Chapter Thirty-Eight

Anne swallowed. Despite stopping for a cup of tea, she could still taste the sour bile in her mouth.

From the street, Havermere’s manse appeared cold and formidable. As she approached the front door the impression magnified and she shivered. Not one thing was out of place but it was utterly soulless.

How did one do this? Never mind, best not to think, simply knock on the door and demand to see the countess. After all, she was the Marchioness of Devlin now. It was time to behave like it.

She was admitted at once, as if she had been expected.

“Ah, Lady Devlin, what a pleasure.” The earl sat very close to a roaring fire, a blanket covered his knees. He was rolling up what looked to be a canvas. He finished and tucked it away.

Lord Havermere might have been rather good looking as a younger man, but his expression was sour, and his smile looked more reptilian than genuine.

“I have been looking forward to our meeting. You must forgive me for not rising. I am somewhat incapacitated of late.” He indicated the chair opposite his.

Anne stood her ground.

He cocked his head. “In truth, I thought you would come much sooner.”

Several hours had passed. The countess had said she could not tarry with James and needed to be home. “I was hoping to meet your wife.”

“Ah, aren’t we all, Lady Devlin. Aren’t we all.”

She shifted her feet.

“Please sit down. You will be doing me a favor. My eyesight is not what it used to be.”

Unsure what to do she sat, putting her back to the fire.

“My paramour has never been the most accessible of ladies, but these days she seems to be even more elusive. Believe me, I employ a stable of people to keep track of her, but to no avail. I fear her infamous—charm—has wheedled its way into their hearts. But, never mind, that will all change soon enough.”

The heat burned her back and she rose. “I am sorry to disturb you, Lord Havermere. I really wished to speak with the countess on a personal matter.”

“Yes, I would imagine you would.”

The old earl’s gaze gave her the sudden urge to check if the buttons at her neck were all done up. She squeezed her hands instead.

“I believe we have much to discuss, Lady Devlin. Please sit.”

“I really must—”

“You seemed to enjoy the opera. I don’t get out often, but the charms of Miss Lind lured me to the theater. I cannot resist true talent.” This time when he indicated the chair, his fingers brushed a sheaf of papers on the table by his elbow.

About to make her apologies again, she stopped.

The topmost drawing was turned away from her, but she knew even before the earl shifted it toward her that it was of her. Nora Havermere.

And James.

Like stopping to witness a terrible accident, she could not look away. But instead of blood and gore, there was only heartbreaking beauty.

James must have set up a large mirror and hastily, yet so expertly, caught their ardor in just a few marks of pencil.

Her stomach clenched, still unsettled from earlier. She sat.

“Yes, I thought you might change your mind, my dear.” Havermere picked up the drawing, revealing the next beneath.

James sat facing the mirror his long legs splayed wide, his sketchbook between them. Nora hovered just over his left shoulder, her hair a riot of curls as she nipped at his neck, a secret smile on her lips. One breast and a lushly-curved hip peeped out from behind James’s body, a baroque frame for his austere angles.

Unable to stop, she reached for the rest of them. One by one she peeled them off. They fluttered to the floor like so many dead leaves. So many positions—another sketch—another position. She had done that one with James. It joined the others on the floor to reveal yet another—he had taken her that way as well.

These last were only very rough sketches. The mirror played no part now. No voyeuristic looking glass to peer into their deep intimacy.

Poor owlish Anne Winton could never compete with this woman. What they had together was so incredibly beautiful. As if they were made for each other. Pure art.

“I see you get the full picture now, Lady Devlin. I am sorry it is so hideously graphic, but sometimes it is better, kinder, to not have any illusions left to muddle your true and just feelings.”

She stared at the papers scattered at her feet. She should gather them up, make sure they did not get destroyed, but could not make herself move.

“You need not worry my countess will dally any longer with your husband. Once I get hold of her, she will be—disciplined. I do not enjoy playing the cuckold. I will not tolerate being made a fool.”

“No.”

“I knew you would agree.”

“You misunderstand. I mean we should not interfere. I will not interfere.” This old bitter man and she were the interlopers. They were the ones keeping these two perfect beings from being together. “We must accept the inevitable and let them go. You must see that.” She said the words as if she had memorized them long ago, like the liturgy she had intoned by rote everyday at Ardsmoore. They were only words with no meaning, strung together to put a period on this part of her dream.

“You are a little fool. He has cozened you as well. Have you fallen in love with him? Foolish woman. Do you know he has had the most elegant women in and outside of society besides my wife? You are nothing to him. Only a breeder—a means to an end. Are you increasing yet?”

