The Madness of Lord Westfall

by Mia Marlowe

  “I thought he was enjoying the country,” Lady Easton said from the opposite end of the chintz settee from Nora. Miss Anthony, who was seated between them, contributed nothing to the discussion. “Didn’t you think so, Lady Nora?”

  Nora nodded mutely. Pierce had seemed happy. Fewer voices, he’d said. And since His Grace’s party had moved to Albion Abbey, she and Pierce were close enough to be able to steal away together. He’d loved her to exhaustion last night and then had let her sleep in his arms. She’d never felt so safe.

  Now she’d never felt so betrayed. Her left knee jittered under her gown, and she was unable to stop its constant motion without concerted effort. Where could the man be?

  She had thought it strange that he left her sleeping in his bed, but Pierce was unlike any man she’d ever known. He must have had his reasons. She assumed an early morning constitutional was at the heart of his disappearance from her side.

  Nora wasn’t surprised when he didn’t appear for breakfast, but after luncheon, she began to make discreet inquiries of the servants. None of them had seen him since he retired the night before. When he couldn’t be found for dinner, she made Albemarle launch a search, but by then Pierce had been missing for more than twelve hours.

  And she couldn’t shake the feeling that if only she’d told him what was in her heart, if she’d admitted that she loved him, he’d have told her his plans.

  Or if she’d have accepted his awkward suggestion that she marry him, perhaps he wouldn’t have disappeared at all.

  …

  His cheek scraped against rough wood. When he lifted his head, the stickiness and the coppery tang of blood in the stuffy compartment made him realize he’d been in that position a long time. His cheek had been rubbed against the wood hard enough to abrade the skin and start it bleeding.

  Pierce struggled back to full awareness, but nothing made any sense. A strange jostling motion rattled his teeth and made every joint in his body ache. He couldn’t move any of his limbs.

  He forced his eyes open, but the small space in which he was confined was so dark, he was no better informed than if he’d kept them shut. He seemed to be in some sort of enclosed conveyance because he could feel every bump in the road they traveled. However, there were no tufted squabs to sit upon, no curtained windows to gaze through. The cart was obviously not designed to transport human beings.

  His last coherent memory was of settling into a steaming hip bath to let the road dirt soak off. Mr. Dickens had left a tumbler with two fingers of whiskey on a small table for him to enjoy as he bathed, a gesture he had found particularly civilized. He thought it less civilized now. The drink had obviously been laced with some sort of opiate.

  He supposed he should have been grateful that his uncle and aunt hadn’t simply drowned him in the tub. Then he remembered where they were likely sending him. Even though he’d counted on this reaction from them when he came up with the plan, dreaming up a risky scheme and actually going through with it were two different things. He decided it was sensible not to be too grateful to his aunt and uncle.

  Lying on his side, he realized that he’d been restrained as well as drugged. The straightjacket cut into his armpits and the tether binding his ankles forced him to bend his knees and curl his legs back. With his arms strapped across his chest, it was damnably uncomfortable.

  As his tormentors had intended.

  He sighed. He was either being shipped back to Bedlam like a returned parcel or his aunt and uncle were going to have him drowned in the first river deep enough to do the job, far away from Westphalia, so as to remove any connection to them.

  Still, his aunt’s dire prediction about brevity of his visit aside, he’d thought he’d at least have one night in his own bed while they made up their minds as to what course to take.

  Since he had no way of knowing how long he’d been insensate, he didn’t know how long a journey to expect. Over the clack of wheels, he began to hear other noises. The cry of a fishmonger. Church bells. The shouts of carters and the low hum of a city waking to another day.

  The distinctive tarry-fishy stench of the Thames began to creep through the chinks in his prison.

  Southwark. He was headed back to Bethlem Hospital for the Insane, then.

  He ought to be pleased. This was his plan, after all. He couldn’t very well present himself at the hospital gate and demand to be allowed back in. He had to arrange for someone to commit him, and his aunt and uncle had already shown a readiness for the job. And becoming an inmate of Bedlam was the only way he’d be able to search Dr. Falco’s office for those incriminating letters from Lord Albemarle.

