The Dark Lady: Mad Passions Book 1 (Mad Passions (Eternal Romance))

by Claremont, Maire

  Ian stared at Wyndham, wondering how much the other man truly knew. “Yes.”

  Wyndham poured more whiskey into both their glasses. “Now, what’s done is done, and for the best, most likely.”

  Christ. Wyndham couldn’t possibly know how instrumental he, Ian, had been in Hamilton’s death. And Wyndham certainly wouldn’t approve of it. Would he? He shook the unsettling thought away, forcing himself back to the immediate problem. “His widow. She’s in a fair bit of trouble.”

  Wyndham stilled. “Lady Carin.”

  “You know of her?”

  “Everyone knows of her, old man. She went mad. Like a cuckoo.” Wyndham took a long swallow. “Not that she didn’t have cause, as I understand.” He shook his head, sympathy softening his usually stoic feature. “The heart and mind are such delicate things. One never knows when they’re going to snap.”

  Everyone knew. Everyone. Thomas was a buggering ass. No doubt he’d hung his head at every damn town party and recited the woes of a long-suffering brother-in-law. “What are people saying?”

  Wyndham shrugged, those clever eyes of his hard. “Tragedy. Everyone says what a tragedy it was since she was so beautiful, so accomplished . . . so happy. They say that, of course, someone so happy could never survive such losses.” Wyndham hooked one leg over his knee, his perfectly polished black boot gleaming in the morning light. “They say she’s in a sanitarium somewhere in Europe. Recovering under the watchful eyes of a veritable buffet of doctors and noxious waters.”

  Just as Elizabeth had thought. “She’s not.”

  Wyndham’s eyes widened with exaggerated curiosity. “No?”

  The man was such an act. Moving his facial muscles just as one was supposed to at such a bit of information. “What else have you heard?” Ian demanded.

  “I’ve heard that the new Lord Carin, while acting the grieving brother in public, was rather celebratory after his nephew’s and brother’s deaths.” Wyndham smiled tightly. “Not terribly unusual among the ton, but also still rather bad form to go about whoring when your infant nephew is only just dead and his mother shunted off to a sanitarium.”

  Ian’s hands curled into tight fists, the crystal snifter in one hand gripped tight.

  “He’s not well liked, is Lord Thomas,” Wyndham went on.

  “Lord Thomas deserves a long walk off a short pier,” Ian gritted out.

  Wyndham’s eyes narrowed. “Does he indeed?”

  “I need you to do some digging.”

  Wyndham laughed again. That barrel laugh piercing the room, shaking the crystal. “My apologies, old man. But I don’t do that sort of thing anymore. No, I’m just a retired, idle, pleasure-seeking lord these days. Or have you not heard?”

  “How do you feel about madhouses?” Ian said so softly his voice sounded like sifting sand in the silent room.

  Wyndham’s eyes shuttered. “I beg your pardon?”

  Ian leaned forward, deliberate in each word. “Eva was locked in a madhouse that made army prisons look like Carlton House.” Ian smiled a tight gallows grin. “Everyone has not heard that, I presume.”

  “Holy God.”

  Ian swirled his whiskey in his glass before taking a significant swallow. “In this case, I think God has not involved Himself.”

  Wyndham rolled his eyes, then set his glass down. “You have her. This is what the Chancery nonsense was about.”

  “Just two days ago, men attempted to abduct her from my keeping.” As if they were discussing nothing of more import than Bertie’s ponies for the upcoming races, Ian lifted his glass to the light and contemplated its rich amber color. “They assaulted and incapacitated three footmen to get to her. They were quite skilled.”

  Wyndham held still, none of his false bravado about him. “You’re certain?”

  “Thomas wants her dead or locked up,” he finally snapped, infuriated that Wyndham didn’t seem to be taking his position seriously.

  Once again, every graying head turned in their direction.

  “Keep your calm.” The earl’s deep voice belied the ease of his body, which kept the onlookers unaware. For once, it felt as if he was indeed speaking with the real Wyndham.

  “It’s been damn difficult.” Ian exhaled and forced the muscles along his neck and shoulders to relax. “Apparently Thomas will go to great extremes to retain her. More men will likely be in London soon.”

