t do the Order any good at the opera. I’m not likely to do any better at a piano recital or a gallery opening or a bear baiting, for that matter.”

  Those were all places where Lady Nora was expected to be, probably on the arm of her patron Lord Albemarle. Westfall could have made an appearance at any of them since they were public events and no invitation was required. But he didn’t want to have to grit his teeth and watch as the baron made love to Nora in the open again the way he had in his box at the opera.

  “I’ll have you know that it was not easy for me to tease the lady’s schedule from her,” Vesta said. “Quite tedious, actually.”

  “I would have thought you and she would enjoy each other’s company. You have a great deal in common.”

  “A sisterhood of tarts, as it were? Oh, I am sorry. I can see that word shocks you, but believe me when I say I was censoring myself. Polite Society calls us much worse.” She gave a dismissive wave of her bejeweled hand. Vesta never wore gloves if she could help it. She liked showing off her rings far too much. Some fingers boasted more than one. “Well, since Lady Nora and I have chosen similar paths, I suppose one might expect that to lead to a sense of camaraderie, if not for the fact that our line of work is extremely competitive. And since the care and pleasing of the male of the species is our bread and butter, we tend not to be disposed toward female friendships. However, she surprised me yesterday afternoon. Lady Nora paid me a call.”

  His ears pricked. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Vesta slipped her hand into the crook of Pierce’s elbow and gracefully forced him to escort her through the greenery, stooping occasionally to smell a beckoning blossom. “She disguised her purpose well. At first, she asked my advice about how to set up the annuity her current protector wishes to settle on her. But then as soon as I finished giving her the barest of guidance about her financial matter, she turned the conversation to you almost immediately. You have definitely piqued the lady’s interest.”

  Something snapped to attention inside him. “What did you tell her?”

  “That you’re a hopeless neurotic who hears the thoughts of others but won’t use his formidable power to control them.”

  “What?” The cardinal rule of the Order of the M.U.S.E. was that one never discussed the psychic gifts (or burdens, in his case) of its members.

  “I’m only teasing, dear boy. I’d never betray you.” She patted his forearm. “But you could, you know. Control others, I mean. The ability you bear is ripe with ever so many powerful possibilities. It’s fortunate for the world that you’re the one to whom it was given. Just imagine if Bonaparte had possessed your gift—or even our own Prinny!” She shuddered delicately.

  Privately, Pierce thought it might be good for those in power to know exactly what the others around them thought. As it stood, they were more likely to be advised by people who said only what their ruler wanted to hear. No one should be guided solely by thoughts that mirrored their own. No one was smart enough or principled enough for that.

  “In any case, I told Lady Nora that you’re one of the duke’s trusted associates which, Lord knows, is true. Honestly, I don’t know which of you is the most misanthropic, you or Camden, but he does seem to like you well enough. He seeks out the company of so few. At least you have good reason to avoid others, while Edward…but that’s neither here nor there.” She made small circles with one hand, another of her expressive gestures. Tiny sparks seemed to shoot from under her lacquered nails, a small indication of the power of a fire mage which she kept under firm control most of the time. “At any rate, you seem to have captured the lady’s attention.”

  He shook his head. He’d made a cake of himself at their last meeting. Given his limited experience with the fair sex, why on earth had he dared to kiss a courtesan? “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, this letter is just saying that.” She drew a slender sealed parchment from her reticule and waggled it in the air. The violets he was working with had very little smell, but the scents of mint, lavender, and apple wafted from the missive.

  The heady mix was Nora’s fragrance.

  He reached for it, but Vesta snatched it away beyond his grasp.

  “Not so fast,” Vesta said. “First, the courier must have her pay, and I’ve d
ecided mine will be to know what’s in this message.”

  “Agreed.” He’d have licked the sole of her foot if she’d demanded it. “Now give it to me.”

  “As you wish. But pace yourself, dear boy. It’s only a letter.”