  But when his conveyance stopped and he heard the screech of the iron gates of Bedlam opening before him, fear made his balls try to retreat back up into his body. Then the cart rolled forward, and the gates closed behind him.

  His soul froze.

  The compartment in which he was bound was pried open, and light flooded the small space. Pierce blinked at the brightness as rough hands hauled him out and dropped him, without ceremony, onto the stone pavers before the hospital’s entrance.

  “Ah! We meet again, Mr. Langdon.” The doctor who’d treated him previously was there to greet him. Pierce searched his memory for the quack’s name, but where it ought to have been stored, there was only a watery miasma, a snot-running, bile-rising, ball-freezing glop of things best left forgotten. However, Pierce did remember the trim, dark-haired fellow at his side. It was Lord Albemarle’s Dr. Falco.

  Pierce’s doctor summoned a great lummox of an orderly with an imperious wave. “We don’t want his lordship to leave us again before his cure is complete.” He leaned down and made a great show of examining Pierce’s eyes, which were no doubt wild after the opiates he had ingested at his relatives’ hands. “Mr. Langdon, what was your mother’s maiden name?”

  He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry little more than a croak came out. He swallowed hard. “Mycroft,” he managed to whisper.

  “Very well.” The doctor made a note on the sheaf of papers and then handed them off to the orderly. “From now on, you’ll be known as Mr. Mycroft. This way, if that infernal busybody, the Duke of Camden, suspects you’re here and tries to have you released again, I can tell him with absolute integrity that we have no Mr. Langdon in residence.”

  Pierce’s heart sank to his toes. The doctor had erased him. He’d gone from being a peer of the realm to Mr. Langdon to a nonentity in only a few blinks.

  “Since he was here before, he may be recognized by some of the staff,” Dr. Falco said. “I suggest he wear a mask or a hood for a while, in case there are inquiries from outside. We cannot allow his treatment to be interrupted again.”

  Before Pierce could dodge it, the doctors slipped a canvas hood over his head. It had holes for his eyes and mouth and fastened at his neck with a padlock.

  His plan had seemed sound. Since the Finder had revealed where Lord Albemarle’s letters were secreted away, he only needed the right moment to steal them back. Once Nora’s patron was no longer being blackmailed, he would surely give up the Fides Pulvis and the Prince Regent would continue to support a plan that would ensure peace on the Continent. Nora would be beyond grateful to him for extricating her friend from his intolerable situation. Perhaps grateful enough to realize she could trust Pierce to handle other things for her. And for Emilia.

  He hadn’t told His Grace his plans ahead of time, on the theory that it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission. To escape from Bedlam with the letters tucked in his waistcoat, he had been counting on His Grace to figure out where he was and to use his influence to have him released.

  His Grace would eventually come to Bedlam to ask if Mr. Langdon had been readmitted, but no one would look for someone named Mycroft. Since he was hooded, not even Meg would be able to Find him without knowing the name they had assigned him.

  “Our patient has had a tiring journey. Perhaps he should have a day to rest before we resume treatments,” P
ierce’s doctor said. “What do you think, Dr. Falco?”

  “Has your research not shown the treatments, they are most effective when the brain is in a suggestible state?” the Italian said. “Extreme fatigue from his journey should put Signor Mycroft into a receptive frame of mind.”

  “I concur. The damage done while he has been gone from us must be countermanded immediately. Dodsworth,” he said to the lumbering orderly, “Prepare the patient for the water chair.”

  Pierce felt as though he’d been gut-punched. He had never dreamed he’d be sent to the chair first thing. He had planned to be a model patient. He’d agree to everything his doctor said and be as docile as a lamb. He figured only a few days of that subterfuge would earn him free rein of the facility as one of the trusted “inmate wardens.” With the ability to come and go within Bedlam’s walls, he’d be able to sneak into Falco’s office and steal the letters.

