The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  Thinking she heard a distinctive note of pleasure in her cousin’s voice, Hester’s heart sank. “Are you in love with his Grace, then, Belle?”

  “Oh, no!” Isabella seemed shocked. “I would never dream of such a thing. It is vulgar to talk about love, Mama says.”

  Hester took a deep, bracing breath to tame her impatience. “It is quite all right to love one’s husband in my opinion. Nevertheless, if the term offends you, we can employ another. Do you favour the Duke of Bournemouth’s suit over the other gentlemen’s?”

  “Well, I must, mustn’t I? He’s a duke, and Sir Harrowby is nothing but a baronet.”

  “But my Lord St. Mars? Have you no feelings for him?”

  “He is very handsome. All the gossips say so.”

  “But what do you think, Belle? Whom do you wish to marry?”

  “Hester, that is enough!” Mrs. Mayfield emerged from her musings to scold her niece. “I will not have you encouraging Isabella with your ill-bred notions. As if a girl of her class should choose her own husband!”

  “I might like to pick my husband, Mama. If Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons were a duke, I think I should like to marry him. He is always so diverting, and he dresses better than many richer men.”

  Stunned by her cousin’s preference, Hester could only await the sound of her aunt’s displeasure.

  Surprisingly, Mrs. Mayfield made little protest. “He cannot be a duke, my dear . . . but he might become an earl. And if he does, I should do nothing to stop you from having him. Not unless his Grace comes up to scratch.” This was said with a sigh that suggested forlorn hopes.

  “How can Sir Harrowby be an earl, Mama, when Lord St. Mars stands before him?”

  “Never you mind.” Mrs. Mayfield stood. “It is getting very late. It must be on three o’clock and seeing we’ve left the ball early, we might as well seek our beds.”

  With a smothered yawn, Isabella rose from the loveseat. “Are you coming, Hester? I need someone to brush my hair, and I like the way you do it better than my maid.”

  Despite the thoughtlessness of her cousin’s request, Hester seized on the chance to speak to Isabella privately. “Of course, I’ll come,” she said. She would not be able to sleep soon in any case. Agitation would keep her awake.

  Together they walked from the withdrawing room and up the stairs. Isabella’s bedchamber occupied the second floor, alongside her mother’s. Hester’s was another flight up, near the servants’.

  The differences between their rooms did not stop with their floor. Mrs. Mayfield had decorated Isabella’s boudoir as if she expected gentlemen to attend her daughter’s levee. An elaborately japanned screen separated a pair of seldom-used, French chaises from the part of the chamber devoted to Isabella’s more intimate functions. Mrs. Mayfield knew that fashionable ladies received their callers while they dressed. Hester found the whole arrangement ridiculous. England, after all, was not France.

  There was no point in questioning Isabella until her maid had helped her off with her clothes and into a lawn nightgown, before going gratefully to her own bed. But later, as Hester stood behind her cousin, seated in front of the reflecting glass, brushing her thick, golden curls, she found her moment.

  “Bella,” she said, once her drowsy cousin had fallen silent, “did you truly mean you do not love St. Mars?”

  “I think he is handsome, but he does not dress as well as Sir Harrowby.”

  “Perhaps not, dear, but do you see nothing else in him to admire?”

  “Mama says his fortune will be immense when his father dies. Oh!” she exclaimed. “I forgot. His father is dead now, so he must be quite rich.”

  “I meant rather some quality of his, beyond his wealth. His strength, perhaps? Or his extraordinary gentility?”

  “Gentle? St. Mars? I do not think him gentle at all. He is so . . . so very vigorous! And he is grown so serious, when he used to be vastly more amusing. You have not seen him, Hester, when he looks at me so fiercely.”

  Hester gave a start. “I am sure St. Mars would do nothing to harm you, Belle. He loves you far too much.”

  Isabella giggled as if Hester and she had entered into a secret. “That’s what Mama said,” she confided, “when I told her that St. Mars stares at me in a way I do not like. Not at all like Sir Harrowby, who’s the perfect gentleman. He knows how to make pretty speeches without making me feel anything at all. Mama says that gentlemen like St. Mars are so passionate, they cannot always think before they act. She said that could turn to my advantage if I wanted.”

