More or Less a Countess

by Anna Bradley

  Nick made his way back toward Birdcage Walk. The villain he’d felled had disappeared, but Nick found a few loose pages scattered about near the Royal Aviary. He caught them up one by one and followed their trail until he found the sketchbook at the bottom of Cockpit Steps. He scooped it up, grumbling when a few more pages slipped out and scattered across the cobblestones.

  He flipped the sketchbook open, lay it flat on his palm, and started to shove the untidy pile of papers inside, but the vibrant blue colors of the drawing on the top caught his eye, and he paused.

  When Almack’s Fails to Entertain.

  The title was written across the top of the sketch in an elegant, flowing hand, and below that was a drawing of a fair-haired young lady in a blue gown hovering on the sidelines of a ballroom, her expression forlorn as she watched a dozen or so elegant couples twirl about on the dance floor. The sketch was amusing in a way, but there was something melancholy about it, too, perhaps because the forlorn lady looked quite a bit like Miss Somerset.

  He turned a few more of the sketches over, reading their titles and chuckling at some of the more creative ones.

  Drunken Rogues and Other Miscreants.

  Ladies Who Despise Embroidery.

  How to Escape the Torments of the Modiste.

  This one showed the same fair-haired lady as in the Almack’s sketch. Her brow was creased with terror, and she was eyeing an evil-looking seamstress who held a tape measure in one hand and an enormous pin in the other.

  Nick laughed aloud when he came to a rough sketch of a tortured-looking maiden in a prim gown slumped over a pianoforte. The title read, Useless Pursuits: Practicing the Pianoforte.

  Odd, that a lady so accomplished on the pianoforte should despise practicing so much, but Nick didn’t have time to ponder every sketch. He was about to shove the pages back inside the book when the sketch she’d done of the burial grounds that afternoon caught his eye, and he paused to study it in the dim light.

  It was bleak and austere, particularly the branches of the trees she’d drawn in the foreground. She’d shaded them heavily with her pencil, and they looked bare and stark against the gray sky above. It was a lonely scene, and her sketch reflected that, but there was also a certain raw magnificence he hadn’t noticed when he’d been there. It almost made him want to return to the burial grounds, to see if he’d perceive the same desolate beauty she had.

  He turned over a few more of the loose pages, curious to see what else she’d done, but the rest of the pages were blank.

  Or so he thought at first.

  Just as he was about to close the book and hurry back to his carriage, he stumbled across an entire series of sketches tucked into the back of the book, almost as if she’d hidden them there.

  And no wonder.

  There wasn’t a single still life of flowers or fruit, no landscapes, and no portraits. There were no drawings of kittens, dogs, or horses, or anything else one might expect to find in a young lady’s sketchbook.

  Nick’s eyes widened as he turned the pages over one by one. There was a sketch of Newgate Prison, and a rather sinister depiction of the bow window at White’s—one she must have risked her reputation to get, since it could only have been drawn from that angle if she’d been on St. James’s Street, right in front of it, and…good God, was that a sketch of the execution site at Tower Hill?

  Unusual. A grim laugh rose in Nick’s throat.

  Bunhill Fields Burial Ground was one thing. Headstones and graves, stray bones and charnel houses—they were odd subjects for a young lady’s pencil, certainly, but for every belle in London there were a dozen or more aspiring artists, and there was no telling what oddity might interest a lady with an inquisitive turn of mind. He’d half-convinced himself Miss Somerset had only taken him to the burial grounds because she’d thought an afternoon spent among long-dead plague victims was an efficient way to discourage him from calling again.

  But this? This went well beyond unusual.

  Tearing about London to take sketches of gibbets and execution sites? Risking her safety in such a reckless manner? That wasn’t harmless curiosity.

  Nick stared down at the sketches in his hands, and a chill rushed over him as a new and unwelcome thought seized his mind.

  Miss Somerset might be as mad as a bloody bedlamite.

  Madness. Christ.