Warmth flooded her cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire being so hot.

“By God, you are. Fertile ground. Well, as they say, ground nearest the dung heap always sprouts first. Do you imagine you have won with this babe? Have you never thought, once you whelp, how long he will keep you? Once he has his son you will be de trop, my dear lady. Make no mistake, he will pack you off to molder in the country. He might drop by in a year or two to plant a spare in you, but don’t look for anything beyond that.”

She could not stay to listen to this terrible man. She heaved herself onto her legs. But the drawings surrounded her, a sea of paper, trapping her against the chair.

“The marquess will be too busy trying to extricate his lover, my dear wife. He knows all too well what awaits her at Ballencrieff. That will break him. I will not have to do anything more, he will sabotage himself all on his own.”

“Ballencrieff?”

“Yes, I have the documents nearly ready. She is unstable, my dear countess. She needs care and discipline. Perhaps in a few years she will see the error of her ways.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? I will not be made a fool again. By the time my lady wife gets clear of Ballencrieff, she will no longer resemble the willful shrew she is now. Her outside will finally match her black inside. And our marquess, with his—tendencies—will either be locked up with her, or will have moved on to someone else. Perhaps he might send you off to Ballencrieff as well. Ha! Wouldn’t that be a fitting end for both of Devlin’s bitches.”

Dear God, she could almost forgive Nora Havermere for falling in love with James, now having met this monster.

She had never seen herself as a fool. Naïve certainly, narrowly educated, but never a fool. She supposed she must thank the ton for showing her that side of herself. Yes, she had learnt a thing or two in these last few months.

How could she suppose James had ever wanted her? Oh, he was good, very good. She did not look in the mirror often, but when she did, she could not help but see her deficiencies. Nose too long, eyes too large, hair too black. These features would cause much consternation in most females. But she had made peace with her face…until James. Her eyes pricked with childish tears. Damn him for making her feel beautiful. That she could never forgive.

This new confidence was just a seedling, easily ripped out by the roots. But the notion of being a fool was not as easy to purge. The good news was she would have many hours—years—to learn to swallow it down.

****

“Where is Lady Devlin?”

“Good afternoon, your lordship. Might I be of assistance?”

Anne’s maid was one of those modern beauties, her opulence put on display for all to see. She might have appealed to him in his younger days, but now he found her vulgar.

“Yes, you can tell me the whereabouts of your mistress.”

The maid made a moue with her generous lips and plucked at the neckline of her bodice.

“Now.”

“She is gone, sir.”

“Yes, that I can see for myself. Where has she gone, and more importantly when will she return?”

The maid frowned, obviously not used to having her considerable battery of attributes ignored. “She doesn’t tell me what she’s about, your lordship. She keeps to herself, you know.”

Halfway out the door the maid’s voice stopped him. “I don’t know where, but I do know she may likely be gone for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she usually goes down to the pianoforte in the afternoon, and I come up to see to her clothing at that time. I am not fond of music, I suppose. I noticed two of her gowns were missing. The gray Kerseymere and the blue serge. At first I thought she had finally followed my advice and given them to the rag and bone man, but when I investigated further, I saw some of her other things were gone as well.”

“What things?”

“Well, some of her unmentionables, sir, and her brush and comb set.”

He crossed to Anne’s vanity. Sure enough, the silver set Lady Tippit had given her as a wedding gift was gone. He flipped open a small inlaid box. The pearls lay in a coil against the indigo lining. A bit of ribbon was wound around an object. He pulled the end and two rings rolled out onto the table. The hideous one his father had provided when they were wed, and the opal.

He slipped it on his smallest finger. It barely reached his first knuckle. The stone flashed as it caught a sliver of fading light. Idiot, it seemed to say. “Bloody, foolish, idiot,” he agreed.

“Pardon, your lordship? You said something?”

He’d forgotten he was not alone. The maid. Still trying to get a rise out of him.

Twenty minutes later, after having quizzed his sister-in-law’s maid, the cook—who he was sure was hiding something—and five footmen, he finally found Margaret at the top of the house in a room tucked between the eaves.

She was huddled in an overstuffed chair with a plate of cake on her knees, licking her fingers.

His paintings surrounded her. Dozens of faces stared back at him. Ghosts from his past. Not destroyed as he had assumed, just hidden away, much as he had been.

“Oh, dear!” Margaret began to rise and nearly lost her cake as she grabbed for a pillow next to her. “Lord Devlin. Is my husband with you?” She glanced over his shoulder.

“No. I have not seen him.”