  Now, even though he was still bound hand and foot, Pierce struggled against Dodsworth and his minions. He might have had a chance without the straightjacket. He was a good fighter in a tight spot. But not only did the restraint keep him from doing anything but thrashing about and screaming obscenities he hadn’t known were in him, it provided admirable handles for the orderlies to use as they carted him off to the scene of his recurring nightmare.

  And he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

  The first time I was committed, part of the hell of Bedlam was that I was never alone, not even in my solitary cell. All those diseased minds poked at me constantly. Day and night, coherent or gibberish, their disjointed thoughts pounded away at my brain.

  This time, thanks to the Duke of Camden’s mental exercises, my shield will keep them out. However, nothing will keep their piteous bleating and miserable cries from assaulting my unprotected ears.

  ~from the secret journal of Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall

  Chapter Twenty

  Vesta LaMotte found the duke in the Albion Abbey chapel, wandering from one stained glass window to the next. His shoulders slumped. Even from across the space, she felt his despondency and wished with all her heart she could ease it. She slipped down the aisle to join him as he stood before a depiction of the miracle at Cana.

  “Turning water into wine. Now there’s a truly useful miracle for you,” she said, trying to lighten his mood.

  “All miracles are useful. Why would they happen unless they were needed?” Camden sighed. “We could certainly do with one. I can’t sense Westfall at all.”

  “Well, that could simply mean that he’s using the skills you taught him and is shielding his mind. Which also shields his gift from you.”

  Camden massaged his temple, obviously trying to stave off one of his horrendous headaches. They always accompanied times when he overtaxed himself, trying to locate the source of psychic energy emanating from another Extraordinaire. Or in this case, trying to sense a missing viscount.

  “Or Westfall is no longer among the living,” he said wearily. “I’ve yet to be able to sense the presence of the dead.”

  Vesta bit back the retort that danced on the tip of her tongue. She sympathized with Edward’s loss of his wife and child, but the longer he continued to seek a medium to force a way to communicate with Mercedes, the longer he put off dealing with the fact that she was gone.

  “Edward, you don’t have to do everything yourself. You have other assets, you know.” She linked her arm with his and started to walk back up the aisle. Even though Vesta was a courtesan, she wasn’t the least uncomfortable in churches or chapels. After all, some of Christ’s best friends had been the worst sinners. She fit into that category with ease, but Edward wasn’t as at home in sacred spaces. He still blamed the Almighty too much for his losses.

  “Miss Anthony could search for Pierce,” she suggested. “You sense your Extraordinaires based on their psychic abilities. But Meg can Find people and objects regardless of whether they have any supernatural attributes.”

  He shook his head. “Since we know how dangerous using her gift is, I can’t order her to search for him.”

  “Perhaps not. An order would be heavy-handed in this instance, even for you, but you might ask her if she’d be willing to try. She and Pierce are friends, you know.”

  His raised brows said he didn’t. “I wasn’t aware that Westfall had made any such attachments. Is there…a romantic element to their friendship?”

  “Heavens, you truly are oblivious, aren’t you?” Vesta rolled her eyes. “Our dear Pierce is hopelessly smitten with Lady Nora.”

  “Ah, and his fondness is returned,” Camden nodded as if a candle of understanding had just been kindled in his mind. “No wonder the lady was so upset when he absented himself from Albion Abbey suddenly and inexplicably. Does Lord Albemarle suspect his mistress’s affections are elsewhere engaged?” Camden’s brows lowered in a frown. “Do you suppose the baron might have done something underhanded to Westfall?”

  “No, I’m sure he hasn’t. Benedick isn’t the jealous type.”

  “Benedick? I had no idea you were on such intimate terms with the man.”

  “Now who’s sounding jealous?” Vesta chuckled. “But you have no need to be. Intimate is not a word I’d use to describe my friendship with Albemarle. We share a love of poets and other starveling artists, nothing more.”