  He’d overlook a few irregularities to secure a bride as quickly as possible, but the Countess of Dare, a madwoman? As badly as he wanted to leave England, he couldn’t do that to his aunt, and that was to say nothing of his future children. Madness tended to run in the blood, and even he wasn’t selfish enough to doom his heirs to the curse of insanity.

  He peered down at the sketch of Tower Hill clenched between his fingers. She was skilled with her pencil—there was no denying that. There were dozens of sketches, most of them rough, but a few had been meticulously executed, and one or two were colored drawings of such high quality they could have been taken for the work of a professional artist.

  He’d heard those who suffered from madness sometimes displayed a certain genius—a facility with numbers, perhaps, or a talent for writing or art.

  Miss Somerset must be one of those.

  He neatened the loose sheaf of papers and inserted them carefully into the sketchbook, then hurried back to the carriage, his chest tight as he thought of his easy, uncomplicated life in Italy. It grew more and more distant in his memory with every day he remained in this cold, dreary city, and now here was another delay.

  But it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t marry a madwoman.

  He’d have to wait until the season to secure a bride. He’d see Miss Somerset safely home tonight, and wouldn’t call on her again.

  He was still a half-block away from his carriage when he heard raised feminine voices. Miss Somerset and her maid were in the midst of an argument.

  Curious, he paused before opening the door.

  “Even if you managed to open the aviary cages, why did you suppose the birds would swarm my attacker? Surely birds can’t distinguish good from evil. Why, they might have attacked you or Lord Dare! I don’t suppose you’d like to be attacked by a falcon, would you, Bridget? Though I suppose it’s more likely they would have simply flown away, and left us all to our fates.”

  “I told ye, miss, I wasna thinking! I thought if I let the birds free they’d screech and flap about, and it would scare ’im away. What would ye have had me do, I ask? I’d already kicked ’im once, and got a clout in the shoulder for me pains.”

  There was a brief silence, then a soft sigh. “I know. You poor thing. Forgive me, Bridget. I never should have insisted you come with me—”

  “You never should have come out at all.” Nick opened the carriage door with a jerk, took the seat across from Miss Somerset, and held out the sketchbook to her with a frown. “It was a remarkably foolish thing to do. I thought you were cleverer than that, Miss Somerset.”

  “Oh, thank you, my lord!” She ignored the scold, seized the book and hugged it to her chest, beaming at him. “You have no idea how grateful I am.”

  Nick settled back against the squabs and stared at her for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest. She didn’t look mad. Was there a chance he’d been too hasty in his determination, and she was as sane as anyone else in London?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “I find it…curious, Miss Somerset,” Nick began cautiously, “that you would place more value on your sketchbook than you do on your person. You do recall, do you not, that you were attacked tonight?”

  Her smile faded. “Yes, my lord. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “I’m going to need you to promise you’ll never do anything so foolish again.” If she truly was mad she was unlikely to abide by any promise she made him, but he felt obligated to make the effort, just the same.

  “Wel
l, I—” She broke off abruptly, and turned to address her maid. “It grows late, Bridget. Hya—that is, my sister will be awake by now, and worried over us. Perhaps you’d better take Grandmother’s carriage back to Bedford Square. I’ll follow with Lord Dare. If my sister asks, tell her—”

  “Tell ’er what, miss? That ye insisted on going to Cockpit Steps so ye could take a sketch of a headless ghost?”

  “Bridget! Hush, will you?”

  Miss Somerset cast a nervous glance at Nick, who found himself once again open-mouthed and speechless. Ghosts? Good Lord. The poor creature was mad—mad enough to believe she’d find a ghost hovering about Cockpit Steps!

  Perhaps he should skip Bedford Square entirely, and deposit her at the door of Bedlam.

  Bridget didn’t say a word to Nick when he escorted her to Lady Chase’s carriage—she was too busy muttering to herself about “red striped gowns spattered with blood and ghosts what have lost their heads” to pay any attention to him, and he was relieved when he’d seen her into the carriage and safely on her way.

