The Dark Affair

by Máire Claremont

  His lips tightened, the blood compressing out of the flesh, before he spat out, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your qualifications to support your son’s ill-thought decision?” She met his gaze, refusing to back down. “I’d like to know them. Now, if you please.”

  The older man huffed, snatching his snifter back into his hand. The brandy sloshed in the glass, the liquid snaking over the crystal. “As his father and the Earl of Carlyle—”

  “You know absolutely nothing about the workings of the mind and opium.” Though she had meant it as a simple statement of fact, there was a hint of heat and castigation in her words. She inwardly winced, wondering where this deviation in her self-control had arisen from. Abject displays of emotion were beneath her, and they were dangerous. She couldn’t have these men who saw themselves as so far above her claiming, as they did of all women who dared to show the smallest glimpse of emotion, that she was hysterical or completely illogical.

  She drew in a slow, steadying breath. A breath meant to bring her back to herself and the cool calm she’d spent a lifetime forming.

  Indignation stained his cheeks. “How dare you speak to me thusly.”

  You are nothing but a bog-trotting Irishwoman.

  He hadn’t said the words, but they spiked the air nonetheless. Why had he even hired her if he was going to contradict her now? But she wasn’t surprised. It was inevitable. The family of whoever she was treating became terrified that their loved one would not recover and would lash out at her. It always happened.

  Still, her brother’s words echoed in her head, crushed by their English privilege. She had to recall this wasn’t about Carlyle assuming he was superior, but rather about his fear for his son.

  She forced a conciliatory smile to her lips. A smile that often won hardened old lords, angry mothers, and resentful wives. “I understand how important you are, how important your son is to you. But you’ve brought me into your son’s life to help him, and I thought we had an understanding.” She waved her hand up toward the ivory-painted ceiling, indicating James’s room. “That I would oversee his care.”

  “Certainly,” Carlyle conceded, his head nodding quickly, the silver of it shining in the firelight, but then he gruffed, “But there must be stipulations.”

  A strange sense of dread shimmied down her spine. She’d been so certain he had desperately cared for his son, wishing only his recovery . . . But now? She’d met hardheaded men who thought they knew best before. She’d left their service. It would be far more difficult to leave if Carlyle proved to be such a man. “Such as?”

  The earl took a sip of brandy, his eyes askance. “He is not to go into public until . . . until he can conduct himself in a seemly manner.”

  “I agree. It wouldn’t serve him to have another episode. Yet I must ask . . .” She took a step forward, determined to not appear weak. To make him understand she couldn’t be bullied. “What defines ‘seemly,’ exactly?”

  “None of his rudeness may remain. His insidious way of speaking is clearly part of his illness.” He waved his brandy glass, then peered down at its empty bowl and immediately poured himself another, larger glass. “A certain degree of arrogance is expected, even desired, but many of his opinions are offensive.”

  The earl closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed, pain flashing over his features. “Surely that is a significant part of whatever is ailing him. So many of the sentiments he expresses . . . They are sheer insanity.” He opened his eyes, despair shining in them. “No son of mine in his right mind would utter them, don’t you see?”

  She’d never given any sort of consideration to her new husband’s ideologies, and as tempting as it was to ask the earl what they were, she would wait and find them out from James. She had little doubt the old man would skew his son’s beliefs, since he so clearly didn’t understand them. And though many doctors would, she wouldn’t give credence to the idea that opinions made a man mad. Too many people had been shunted out of society for their inconvenient beliefs. “Are you asking me to change his personality?” she asked tentatively.

  “Don’t be foolish,” he drawled. And for a moment, his gaze softened. Something of the loving father she had seen before merged to the surface. “I am simply stating that those traits that are a part of his . . . ailment be corrected.”

  The change in him was so astonishing. One moment hard, unyielding, a bastard of the old guard, and the next, vulnerable and exposed. She supposed it shouldn’t be surprising. Powers was his son, and he loved his son, but he loathed much about the actual man. “You’re a most confusing person, my lord.”

  “Am I?”

  Here was the moment. The moment she attempted to have complete honesty between them. It would be a grand risk, but she had to try. “I’m not entirely sure you wish what is best for your son, but rather what is best for you.”

  His gaze grew guarded, lacing all the vulnerability right back up. “That is an exceptionally insolent thing to say.”

  “Blame it on my Irishness,” she teased, praying that she could coax back out that earlier openness so that he truly could be of assistance to his son and her endeavors to assist them both. “We’re downright stubborn. Many of your people think us mules.”

  “Mules serve a very useful purpose.” The words came out in sharp, staccato beats from his gritted jaw. “As will you. It is what I am paying you for, after all.”

  She drew in a sharp breath through her nose, counting to three. Men like him were quite common. Land-owning men in Ireland often thought their tenants less valuable than the sheep and cows who ate the grass in the fields. And yet she was sure he truly did care about his son. She’d seen it, and she had to remember that, lest she yank his glass from his fist and toss its contents in his face.

  One thing was ultimately clear: he didn’t actually give a damn about her people. He offered to help them strictly to gain her assistance and aid to his son.