  Wyndham took a long draw on his cheroot, then idly watched the smoke float up to the ceiling. “And what exactly happened to these men who attempted to take her?”

  “One suffered an accident.”

  Wyndham dropped his gaze back to Ian’s. “Did it involve his neck or a rather odd wound?”

  “Neck.” Ian smiled, filled with a twisted bit of pleasure. “Silly fellow lost his footing and fell under my knee.”

  “People are inclined to trip.” Wyndham shifted in his chair and waggled his brows. “Well, I must admit that makes things interesting.”

  Ian eyed the spy with a touch of suspicion. Wyndham could occasionally be unhinged. Depending on which way the wind was blowing. “You’re an odd bastard.”

  “Indeed. But this is why you are here speaking to me. Not some poncy-assed bastard who’d act as a proper gentleman should to what you’ve just told me.” Wyndham smoothed a hand carelessly over his excellently tailored gray coat. “I take it she’s not in fact mad as a March hare, then?”

  “As sane as you or I,” Ian clipped, unwilling to mention the laudanum, even if half the women in London were sipping it daily.

  “That is not saying a great deal.” Wyndham’s gaze grew distant in thought.

  Ian blew out a frustrated breath. “Chancery is not an option if what you say is true.”

  Wyndham snorted, the sound full of distaste and experience. “Forget Chancery.”

  Ian set his glass aside, tired of dancing about the point. “I want another viable option. Now.”

  “Thomas is her guardian?”

  “Yes.”

  Wyndham nodded to himself. “So if he gets his hands on her, you’re sodded, old man.”

  Ian didn’t respond to the obvious truth. He didn’t care to hear what he already knew.

  “Time is of the essence.”

  Ian narrowed his eyes. “Thank you for your powers of observation.”

  Ignoring him, Wyndham said, “We do the only thing that will be completely beyond Thomas’s touch.”

  “And that is?” drawled Ian, his usual amusement at his friend’s drawn-out statements now absent.

  “Dr. Jenner,” Wyndham declared jovially, his eyes lifting back up to Ian’s with a renewed vigor.

  “Jenner?”

  “He was recently appointed as Royal Physician to HRH. If Jenner says she’s mentally competent, no one will dare gainsay him.” Wyndham smiled wickedly. “It would be an insult to the Queen, now wouldn’t it?”

  It was so damn simple. So perfect. Almost too perfect.

  “It will work, Ian. And then we bring Thomas down like the squealing little pig he is.”

  A smile tugged at Ian’s lips, followed by a laugh to rival Wyndham’s. He lifted his glass in salute. “To Her Majesty.”

  Wyndham lifted his glass in return and winked. “Hail Britannia, old man. Hail Britannia.”

  Chapter 24

  It was utterly clear how Bertha Mason must have felt languishing away in her attic prison while Jane made doe eyes at Mr. Rochester. Eva stared down at the busy street below filled with hackneys, coaches, and, well, every conceivable form of transportation save the railway.

  Just below, in the rooms she had sneaked through in the dark with Ian, servants were bustling at a ridiculous speed. Elizabeth had arrived early that morning accompanied by an army of staff. From the shouts and thumping, Eva was certain they’d have the house ready by Ian’s return, which of course was no doubt Elizabeth’s desire.

  Even from the highest, most remote part of the house, Eva could hear the woman shouting like a general. She’d neve
r imagined that genteel Elizabeth could be so vocal.

  Sighing, Eva turned and faced the small attic room, gray at this time of the day. Several boxes and trunks dotted the floor.

  Ian had claimed it was the only safe place for her. Apparently he’d proclaimed it off-limits to the servants. Earlier Elizabeth had brought up a light repast of toast and tea.

  It had been hours since Ian had left. And some time since she’d seen Elizabeth. Well, at least she assumed so from the way the sun had traveled across the floor.

  She understood why he’d left her up here. Still, that fact didn’t stop her from feeling like a mad old bat locked away from society for its protection, a feeling that, frankly, she’d hoped was behind her. Even so, it was preferable to being out in the open, where Mrs. Palmer’s men might spot her.

  Damn and blast. She couldn’t really be where anyone might spot her. Not yet. Not till she was ready to face the world as a person in her right wits.