  If Edward hadn’t heard the rumors about Benedick’s sexual preferences, Vesta saw no need to enlighten him. What two adults did in private was their own business. It should have no bearing on the public aspects of their lives. Of course, she knew her opinion was in the minority and not likely to become more generally endorsed by the ton any time soon, but one of the lovely things about being a courtesan was that she was expected to have a few outrageous opinions.

  “But back to Miss Anthony,” Vesta said as they neared the nail-studded door that led out to the open cloister. “You need to give her a chance to help you. She wants to be useful. Lud, I’ve never seen such a puppy of a person as she. She lives to please you, Your Grace.”

  And so would I. If only you’d let me.

  …

  A gentle rain fell on the cloister, painting the statue of the saint dark gray and leaving all the shrubbery in the enclosed space a slick, vibrant green. Camden turned away from the window in one of Lord Albemarle’s parlors to survey his remaining Extraordinaires. Since Benedick and his household retainers were still knee-deep in the search for Westfall, Camden and his associates were able to assemble in privacy.

  “LeGrand, you’ve been posing as Westfall’s valet,” he said. “Did he give any indication that something odd was afoot?”

  “Monsieur le Viscount, he did not confide in me, Your Grace. In truth, he rarely allowed me to even pretend to serve him,” the water mage said. “I do not think he enjoys the company of others. Perhaps he has merely gone away to seek solitude for selfish reasons.”

  Lady Easton shook her head. “Lord Westfall is one of the least selfish individuals I’ve ever known. If he were leaving the Order for personal reasons, he would have told someone. He is far too mannerly not to extend us that courtesy.”

  “Which means he thinks he is advancing the Order’s cause by his absence somehow,” Camden said. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Miss Anthony?”

  Meg startled a bit at the sound of her name, and Camden might have suspected the Finder had been wool-gathering if not for the look of concern on her face.

  “If we knew where he was, we’d be closer to knowing why he left. Let me Find him for you,” Meg said. “I know you’re concerned for me, Your Grace, and I’m ever so grateful for it, but I can do this without too much risk. I feel certain of it.”

  Now that he knew Meg courted death each time her spirit flew free of her body, Camden was torn. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. But if he didn’t let her Find Westfall and something harmed the viscount, he’d be burdened with just as heavy a load of guilt.

  “How can we minimize the danger to you?�
�� he asked.

  “If you all come around and put your hands on me. Somehow, the physical contact creates a stronger anchor for me,” she explained. “It will help me return more quickly, once I Find his lordship.”

  Camden arched a brow at her. “I believe I should not ask how you discovered this.”

  “That’s good, Your Grace, because I believe I shouldn’t want to answer.” She moved to the center of the tufted settee and waited while Vesta and Lady Easton settled themselves on either side of her and took her hands in theirs. Camden and LeGrand stood behind the settee and placed their palms on Miss Anthony’s shoulders.

  “Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall,” she said, repeating his name. When she sought an object, a description of the item was more helpful to her, but when she launched her soul skyward in search of a person, it was the name by which they were known that pulled her essence to them. She stiffened suddenly. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and her body slumped.

  Camden wished he could follow her spirit’s progress. Wished he could take the risk she ran on himself, but Vesta was right. He couldn’t do it all. He needed to let the members of the Order exercise their gifts. Just as a cord of many strands was stronger than a single one, the Order was stronger together than any of them were apart.

  The seconds ticked by. They turned into minutes and still Miss Anthony didn’t return. Her lips had gone bloodless, and there was a blue tinge around her sightless eyes.

  “Enough, Miss Anthony,” Camden whispered. “Come back at once.”

  “She can’t hear you, Edward,” Vesta said, but he noticed she gripped Meg’s hand tighter.

  “It is almost two minutes, Your Grace,” LeGrand said. He flicked his hand at Meg and droplets of water shot from his fingertips to land on her unresponsive face. The water mage shook his head ruefully. “That is usually enough to revive a lady in a swoon.”

  “This is no swoon,” Camden said, resisting the urge to give her a shake. This was death. Without her spirit, Meg’s body was dying by inches. Why had he ever allowed her to conduct this search?