  He took a long swallow, downing half the glass before he pointed a finger at her. “You will not give him any more morphine. I agree with him and will support his wishes in this even if you will not. In regards to all else, you shall have free rein, within reason, of course.”

  And that was key, the fact that the old man agreed. If he hadn’t, she wondered if he would be so supportive of James’s choice.

  “When we spoke before, you agreed to give me complete autonomy.”

  His upper lip curled with revulsion. “It never occurred to me that you would . . . act with such dubious means.” He wiped his free hand over his mouth, and his shoulders relaxed under the fine cut of his charcoal coat. His movements became muddied as he took another drink, siphoning the brandy until once again the snifter was empty. “Now, I know you can save my son, but you will not do something so shocking again without my consultation.” He weaved slightly as he went for the bottle again. “You understand?”

  The shock that uncurled through her nearly dropped her mouth open. She could hardly believe what he was saying. What was happening. The Earl of Carlyle was getting drunk, arguing about his son’s reliance upon morphine. The irony was almost too much. “Perhaps I haven’t been clear about what he will undergo if I immediately cut—”

  “You have made yourself plain, young woman. But this shall be best for him in the long run.” He pointed that finger at her again, waving it. Assuring whom, it was impossible to tell. “The men of our family are strong.”

  “This has nothing to do with strength, and I don’t wish to see him—”

  “I will argue this no further.” The veins in his neck, just above his starched cravat, pulsed. A dangerous red tint was warming his face.

  Margaret studied the slight sheen of sweat on his brow and the fervor in his eyes. Perhaps he truly was ill, or at least facing the weaknesses that came with age. But that was no excuse to put his son through the hell that was imminent if she didn’t wean him of
f the morphine. “Then you will be answerable to his sufferings, not I.”

  “Suffering is but a means to perfection.”

  She gaped. Suffering was but a means to suffering. It did nothing. For anyone. But what could she say now? She’d married Powers under the belief that she could do as she wished. Now it seemed that she should have gotten every bit of it in writing. More fool she for believing the man would do all to assist his son. Clearly, in his misguided beliefs, he thought himself to be doing just that. It was the only thing that kept her from storming out of the room . . . and the fact she would never abandon Powers, infuriating man that he was, to his father’s ill-advised care. But there was one thing they had to be clear on, or all this was for naught. “And as to my funds and your assistance of my brother?”

  He sniffed, the talk of money now beneath him. “They’ve been deposited into an account for you. My man will discuss the details and terms soon. Your brother and any pro-Irish bill will take finer consideration.”

  Had he heard anything? Had anyone in London? She was going to have to tell the earl, and soon, that her brother was a wanted man. She thanked God that he hadn’t known before the wedding. He might not have so readily offered to be of assistance in such a case.

  She stared at the hard-faced, swaying older man.

  Where was the desperation? Where was the brokenhearted father she’d glimpsed just days ago in the asylum? Who was this stony-hearted lord in his place? In a way, he reminded her of Powers, hiding behind a mask to protect the vulnerabilities he’d buried deep within.

  He raised his glass and declared, “I will have my son back again, and it will be soon.”

  She prayed for all their sakes that it would be as soon as he wished.

  • • •

  Matthew lingered outside the Cat and Lantern for several moments, studying the passersby, wondering how humanity could descend into such a teeming mass of destruction. In Ireland, there had been the staggering human corpses, the walking dead just barely holding on to their last breaths and those they loved, and many the lord who didn’t view the Irish as humans at all. Therefore no real loss and perhaps a blessing to the world that so many should perish.

  But it had never in a month of Sundays been like this. Now, he’d not once been to Dublin Town, so perhaps it was just as evil, but he hoped not. He hoped that his beloved country didn’t take part in this sort of human misery.

  Because of his extensive reading, he knew what the sores on the faces of the begging children meant. He knew how short their lives would be and the pain they would always be in. And Christ, half the women over thirty—if you could even manage to make out their true age—life had so hardened them. They too had the marks upon their faces, covered up with powder, but visible all the same. They’d not be long for the profession . . . Or they’d be working for only the lowest of the low. Men who didn’t care if they had the pox . . . because they had it too and worse.

  His stomach turned.

  He, Matthew Cassidy, was about something different. Something grand. He was about changing this godforsaken world and the devils who ran it.

  There had been a time when he’d hoped, like his father before him, that due process would change things. That if the Irish lords who cared went to London and pled their case before the House, they could at long last convince them that Ireland was worthy of more than the crush of a boot. The absolute failure of their petitions had convinced him that there was only one way that Ireland could find prosperity.

  Total destruction of the parliamentary system that ran the most tyrannical state in all the world.

  Once the English were gone from Ireland, they could start fresh. Build everything back as God had intended. All these people, maybe even the English peasants, could know happiness and not have to fear cholera, violence, and starvation day after day without their high lords controlling every aspect of their wee lives. And children could grow without the fear of having to sell themselves just to buy a bit of bread or meat not good enough for dogs.

  “Eh, Matthew!”

  Matthew whipped toward Francis McNamara, a burst of joy at the familiar face lighting his heart. “And if it isn’t yourself!”