  The narrow stairs creaked. Instantly, she swung her gaze to the door. The servants weren’t supposed to come here, but . . .

  She stood her ground, not ready to scurry into the corner like a scared rat.

  The small door swung open, creaking on tired hinges.

  “Eva?” Ian called up.

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  Ian strode into the room. Wearing the strangest expression. Happiness. Or so it seemed, for he had the largest grin on his face, and his glowing, deep green eyes were full of hope. “I’ve someone for you to meet.”

  She darted her gaze past Ian, unease mixing with her own happiness at Ian’s good humor. She’d met so few people since she’d been locked away.

  A large man, not tall, entered the room, dwarfing it with his strong presence. His russet hair appeared almost black in the dim light, but his eyes—chocolaty with just the hint of whiskey about them—beckoned one to trust him. Perfectly dressed from his dark brown serge coat to his cream trousers and gold cravat, he was the image of a perfect gentleman.

  Drawing from some past instinct she could barely recall, Eva stretched out her hand, palm down, offering up her knuckles in a careless manner. “How do you do?”

  The man crossed the room in a few short strides and took her hand in his bearlike paw. He bowed over her enfolded appendage. “My lady. A true pleasure.”

  Eva stared at him, unsure of her next move in this game. “Might I know your name, sir?”

  There was the faintest haughtiness to her voice. She barely recognized it as her own.

  His brow lifted in an amused fashion as he looked her over. “My apologies. Blame the silly toss behind you. ’Twas remiss of him to not properly introduce us.”

  The mockingly pleased tone of the man was catching. As if the fellow were the most important man, the cleverest man in the world, and he knew it.

  Eva ventured a smile and looked back at Ian, who looked a bit like an animal trying to assess how its prey had suddenly turned into the predator. “Yes,” she agreed, a laugh in her voice. “It is indeed remiss. My lord, will you not introduce us?”

  Ian cleared his throat. “Lord Byron Cartwright, Earl of Wyndham. Lady Eva Carin.”

  It occurred to Eva that this Wyndham fellow was still holding her hand. Slowly she pulled away from his grip.

  “Ian, old boy, you led me to believe she was some sort of delicate flower, which one must be careful not to trample.”

  She drew up, her spine snapping straight as she glared at Ian. “I beg your pardon?”

  Ian narrowed his eyes at his friend. “If she is a delicate flower, you are a twinkle-toed ponce. And that is not what I said.”

  “Do forgive. Poetic license.” Wyndham took a step forward, circling Eva like an overzealous dressmaker about to drown her in froths of fabric. “If you’re mad, then they’d best lock half the ton away.”

  Eva eyed the man warily. What ever were they about? “Thank you?”

  “Now we must simply proclaim the fact to the world.” He grinned, the same sort of grin one might wear three sheets to the wind, dancing a jig upon the topmast of a racing cutter. “And dare them all to contradict it.”

  Eva frowned, beginning to feel a trifle overwhelmed. She didn’t remember most lords being like this man. “Would you care to explain?”

  “We’re going to have you proclaimed competent,” Ian said gently. “Then—” His features softened, clearly aware he was about to say something that would displease her. “Then we’re going to—”

  “Launch you into society, my dear!” Wyndham boasted. “We shall flaunt you like the latest bauble come from the exotic East, and once we’re done and the ton has gazed upon you like an exhibit at the Royal Academy, you shall have reclaimed your crown.”

  Was he mad? Had Ian found a mad person? “I don’t want my crown back,” she said firmly. The very idea that her former friends were going to watch her, waiting to see if she would slip up and act like a lunatic among their pomp, was horrifying. “I don’t.”

  Wyndham’s smile dimmed and he leveled a look of determination that no doubt would make the fiercest of men quake in their boots. “That is exactly what you want. And Ian, I, and that Wellington of a woman, Lady Elizabeth, will all be there to ensure your success.”

  Eva turned to Ian. “What is happening here?”

  Ian reached out and folded her hands into his. “We are going to make you safe. Safer than you’ve ever been. Safe from Thomas.”

  She drew in a slow breath. Though she wished to run down the stairs and out into the street, she nodded. In truth, she wondered whether indeed they could make her safe. Safe from the one thing she needed the most protection from.