“Oh, good.” She collapsed back into her nest of pillows. “How you frightened me.”

“What are you doing here?” He stepped farther into the room.

“You have stumbled upon my sanctuary. No one ever comes here, you see—well, except when Lady Devlin and I found the room. That is when I started using it.”

“Anne was here?”

“Oh, yes, though it was some time ago. I tried to persuade her to leave, but she had to look at every one.” Margaret glanced about her. “Odd, they have become like old friends to me now.”

He had never paid much mind to his brother’s wife, but even he knew a woman seven or so months gone with child should have looked far more round. But she seemed to have lost her belly but gained a good three or more stone everywhere else.

“Oh, you are shocked, I see.” She touched a small round pillow next to her. “Well, originally I thought to put on a few extra pounds to look as if I was still increasing. That way your brother would—well, he would leave me be. And besides, I could not bear to disappoint the duke who seemed to rally at our news.”

“You are not increasing?”

Margaret bit her lip and, discovering some pastry cream, licked it. She shook her head. “No, I am not. Not anymore, at least.” She shuddered. “Please, you must not tell Austin. He will be seriously displeased with me.”

“Why would you indulge in this kind of subterfuge?”

“Your father was so desperate. And my husband so very—diligent. He would not stop until he got me with child. We did not anticipate you leaving Ballencrieff anytime soon.”

But why would they perpetuate such a farce? Hell, that was the pot calling the kettle black. Wasn’t he busy fabricating his own mythical child? Take the bloody mote out of your own eye…

At one time he would have loved revisiting these portraits. Now they no longer interested him. He’d moved beyond them. Only a reminder of what he had been, and what he no longer wanted. “Do you know where my wife is?”

“She usually practices the piano now, which is one of the reasons I found this place, being out of the way, you understand.”

“Did she say anything to you about leaving?”

“Leaving? Where would she go?” Clearly Margaret could not conceive of the idea of running away, or striking out on one’s own.

“Did she mention any new friends? Does she visit anyone?”

“Not that I know of. She did want to visit the British Museum, but I told her I could not countenance the idea of looking at naked bodies and heathen Egyptian deities.”

And yet his sister-in-law surrounded herself with nearly naked women.

“Thank you. I will try the museum.”

“Won’t you stay for some tea and cake, Lord Devlin? I have plenty and the tea pot is still hot.”

“No, I must find Anne.”

“You really love her, don’t you?”

“With all my heart.” God, it felt good to say that.

Margaret nodded sadly and stuffed a bit of cake into her mouth.

Closing the door he heard a clatter. The door swung open. Margaret beamed waving her teapot. “Teapot! Lady Teapot!”

“Teapot? Lady who?”

“Now I remember, Anne mentioned a Lady Teapot once—” Her smile collapsed and the teapot drooped in her hand. “Oh, silly me, Lady Teapot. I have got it wrong. Who would be called Lady Teapot?”

“I must go now, Margaret.”

“Oh, of course. And you will remember our little secret?” She smoothed her hand over her belly.

“For now, your secret is safe.”

She nodded sadly again and closed the door.

Lady Teapot, indeed.

Venerable relatives lining the stairway stared down from their portraits as if to say, What a clod this one is. Not one of us at all. The third duke of Malvern was next to fire another insult. Must be bad blood on the mother’s side.

Why not just heave himself over the banister as he had nearly done that fateful day at Ballencrieff.

Teapot. Tip-pit.

The second Duke of Malvern, a rather ruddy-faced man, seemed to wink at Dev.

By God, it must be Tippit.

The first, almost smiled. He must be truly barmy. The dukes of Malvern never smiled in their portraits.

Could Anne be going back to Ballencrieff? Or could Lady Tippit have finally braved coming to Town?

Ivo. Ivo would know.

****

“Devlin,” Lady Tippit raised her quizzing glass. “Took you long enough.”

Her ladyship had taken a good three inches off the height of her hair and triple that off her age. Dev suddenly realized she must only be in her late forties and not an unhandsome woman.

“Ivo was the ticket, your ladyship. I only needed to ask him.”

“Yes, he is remarkably keen, our Ivo. Knows which end is up, don’t you, dear boy?”

The giant grinned, right as rain now he was tucked up inside a house instead of battling carriages and pedestrians.

“Is she here?”

“Yes, she is, but you cannot see her.”

“Lady Tippit, please—”

“She is indisposed.”

“She is ill? Has a doctor been called?”

“Do sit down. Perkins,”—she waved to a rather cadaverous-looking butler—“Lord Devlin requires brandy. And give him Poppa’s good stuff.” The butler unlocked a cabinet and set a decanter and glass next to Dev.