  “It is indeed. Shall we go and get a pint of the finest?” Francis McNamara’s dark eyes glinted, slightly shining, as if he’d already had a few drinks of the good brew. But nothing could ever dampen the glee that seemed a perpetual part of the blond lad’s countenance. Not even his shabby clothes or the dirt smeared across his cheeks and neck to help him blend into St. Giles and the people of Church Street.

  Like Matthew, he was the son of an educated man and was also determined to see Ireland shrug off the yoke of the English.

  Matthew clapped his hand on the gray, raveling fabric of his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s drink to this hellhole.”

  Francis leaned in, his lips tilting into a devilish grin. “And to our brotherhood. And how we can show these poor devils the strength of the Irish.”

  Matthew nodded sagely, feeling the first joy he’d felt at stepping on the sod of the enemy. Not even his sister’s beautiful face had lifted his spirits. Even with all his love for her, he still saw their mam every time he looked upon her. Nor would he ever be able to shake her betrayal from his bones. He blinked, trying to forget the pain of it. “And then we must have a drink to Ireland.”

  “We’ll make a list of toasts.” Francis laced his way through the small crowd standing outside the pub, avoiding the dung on the cobbles and the trail of some unidentifiable liquid that was no doubt piss and spilled gin. He glanced over his shoulder. “And we’ll drink to them all.”

  Matthew pressed in as they crossed the threshold of the public house. The din of drunken voices and shrieking fiddle made any conversation nigh indiscernible. “Are the others in London yet?”

  Francis kept pushing forward as he whispered sotto voce, “They’re arriving on separate boats, and Eamon is coming from France. So within the next month, my son, we shall be in the business of revolution.”

  A thrill danced down Matthew’s spine. This was what he’d dreamed of for as long as he could remember. Some boys dreamed of sailing, and soldiering, or growing up to be fine men. His dreams had taken form in the desire to tear down the hallowed halls of privilege. “To glory and freedom, then?”

  Francis elbowed his way up to the bar, signaling to the barman with two fingers for two pints. As soon as two dark tankards of black-as-sin ale were set before them, their tops frothing with creamy foam, he lifted his and his face turned most solemn. “Aye. To freedom.”

  Chapter 9

  Powers’s eyelids were seared to his pupils. In fact, his entire body was on fire, turning his muscles into jellied masses under his itching skin. He choked down a rasping breath, wishing to God he could just fade off and never have to face the world again. But that was hardly his general temperament, and he was not about to give his wife the satisfaction of watching his complete destruction.

  Stoically, he girded himself, then peeled his eyes open.

  Some kind soul had shut the drapes. So the room was blessedly dark. Though he was grateful, the dimness did little to alleviate the feeling that someone had ripped his flesh from his bones and then attempted to paste it back on with the insides out.

  Christ, what was happening to him? In all his life, he had always controlled every aspect of his person. Nothing had been out of his grasp. Nothing had been unmaneuverable, unchangeable, but now? Somewhere, he’d stepped over some invisible line, which had catapulted him to a different level of the destruction he had immersed himself in some time ago.

  He flexed his feet, stretching his toes, the very motion agonizing. An unwelcome reminder that he was indeed alive. His throat ached with the omnipresent desire for water . . . And he was sweating and shaking.

  Shaking.

  Christ, the sheets were damp from it. Had he run from here t
o Greenwich without his knowing? He strained to recall how he’d gotten into this bed, an unpleasant though not unfamiliar activity. He searched through the recesses of his opium dreams, looking for images.

  One came up fast and hard. A dark angel, wings unfurled, come to deliver him to his fate. Always in the past that fate had been one of fire and damnation. For some reason, this time the recollection didn’t riddle him with resignation, but rather he was experiencing a mournful sort of hope, which made no sense whatsoever.

  The angel’s hair had been a lick of flame around her ivory visage, and she had called out to him just before the gates of perdition. She’d dragged him back, not allowing his broken body into that fiery pit.

  Suddenly, his stomach jumped up toward his throat and he forced down a jumbling nausea. That angel . . . He groaned. Maggie. The angel had been Maggie, and he’d acted like a complete lunatic at their nuptials. How impressed she must be at his ability to prove his sanity.

  It was galling. All his arrogance. Shame coated his skin. Just a few hours ago, he’d stood in that cathedral like a swaggering fool. So certain he didn’t need her help. That he didn’t need anyone’s help.

  And one mustn’t forget to mention the presence of his father.

  The earl had seen that debacle. No doubt, at this very moment, the old man was securing him a private room lined with mattresses in their country estate up in the wilds of Yorkshire.

  But that was something he would deal with later, when his brain had come back to its usually razor-sharp working state, though given its present feeling, he was terrified it might only ever again be the dull sharpness of a bread knife.

  He needed water, and he wanted out of this bed. He grunted. That wasn’t true exactly. He longed to sink into the mattress and be entombed by white feathers. Feathers that would tickle and caress him with a gentleness he’d never allowed himself to feel. A gentleness that would eventually stifle him and allow him to leave this world of pain and memory.