  Hester felt a cold, sick fury in the pit of her stomach. So St. Mars’s love was to be used, wasted, and despised? In spite of her own attraction, she found herself aching at his failure to attach Isabella. Bella was the girl he wanted, and was, therefore, the wife he should have. The only hope for his lordship that Hester could see was that her cousin might learn to reciprocate his passion in time.

  “Bella, what do you know of the intimacies of marriage? Would you not rather kiss St. Mars than any other of your swains?”

  “No.” Bella seemed firm on this point. “I think I would prefer Sir Harrowby. He makes me laugh.”

  “I am sure he does,” Hester said wryly. She couldn’t understand her cousin at all, but clearly Isabella’s passion had not yet been tapped. Not that Hester’s had been given a chance to flower either, but she had always been blessed with a fertile imagination.

  Sighing with genuine fatigue, she reached for Isabella’s cap. “Go to bed, dear,” she said, tying the ribands under her cousin’s chin. “We’ve talked enough for tonight.”

  Isabella thanked her prettily for brushing her hair and, yawning mightily again, stumbled off to bed as Hester took a tallow candle up to her room. One of Mrs. Mayfield’s economies forbade the use of wax in the bedchambers.

  Upstairs, there was no maid and no dressing table. Her furniture consisted of an old fashioned bed in sturdy English oak and an ancient cupboard that was quite sufficient for her modest wardrobe.

  Hester set the spluttering candle on a small table and prepared for sleep. The startling events at Lord Eppington’s ball, the sight of St. Mars so ill and feverish, the guests’ suspicions, and now Isabella’s complete indifference to St. Mars’s plight distressed her so much she doubted she would sleep. She wondered what the justice of the peace intended to ask St. Mars. His implication had been that his lordship would have to explain the quarrel he had had with his father.

  Hester worried that no one would take care of his wound, which might go septic. Fevered and upset, would St. Mars be able to defend himself?

  She told herself she had no right to feel this sharp an anxiety. Lord St. Mars—Lord Hawkhurst now—was a man with more power and influence than she could ever have. It would be presumptuous of her to think he could need her help.

  Yet, these were treacherous times. The Jacobites had not stopped complaining about King George’s accession, and rumours that the Pretender had landed on British soil continued to stir fears among the loyal populace. His Majesty had shown such a preference for the Whigs that he had created hostility even among those Tories who had pledged him their loyalty, and both parties were so acrimonious that no one could feel secure in this climate of smears and lies.

  Lord Hawkhurst had been a Tory, and Sir Joshua Tate, clothed as he was, could be nothing short of a Roundhead. He had shown no sympathy for St. Mars. On the contrary, he had seemed to regard him from the first with suspicion.

  He might think a greater motive for murder existed than a simple family quarrel. The Hawkhurst estate was one of the oldest and greatest in England; the Fitzsimmons family could trace its line back to the Norman Conquest, if not to William himself.

  Why would a son who was certain of inheriting that fortune be so foolish as to kill his own father? The question in itself was ridiculous. Still, Hester could not help wondering why the two men had fought.

  There was an old chipped mirror on the wall of her chamber, which told her little about her loo
ks. Nevertheless, tonight Hester carried the candle over to it and spent some time examining her features in the glass. She could find very little to recommend her, but a good, straight set of teeth. If Isabella had a flaw, it was a smile that seemed to beg for a set of false ones, but she was so like most other ladies in that regard, no one would notice the fault at all.

  “Poor St. Mars,” Hester sighed aloud. “I would return your affection if you loved me as you love Isabella, but I will not be so foolish as to hope for that.”

  She would ache for him on the day when he should learn how shallow Isabella’s feelings were. Most gentlemen, she knew, would be content just to have such a divine creature in their bed. But if Isabella could not return St. Mars’s love. . . .

  The heat Hester had seen in his eyes when he’d looked at her cousin had been enough to make her knees go weak. Even now as she pondered the depth of his desire, she grew quite restless. Thoughts of my Lord St. Mars and his wants were enough to send her hastily away from the mirror and its truths.