  Only a letter. Only something she’d touched. Only words she’d thought and committed to foolscap. And addressed to him. Maybe she didn’t think him mad. Maybe…

  He tore open the seal, pausing for a moment to close his eyes and drink in more of her scent as it emanated from the missive. Then he unfolded the foolscap and read:

  My dear Lord Westfall,

  I understand from my good friend, Miss LaMotte, that you are a horticultural enthusiast. My gardener has done some miraculous things with orchids of late. If you would like to see them, I will be at home on Thursday between the hours of two and four.

  Yours truly,

  N. Claremont

  “She invites me to visit her on Thursday. That’s today,” he realized. Vesta was looking at him expectantly, as if she couldn’t hear his heart thundering in his chest. He read the letter over a few more times to make certain he hadn’t misunderstood.

  “You’ll go, of course.” Vesta’s smile was so brilliant, it hurt to look at it.

  “But won’t Lord Albemarle be upset if I visit his mistress?”

  “If he isn’t, you’re not doing it right,” Vesta said dryly. “And if he is, worse things could happen. You are more likely to learn something of worth from an upset man than one who is in perfect charity with the world.”

  He’d forgotten completely that his association with Nora was supposed to be about discovering the nature and whereabouts of the Fides Pulvis. That reminder steadied him a bit.

  Then too, he ought to be repulsed by the notion of pursuing a courtesan in the first place. If a woman’s favor could be bought and sold, how could he put any value on it?

  But when he thought of Nora, things like right or wrong, respectable or beyond the pale, took wing and flew out the window.

  “What’s wrong with me, Vesta?”

  The fire mage leaned her head on his shoulder, and he noticed for the first time that a few strands of silver were interspersed with her golden locks. “Not a thing, Pierce. Not anything you can help, at any rate, so there’s no point in fretting over it.”

  “What do you mean? What can’t I help?”

  “Falling in love, my dear boy. Falling in love.”

  “That’s ludicrous. I barely know the lady.”

  “I would beg to differ. Because you can hear Lady Nora’s thoughts, you are able to know her deeply and well, in short order,” Vesta said. “Besides, you’re exhibiting the classic signs.”

  But what was Lady Nora exhibiting? She was interested in him, Vesta said. Was he a curiosity, like her orchids? Was he an amusement for when her patron wasn’t looking? No, someone tenderhearted enough to weep over the plight of opera characters wasn’t likely to use real people for sport.

  But he wasn’t like real people. Westfall was different and always would be. Would she run from him in horror once she knew what he was?

  Thanks to the generosity of my protector, I am a woman in possession of my own fortune. My supposed lover showers me with jewels and gifts and demands very little in return, beyond my loyalty and discretion. If they were honest, most women, even the married ones, would envy my place in the world.

  So why am I willing to risk everything because I can’t stop thinking about a madman’s kiss?

  ~from the secret journal of Lady Nora Claremont

  Chapter Eight

  That afternoon, Nora paced in her first floor parlor, waiting for Lord Westfall to make an appearance. It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t come. After all, what man would decline an opportunity to spend time alone with La Nora?

  “This one, most like,” she fretted to herself ruefully.

  She had the feeling that he disapproved of her but that he was still weirdly fascinated by her. He reminded her of a field mouse who is charmed immobile by a snake’s glassy stare, terrified but unable to look away.

  “Oh, Lud, that makes me the serpent,” she muttered.

  “My lady? Is something amiss? Do you require anything?”

  She’d forgotten that her butler, Mr. Whittles, was in the room. He was of medium height and build, pale-haired and of sallow complexion. The butler’s general appearance was that of a man crabbing sideways into his middle years and had been for as long as he’d been in Lord Albemarle’s employ. Benedick liked to joke that if Whittles stood naked before a beige wall and closed his eyes, he’d disappear entirely.

  “No, Whittles,” Nora said. “After you bring up some tea, you may take the rest of the day.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but it’s not my half day off till Saturday.”

  “Nevertheless, you will take the day.” She’d dismissed her lady’s maid and Cook at noon. Before that, the rest of the servants had been given orders not to return until tomorrow evening. She would have dispensed with Whittles sooner, too, but it was unheard of that she should answer her own door. “And don’t hurry back tomorrow. You know I never rise before noon, in any case.”

