by Heather Snow
Two and one half years later, shortly after the death of Mad King George III
Lady Penelope Bridgeman, Baroness Manton, alighted from the carriage, her sturdy black kid boots crunching gravel beneath them as she stepped onto the drive of Vickering Place.
At first glance, the seventeenth-century mansion looked like any other palatial spread. No fewer than a dozen chimney blocks jutted from the slate roof, each spouting puffs of smoke that spoke of toasty fires within, keeping the residents of the brown brick home warm in defiance of the chilly February winter.
Ivy strangled the west wing of the structure, as well as the walls leading up to the entrance of the main house. The vines were brownish green and barren now, but Penelope imagined they would be beautiful to behold come springtime. As would the large ornamental fountain that fronted the house when it was once again filled with water, as well as the acres upon acres of parkland that surrounded it when they were greened up and in bloom.
However, Penelope fervently hoped she would have no occasion to visit Vickering Place in the spring. Indeed, she wished she wasn’t here now.
The carved oak door was opened for her before she even gained the top step of the stoop.
“Lady Manton.” A thin man, clad in a serviceable black suit, greeted her by her name, though they had never met. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Visitors were likely regulated here, and expected well in advance.
“Mr. Allen, I presume?” she inquired, pulling her dark wool greatcoat tighter around her as a frigid wind nipped across her nape. She stamped her feet in an effort to warm them, her eyes shifting involuntarily over the man’s shoulder to the roaring fire she could see blazing from a hearth within.
“I am he,” Allen confirmed, stepping back into the doorway so that Penelope might enter. “Please do come in.”
She slid sideways past him, grateful for the blast of warmth as she crossed the threshold into a well-lit foyer. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the painted ceiling that arced high above, depicting fluffy clouds in a blue summer sky that faded into the throes of a brilliant sunset around the edges.
She hadn’t expected such a cheerful scene.
A woman’s desolate wail sliced through the hall, raising the hair on Penelope’s arms, even covered as they were with layers of wool and bombazine. The high-pitched cry was cut off abruptly, leaving only an eerie echo ricocheting off of the marble walls of the foyer.
Penelope shivered. That was more in line with her expectation of Vickering Place.
Mr. Allen, she noted, seemed unruffled by the noise, almost as if he hadn’t even noticed. One grew used to it, she supposed. Allen extended an arm to usher her into what appeared to be his office, and as Penelope took a seat in a plush armchair across from his stark, imposing desk, she strove for a similar sangfroid even as her stomach churned with nerves.
“I’m afraid your journey may have been in vain, my lady,” Mr. Allen began, lowering himself stiffly into his own seat. “It seems his lordship has descended into a fit of mania this morning. When he gets like this, he can be very dangerous. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you near him. For your safety’s sake.”
Penelope winged a brow high at the subtle condescension in the director’s tone. She pursed her lips.
Allen, apparently misinterpreting the reason for her irritation, said defensively, “I did send a messenger to the White Horse, but he must have just missed you. I am sorry you had to come all this way.”
Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “Your man delivered the message in plenty of time. However—” However, what? She’d been a fool not to anticipate this sort of resistance. She’d gotten spoiled, working with her cousin Liliana, the Countess of Stratford, over the past year and a half treating ex-soldiers and their families. No one ever questioned Liliana because she was female, not anymore.
How Penelope wished her cousin was here with her now, but she was far into her second confinement and hadn’t been able to travel. Pen chewed her lip, trying to imagine how Liliana would have handled Mr. Allen. She took a deep breath through her nose and stiffened her spine. Well, she didn’t know exactly what Liliana would have done, but Penelope knew how her own mother would have handled the man if this were a domestic situation. And since it involved her family, she supposed it was.
She adopted her best “lady of the house” tone, all clipped and commanding. “However, it is my understanding that Vickering Place is a private sanatorium. Your guests are here voluntarily, at the behest of their families, are they not?” She raised both brows now, staring Allen down. “At their very expensive behest.”
At his stiff nod, Penelope could almost taste her victory. She reached into her greatcoat, efficiently pulling out a packet of letters from her husband’s family, detailing their wishes. Her hand trembled a bit as she leaned forward and handed them across the desk. “Then I expect to see my—his lordship immediately. In whatever condition he may be in.”
It was Allen’s turn to purse his lips, which thinned to the point of almost disappearing as he skimmed the letters. Disapproval lined his features but all he said was, “Very well.”