  Climbing under her moth-eaten covers, she made a firm vow. If it would make St. Mars happy to have her cousin Isabella, then she, Hester, would do everything in her power to see that he was not disappointed.

  Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear!

  Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Daemons, hear!

  Ye know the spheres and various tasks assigned

  By laws eternal to th’aerial kind.

  In various talk th’instructive hours they past,

  Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;

  One speaks the glory of the British Queen,

  And one describes a charming Indian screen;

  A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;

  At every word a reputation dies.

  Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,

  With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.

  CHAPTER 4

  Distressed by the attack on St. Mars, Thomas Barnes had disobeyed him to stay awake until he was safely home. Then, the justice of the peace from Kent had arrived and, within minutes, Lord Hawkhurst’s household had learned that the harsh, proud, but just man they all called master had been brutally killed. Sir Joshua Tate, informed of St. Mars’s whereabouts, had gone to Eppington House to deliver the news.

  Anxious and grieving, Tom awaited the return of the new Lord Hawkhurst. He knew that sorrow would prevent Gideon from welcoming his new honours. Still, Tom wanted to be the first to bend his knee to his master as a peer.

  The sound of wheels turning into the courtyard brought him eagerly to his feet. But the sight of his lordship’s strange retinue, consisting of two carriages, Gideon’s cousin, Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons, the justice of the peace, and two sober-faced constables, alerted Tom to the fact that something even worse was amiss.

  The footmen who had run alongside Gideon’s carriage hurried to open the coach door on which the Hawkhurst arms were emblazoned. As Tom moved nearer, flanked by two stable boys and the retreating footmen, he saw Gideon emerge.

  His normally sanguine mien was defaced by lines of pain. A cloud seemed to have affected his eyes, and perspiration beaded his face.

  The footmen recoiled in shock.

  Tom rushed forward.

  Gideon took a few steps his way, then reached out for his arm. Tom could feel him trembling with an uncontrollable chill.

  “Tom—Thomas—” Gideon spoke through chattering teeth— “help me upstairs and call for Philippe.”

  “Just a moment, my lord.” Sir Joshua came after him, protesting loudly. “There are questions to be answered.”

  In fear, Tom caught his master about the waist just as Gideon’s legs collapsed. “Can ye not see his lordship’s hurt?”

  His shout must have pierced Gideon’s oblivion, for he gave the ghost of a smile. “Tell them I shall speak to them in the morning,” he murmured, before he was overcome by the next wave of shudders.

  “Don’t you be fretting about them gen’lemen, Master Gideon. They can wait.” As Tom felt his master’s weight slump against him, alarm shot through him like birds flapping frantically in a cage.

  St. Mars was burning.

  “Open the door for my Lord St. Mars!” he cried for the second time that evening. Nearly dragging Gideon into the house, Tom prayed he would not lose both his masters on this one horrible night.

  Mrs. Dixon had stayed awake since receiving word of Lord Hawkhurst’s death, and entering the vestibule now, she gave one glance at Tom’s frightened face and ran for the kitchen. A harried footman took Gideon’s legs, and with Tom cradling his shoulders, together they carried him up the marble stairs.

  “Send for the Frenchy!” Tom called down. Much as Philippe annoyed him, Tom knew the little fop would be his master’s ablest nurse. He only hoped Philippe had the fortitude to treat a festering cut.

  The Frenchman, he found, had also awaited his master’s arrival. As the two breathless men carried Gideon into his chamber, they found Philippe at work over his master’s suit of bloodstained clothes. With a gasp, Philippe saw the red on Gideon’s fresh coat, and instantly became a whirlwind of efficiency.

  “Mettez-le là!” Forgetting his English, he gestured towards the large curtained bed. “There! Là! Just so.”

  He felt Gideon’s forehead, and a frown disturbed his carefully painted face. He whispered, “Sacré Dieu!”

  Tremors were now racking Gideon’s whole body. His face was flushed, and he moaned. Tom cushioned his head.