  “Yes, my lady. Very good.”

  “Oh, and Whittles, bring tea for two.”

  “Ah!” Whittles laid a finger alongside his nose in the time-honored gesture of collusion. “His lordship is coming. Say no more.”

  “I’m not expecting his lordship, though Lord Albemarle knows of my…friendship with the gentleman who’s coming to visit. However, I’d rather there was no confusion on the matter among the other servants, so let’s keep this between ourselves. I hope I can count on your discretion.”

  “Of course, my lady.” His head bobbed a few times like a water bird feeding in the shallows before he glided toward the door. “I am yours to command.”

  But Benedick’s to pay, she finished silently. Nothing would happen in her home that Lord Albemarle didn’t know about. She’d considered replacing Whittles, but he’d come with the house and had served Benedick for years. It didn’t seem fair to penalize the man for loyalty.

  She just wished she could inspire some for herself.

  Someone rapped the knocker on her front door.

  “That will be Lord Westfall. He’s come to see the orchids,” she added, wishing she hadn’t. She owed Whittles no explanation. “But first show him up here, and we’ll have refreshments.”

  “Right away, my lady.” The butler hurried to answer the door and then do her bidding over the matter of tea.

  She didn’t know why she insisted on the formality of tea. Westfall was such an unconventional fellow, she might as well have worn a gardener’s smock and met him in the hothouse behind her town house. Instead, she’d taken great pains with her appearance. She wanted to show him that, though she was a courtesan, she could receive a caller like a lady.

  Whatever had befallen her, whatever choices she’d made, she was still the daughter of an earl and knew how to behave like one when she wished.

  She draped herself gracefully on the settee, carefully arranging the flowing panels of her morning gown. Then she opened the book of poetry that had been left on the side table, though she didn’t really attend to the words.

  Nora felt his presence before she caught a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye. A ripple of feral pleasure coursed through her. He seemed to fill the parlor doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching on both sides.

  She changed her mind. There was nothing of a field mouse about this man.

  He made a stiff bow, but he didn’t speak.

  Nora looked up, aware that most men loved to catch a woman in this state. She was wearing half-dress, her hair unbound, her expression appropriately dewy-eyed and hopeful after supposedly letting Byron’s lush verses surge over her.

  “Hullo, Westfall,” she said.

  “Your book is upside down.”

  “Oh!” She laid it aside as quickly as if it were a viper.

 
; “But you looked lovely pretending to read it. I assume that was the point, so, well done.”

  “Well, I have read it, you know.” In fact, it was one of her favorites. Fugitive Pieces was Lord Byron’s first privately published collection of poems, some of which were vehemently disapproved of by his lordship’s boyhood preacher. Byron had been quietly trying to buy back all the copies that had been sold, but Nora would never part with hers.

  Westfall stared at the cover for a moment and began reciting:

  “‘Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,

  Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;

  From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,

  Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!’”

  That very stanza had just flitted through her mind. It was uncanny and reminded her of their kiss at the opera enough to set her insides a-jitter. “Oh, you know your Byron.”

  “Not really,” he said, “but it appears you do.”

  She rose hastily. “Where are my manners? Please have a seat.”

  Nora had chosen to meet him in the parlor located on the first floor toward the back of the house instead of in the more formal one in front. Here the chairs were overstuffed and comfortable instead of ostentatious and gilded. She’d surrounded herself with things she loved, not things meant to impress others. Rather than housing gewgaws and gizzwickies, the shelves along one wall held books whose spines showed wear. Instead of a fashionable Turkish rug, the hardwoods were bare and gleaming so the parquet’s design was shown to best advantage. While she wouldn’t throw rocks at a Gainsborough landscape, the walls in this room were graced with a simple framed set of pressed flowers.

  Westfall ignored her invitation to sit. The flowers caught his eye, and he wandered over to inspect them.

  “You collected these yourself,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, when I was a girl in Surrey.” What a very intuitive man he was. “They grow wild there.”