Penelope gave the director a curt nod and rose to her feet. She exited the office on her own, not waiting to see if he followed. He did, of course. Couldn’t risk the little lady wandering about the sanatorium on her own, could he?
“This way, my lady.” Allen rattled a heavy set of keys, plucking the head of one between his fingers as the others settled with a jangling clank on the ring.
And that was when the illusion that Vickering Place was still a country mansion fell completely away. Certainly the flocked wall paper of gold damask, the plaster molding and expensive artwork that lined the hallway spoke of its aristocratic history, but Penelope knew that Vickering Place had been sold by its owner and converted to a private sanatorium for lunatics. A place where the wealthy sent their sons and daughters, or their mothers and fathers, for treatment, or simply to hide them away from society.
As Michael’s family had done to poor Gabriel.
Another howl rent the air, this time a man’s, Penelope thought, though not Gabriel’s. The cry was accompanied by a harsh, rhythmic clanking, as if the poor soul banged something against the metal bars she knew had been installed in the doorways.
An ache pierced her chest. She couldn’t imagine Michael’s cousin in a place such as this. Though she hadn’t known Gabriel well, she’d sensed he was cut from similar cloth as Geoffrey, Liliana’s husband, and many other brave ex-soldiers she’d known. Gabriel had a commanding air, an independent and self-reliant streak that must have chafed against confinement. It had to be driving him mad to be locked up so.
No, madness is what brought him here.
Penelope shivered. She’d have never believed such a thing about Gabriel two and a half years ago, but he was blood related to Michael, and if Penelope knew anything, she knew now that Michael had been mad.
The affliction had driven her husband to take his own life barely six months after they’d been married.
Penelope’s steps faltered. Oh Lord. What made her think she could be of any help to Gabriel Devereaux? She’d been worthless to Michael when he’d needed her. Worthless.
Mr. Allen halted, as if noticing his footfalls were now the only ones ringing on the marble floors. He turned to look over his shoulder. “Have you changed your mind, then, Lady Manton?”
Yes.
Penelope’s chest tightened, her breaths coming with great difficulty as the horror of another frosty winter morning invaded her mind.
He’s not breathing! Michael!
Penelope shook her head, as much to dislodge the memories as to reply to the director. “No. No, of course not.” Yet her voice was much more assured than her feet. Pen had to force them to get moving again.
Allen fixed her with a doubtful look before turning back to lead the way once more.
She was not that naive young society wife anymore, Pen reminded herself. For the past
two years, with Liliana’s encouragement, she’d thrown herself into studying the inner workings and maladies of the mind. At first, it had been a way to distract her from her grief, but then she’d realized she had a gift.
People of all classes had often told her she was easy to talk to, so when Liliana had suggested she spend time talking to the ex-soldiers served by the private clinic that Stratford had built, it had been easy to say yes. And that one yes had turned into a calling, one that had met with some success.
Which was why Edward Devereaux had visited her in London and begged her to visit Gabriel. Well, that, and that the Devereauxs knew she would keep their shame private. She’d married into their family, after all, and they counted on that loyalty for her silence.
Mr. Allen stopped before a massive wooden door, its brass knob polished to a high shine. The director pulled the door open easily, revealing the heavy iron bars that barricaded the entrance to the suite of rooms that had become the Marquess of Bromwich’s home.
He slid the key into the lock, twisting it with an efficient click. The bars swung open noiselessly, too new yet to creak with rust.
Penelope schooled her features, trying to prepare herself for anything. She smoothed a nervous hand over her widow’s weeds, her mood now as somber and dark as the colors she always wore.
What kind of Gabriel would she encounter beyond that threshold? If his affliction was similar to Michael’s, he could be flying high, gregarious and grandiose, awake for days with no end in sight. Or he could be a man in the depths of despair, wallowing in a dark place where no one could reach him, least of all her.
Was she ready to be faced with the stuff of her nightmares?
Penelope swallowed, hard. Yes. Because Gabriel was still alive, still able to be saved. Whatever she must do, she would do it, if only as penance for what she hadn’t been able to do for Michael.
Penelope stepped into the room, at least as far as she could before shock stilled her feet.
“Oh…my…God,” she whispered. She could have never prepared herself for this. “Oh, Gabriel. What’s become of you?”
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Sweet Madness