  “You don’t wager on cockfights, do you, Lord Dare?” Miss Somerset asked when he returned to the carriage. “I hate to think you’d encourage such a vicious sport.”

  Nick blinked. What the devil did cockfighting have to do with this? Was her mind wandering? Perhaps her addled brain had confused the footpad’s attack with a cockfight. Was that why she’d been arguing with her maid about birds?

  “The Royal Cockpit,” she explained, noticing his confusion. “They tore it down last year, but you couldn’t have known that, having been on the Continent these past two years. You didn’t come out tonight to see a cockfight, did you?”

  Nick’s brows lowered in confusion. She didn’t sound addled. “No. I don’t care for blood sports.”

  He’d ventured out to pay Lady Uplands a visit, but before he’d gained her doorstep he’d been overcome with weariness at the thought of another romp with her, and he’d left without knocking. Unwilling to go home and face the suffocating gloom of his aunt’s house, he’d found himself wandering around St. James’s Park. He’d been near Anne’s Gate when he heard Bridget’s screams and came running.

  But he hadn’t the slightest intention of explaining any of this to Miss Somerset, who, mad or not, was skilled at turning the conversation away from herself.

  “Ghosts?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

  She looked down at the sketchbook in her hands, avoiding his eyes. “Bridget has a vivid imagination.”

  “And this vivid imagination of hers led her to believe you were on a search for ghosts, without any encouragement on your part? How singular.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. Very well, my lord, if you insist on having the whole of it. There are rumors the Cockpit Steps are haunted by the ghost of a lady whose husband beheaded her. Of course I never expected to see her ghost. I only came to get a sketch of the steps, though I won’t deny I rather hoped I would see a ghost. No.” She held up a hand when he tried to interrupt. “I don’t believe in ghosts, my lord. I only mean to say that sometimes imagination is a great deal more amusing than reality.”

  It was a logical enough explanation, and she appeared perfectly lucid as she delivered it, but those afflicted with madness often had periods of clarity. “Why venture out at night if you only wanted to sketch the Cockpit Steps? Surely it would have been easy enough—not to mention a great deal safer—for you to wait until tomorrow.”

  Her mouth took on a stubborn cast. “I wanted to get the shadows on the steps, and truly, there was plenty of light when we set out. It’s only the rain that makes it so dark.”

  “But why, Miss Somerset, is it so important you get the sketch at all? Why not sketch some flowers, or some kittens in a basket, and be done with it?”

  “Do you find kittens in a basket stimulating, my lord?”

  “No, not especially.”

  “Then why should you suppose I would?”

  Despite his misgivings, Nick’s lips curved in a reluctant grin. Miss Somerset might be mad, but she was damned amusing. He couldn’t recall ever being so entertained by a woman before—that is, not a woman who was still clothed.

  “Ah. So you’re a true artist, then? Well, that explains why you’ve got a sketch of Tower Hill in your sketchbook. I can’t fault your artistic skills, certainly. Pity you didn’t include a head rolling about on the grass. Or wasn’t there a beheading that day?”

  Her lips thinned. “Did you peek into my sketchbook, Lord Dare? I’d begun to think of you as a gentleman after your gallant assistance this evening, but a gentleman doesn’t rifle through a lady’s personal belongings without her permission.”

  Nick ignored this. “Beheadings, Newgate Prison, burial grounds, and headless ghosts—not quite kittens in a basket, is it?” He leaned toward her. “They’re rather…unusual subjects for a young lady’s artistic endeavors. Tell me, Miss Somerset. What do you hope to gain from your pursuits?”

  Persuade me you’re not mad.

  Perhaps her oddities could be explained as the antics of an overzealous artist or a determined bluestocking. After all, a gentleman could marry a bluestocking without any concern for the sanity of his future children.

  He held his breath as she parted her lips to speak, but then she shook her head and snapped her mouth closed again without saying a word.