“Shall I pour, my lord?” His thin reedy voice felt like spider webs, and Dev had the urge to swipe his face.

“No, thank you. I can see to myself.”

“Perkins, that will be all. Take Ivo to Cook for his cider.” She turned to Ivo. “And best to keep your little friend Pocket in your pocket. My cook does not have the best of humors. She is new, and I want to keep this one.”

The walking-dead Perkins and the beefy giant made quite a pair as they left the room.

“Why can’t I see her?”

“Ah, suddenly you are the knight-errant?”

He stood, the weight of the crystal glass too familiar and too comforting in his hand. He set it down.

“Could you desist in your perambulations, Devlin? You are wearing me out. You know I do not care for exercise.”

“Why? Why is she here? If she is ill, she should be home, at Malvern House.”

Lady Tippit shrugged. “She needed a friend. Simple as that.”

What could he say? He had not taken care of her while waiting for this ridiculous business to end when he might come to her with a clean slate. But he was ready now. Anxious to tell her he was ready to be the husband she needed. That he loved her.

“In truth, I do not yet know why she is so grieved. I have given her some of Poppa’s brandy as well and sent her to bed.”

“Might I at least see her?”

Lady Tippit shook her head. “Drink up and then take yourself home. Give her time to calm herself. The poor mite is worn to a nub.”

Lord, he had made such a hash of things. He stared at the brandy which he must have picked up again. His old friend. No, not a friend. Only something to dull his feelings. To manage himself. Once more he set the drink aside.

A piercing scream came from the back of the house.

Lady Tippit sighed. “That will be my cook. I should say former cook. Ivo cannot keep from sharing his little treasures, can he, the dear soul.”

****

“You must see him sometime, Anne.”

Somehow she had slipped from Winton to Anne between her third brandy and the hot soup Lady Tippit had insisted she at least try.

“The Anne Winton I know is no coward.”

“Am I not? I am not sure what I am anymore.” No wonder James liked brandy so well. After the initial burn it was very tasty stuff. “I was an orphan, a nobody, and now I am a somebody”—she giggled—“whatever that means. I wanted to be a healer, but it seems there is no place for that being a woman, much less a marchioness. I am not even a reasonable musician. My tutor, though very tolerant and kind, secretly despairs of me, I am sure. And I have managed to kill Mr. Hiro’s Bonsai tree. I snipped where I should not have.”

“You are many things, Anne Winton. But regardless of your lack of talent for music, your horticultural skills, your appalling wardrobe, and your inability to tolerate any liquor, you will hold your head up and face those bacon-faced biddies and loathsome lords.”

“But I am not beautiful. I am not—her.” Maybe the brandy was not such a good idea. She set it aside, her stomach at sea once again. “He doesn’t want me. He never wanted me. Will never love me.”

“Balderdash and poppycock. Have you seen the way the man looks at you?”

“Lady Tippit, you have only seen us in company together on perhaps three or four occasions. How can you say that?”

“First of all, you shall call me Maddy, and I will try to think of you as Anne. After all, one must dispense with social barriers when one’s guest’s nose is leaking all over Mama’s best linen.”

Horrified, Anne swiped at her nose with her sleeve.

“Secondly, believe me, when the man speaks of you, I see a man in love. Oh, I know, you say, what does she know? A dried-up old biddy whose father had to fetch her back from Gretna Green. But I know. I have felt love, and I know love when I see it.”

She could well imagine a younger Maddy Tippit, a woman full of dreams and not yet so damaged by life. Anne was not alone in her trials. “But—Lady—Maddy—I saw them. I saw her… How could he not love her? She is so utterly perfect. They are perfect together. They fit.”

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

“Come,” Maddy called out.

Perkins floated in. The man seemed to hover like a ghost. “Lady Tippit, are you at home?”

“Who is calling at this hour? It is not the marquess again, is it?”

“No, madam.” Perkins coughed delicately, “it is a woman.”

“I am expecting Phoebe any day now.” Lady Tippit took the card Perkins handed her. “Ah, yes. Put her in the south drawing room, Perkins. I will be down shortly.”

The butler nodded and drifted out of the room.

“Is it Mrs. Nester? Has she brought Grace?” Anne stood, desperate for the sight of the child who was now just over three months old.

“No, my dear it is not Phoebe. It seems the Countess of Havermere has come to call.”

Her stomach heaved and the room spun. She just managed to avoid her lap, but Maddy’s mother’s linen was now beyond redemption.