  “Help me to remove milord’s coat,” Philippe said. To the footman he added quickly, “Fetch the water and fresh linen and a leaden plaster. Vite! Vite!”

  As the footman hastily quitted the room, Philippe and Tom got Gideon out of his clothes. His shirt had stuck to his wound which had turned an unhealthy colour.

  “Mayhap you should soak it,” Tom suggested, wincing as the Frenchman moved to pull at the garment. “You’ll make him bleed again.”

  “The bleeding will not hurt him. With this fever, he would need to be bled de toutes façons.”

  “Should I fetch a surgeon?”

  “Non! Your surgeons are all butchers, whereas, me, I trained as a barber before becoming a gentleman’s servant. I know what to do for Monseigneur.” Philippe raised his face to stare Tom in the eye. “You will assist me, non?”

  With a stiff nod and an even stiffer back, Tom mumbled, “Just tell me what to do.”

  Philippe inclined his head before returning to his patient. In this emergency, he seemed willing to overlook the serious offence of a stable servant’s coming into the master’s bedchamber.

  The footman returned with the plaster and water, accompanied by Mrs. Dixon, who said that Sir Harrowby had called for his physician. Then she asked anxiously if Gideon would be able to receive visitors soon.

  “Mais non! Can you not see that Monseigneur is out of his head with fever! Regard you the blood he has lost!”

  She reacted queerly to the Frenchman’s angry tone. Clearly she had suffered a shock which could not be attributed entirely to the sudden death of the earl no matter how much that had affected them all. She seemed on the point of tears when she said, “Sir Joshua insists upon posing Lord St. Mars some questions.”

  Philippe and Tom exchanged involuntary glances. As Tom felt a new, ill-defined worry stealing over him, Philippe dismissed the housekeeper. “You may tell the gentlemen that milord is very sick—much too sick to be molested with their nonsense. I, Philippe—with the help of this Thomas—will know how best to take care of milord. He is not to be disturbed until I say.”

  “But Sir Joshua said he will not leave the house until he has spoken with my Lord St. Mars!”

  Again, the two servants exchanged uneasy looks. Tom felt a prickling at the base of his neck.

  He growled, “Well, tell ‘im he can wait. But he may have a good long time of it.”

  Mrs. Dixon nodded and retreated without another word. During all this, Philippe had been cleaning St. Ma
rs’s angry wound, scrubbing it with water-soaked linen to remove the unhealthy tissue that had formed around it. Now, from his valet’s closet, he fetched a gallipot with a green salve. Taking a small bit in a spoon, he held it over a candle until it melted. He dipped a tent of linen into this and packed it into the open gash.

  He asked Tom to raise his lordship, so that he might wrap linen strips about his torso to secure the dressing.

  As Tom moved Gideon, he felt the young man’s heat so strongly that he, too, began to sweat. He held the slim, young body against his broad chest, exactly as he had when a younger Gideon had broken his leg, falling off of one of his father’s wilder horses. Tonight, when St. Mars had reached out for him, for one brief second, he had seen that boy again—a boy who needed him. There had been a plea for sympathy in Gideon’s eyes, more for the loss of his father, Tom believed, than for the fever that racked him so mercilessly.

  What would Lord Hawkhurst have said if he had known how miserably he had failed to protect his son? Tom rebuked himself repeatedly to cloak his more unsettling emotions.

  Soon, Mrs. Dixon’s remarks made their way past his anger to fester in his brain. If a justice of the peace insisted on speaking to Lord St. Mars, and refused to leave, he must suspect his lordship of something.

  “I wonder what those gen’lemen wants.”

  Philippe looked up. His sudden motion made Tom realize that he had spoken aloud. “This man who attacked Monseigneur,” he said, “you saw him, n’est-ce pas?”

  Tom frowned. “O’ course I saw him. What’s that got to do with them fellows downstairs?”

  Philippe’s face, normally expressive, appeared unnaturally blank. “When this gentleman you call the justice of the peace came to tell us of milord’s death, he said that milord had wounded the villain who killed him.”

  It took less than a second for Tom to spring to his meaning. He snarled, “His lordship was hurt here in the street! I saw it myself!”