  Even pressed into a thin, disapproving line, her mouth was lovely. Pink, and then she had such fair skin her lips looked like berries in a dish of smooth, sweet cream. Such delicate coloring for such a vibrant lady, but then her eyes gave her away. Determination burned in those dark blue depths.

  But then maybe it wasn’t determination at all. Couldn’t it just as easily be the fevered mania of the mentally afflicted?

  Damn it, was the chit insane, or not? Not many bedlamites had her quickness, but that sketch of Tower Hill, well…even without the head rolling about on the grass, a preoccupation with execution sites was a trifle worrying in a prospective bride. “Are you engaged in some sort of study, Miss Somerset? Are you searching London’s dark streets for Drunken Rogues and other Miscreants?”

  She recognized the phrase at once, and her brows lowered. “Perhaps I am engaged in a study, but one needn’t roam the streets of London to find rogues, Lord Dare. One stumbles across them in the least likely places, don’t they? Dinner parties, libraries…”

  Nick had been distracted by the way the pink color flooded back into her lips once she’d opened them, but at this he jerked his gaze back to her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  She waved off his question. “Perhaps it would be best if you took me back to Bedford Square now, my lord. I’m certain my sister must be worried about me.”

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Perhaps that would be best.”

  He rapped on the roof of the carriage, but they’d hardly moved an inch when she surprised him by taking his hand.

  “Lord Dare, I—thank you for your assistance this evening, truly. I shudder to think what might have happened if you hadn’t come along. I’m very grateful to you.”

  “It’s fortunate I happened to be near. I’m pleased I could assist you, Miss Somerset.”

  He forced a smile, patted her hand, then started to draw away, but she held fast to him, pressing his hand between her own. “Will you call on me tomorrow, my lord?” It was a bold request, and her face colored a little. “I, ah…you’ve been so kind, and I think I’d feel better about my ordeal tonight if I could reassure you of my full recovery tomorrow.”

  It was the most encouragement Nick had ever gotten from her. He studied her face for some sign she’d softened toward him, and he did see a tiny shift in her expression, something so strange and fleeting he could almost believe he’d imagined it, but it wasn’t softness. It wasn’t yearning, or maidenly bashfulness, or stark desire—it wasn’t any of the things he was accustomed to seeing on a lady’
s face when he singled her out for his attention.

  It looked like…determination.

  Or madness.

  Before Nick could decide which, she disguised the strange expression with a smile, and he shrugged off his curiosity. Perhaps his chivalry this evening had been enough to crack her icy resistance, but it was too late. He hadn’t gained any clarity regarding her sanity, and that left him only one choice.

  This courtship had hardly even begun, but it was already finished.

  He thought about the forlorn look on the wallflower’s face in the Almack’s sketch, the bleak beauty in her sketch of the burial grounds, and, to his surprise, his heart felt curiously heavy.

  But no matter how diverting she was, or how much he wished to leave England behind, he couldn’t marry a lady whose sanity he questioned.

  Hyacinth Somerset was not, despite his best hopes, the answer to his prayers.

  Yet he could hardly refuse a brief call to inquire after her health, particularly under the circumstances. “Yes, of course.”

  She released his hand with a nod. “Thank you, my lord. I look forward to your call tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eight

  If Violet imagined she could creep into her grandmother’s house for a second time that day without being detected, she was sadly mistaken.

  “Violet! Oh, my goodness, wh-wh-where…”

  Violet’s heart dropped as Hyacinth struggled to gasp out her words. Her sister hardly ever stuttered anymore, but when she did, it was always because she was dreadfully upset. She rushed forward and took Hyacinth gently by the shoulders. “It’s all right, Hyacinth. I’m here now. Take a deep breath. Yes, that’s it. Another one.”

  A humiliated flush rose in Hyacinth’s cheeks as she struggled to speak. “It was dark when I woke, and I couldn’t f-f-find you, and I got w-w-worried, and then Br-Br-Bridget came back, babbling something about g-ghosts…”