  Herself.

  She lifted her chin. She would face the world. For Ian. For herself. For Mary, who still languished in the asylum.

  Her proved sanity might set her friend free.

  There were other ways she could make amends for what she had done. Never again would she allow herself to be imprisoned. By building or by man. “When do we start?”

  Ian pulled her up against him. “Now, love. We start now.”

  Wyndham cleared his throat. “Today you will meet many people, my dear. In fact, three of London’s most able drapers and seamstresses are downstairs ready to turn you into a bird of paradise.”

  She glanced over at the earl. “Do you always speak so, my lord?”

  He laughed, a powerful, invigorating sound. “Indeed, madam. Why would anyone talk in an uninspired manner?”

  Eva laughed. Genuinely laughed. It spilled from her lips in shockingly pleasurable waves. “I have no idea, my lord. No idea at all.”

  India

  Two years earlier

  He’d done it again. Hamilton staggered in the dark, his boots kicking at the dusty path back to his bed. He’d lost another five thousand pounds. But luckily his behavior hadn’t endangered his commission. He was too successful a soldier. It had taken him only three months to earn the reputation of Mad Bastard. At least, he truly was good at something: mayhem. His last raids had all ended in triumphs for his men, but he’d sacrificed soldiers for those daring successes and part of his madness came from the whispers that he’d butchered his own men for advancement.

  He had. The ends necessitated unflinching commitment, and the loss of a few unimportant men meant nothing in the face of victory.

  Hamilton peered down the silent alley, wondering whether he should have waited for Ian. No. Ian would have been poor company for his walk home. They never spoke now.

  If he could just spill into bed and forget . . . and then wake up and start it all again. What would Eva think of him now?

  A sort of sharp panic grabbed his guts. She could never know. Never. She wouldn’t forgive him if she knew. Would Ian tell? No. Hamilton sucked in a breath. Ian would protect Eva from the ugly truth, just as he’d always done.

  As he made a right turn down another, smaller alley, the walls of the houses pressing in toward his shoulders, he scowled. Footsteps shuffled behind him. H
amilton jerked toward them, squinting in the moonlight. Dark hair, sharp features stood out in the dim light, and even in the cold moonbeams Hamilton could make out Ian’s green eyes. He let out a sudden sigh of relief.

  Yes, Ian would keep his behavior a secret and Eva would still look at him with some degree of love, even if it would never be the love he had so hoped for. He started to smile at his old friend, but then shadows flickered just behind Ian. Hamilton pointed jerkily. “Behind you.”

  Ian twisted fast. The shine of blade flashed in the night and raked toward his middle.

  Someone shouted something in foul native tongue and abruptly the attacker’s blade just skimmed Ian’s chest.

  Hamilton jerked to attention, his shaky gaze desperately trying to discern who was coming out of the shadows.

  Two men darted down the dark alley, and before Hamilton’s wine-soaked mind could make sense of it, hands grabbed him. He jerked against them, struggling to throw a punch, but before he could, one of the Indians seized his head and slammed it against the stone wall behind him.

  The world spun hard and sparked with light.

  Hamilton scrambled to get away, but there were two of them and their muscled bodies would not be gainsaid. One of his attackers slammed a palm over his mouth, rendering him silent.

  Their sweaty, hulking forms surrounded him, and terror managed to penetrate his wine-muddled thoughts. He could no longer see Ian in the dark. Where was Ian? Where was he?

  Someone grabbed his wrists and then he felt a white-hot cut rake his flesh and veins. Sudden clarity rammed through him. This was a death sentence. Hot, slick blood slid down over his fingers. He fought against his assailants, but the wine made him slow and as the blood poured from him he found himself growing weaker.

  It was going to look like suicide. But what of Ian?

  The men holding him lowered him to the dirt street, and just at that moment a beam of moonlight shone harshly down upon them, bathing an Indian man’s face in its icy light. Tears sparked his dark eyes and he lifted a small piece of fabric, a Sepoy’s rank stitched to it.

  Recognition riddled Hamilton. That rank. It was the same as the boy who had killed himself. Even in his shocked state, Hamilton could see that this man had come for vengeance. “P-please—”