"But Miss Madden, I must have a word with you — "
"Later, Perkins!" Irritated, she turned back to her guest. "So, as I was saying," she babbled, taking a few sips of the brew and setting the cup down in its saucer, "this is my very first Season, and Mama was determined that I should be dressed in the very finest that Madame Boulanger had to offer. She thought that I might set a new style with this particular style of sleeve. What do you think, Lord Somerfield?"
"It is charming," he said, far less enamored of her sleeve than he was of her money — which, if things went according to plan, would soon be his.
How long did it take for the damned potion to work?
Perkins was still trying to get her attention. Fed up, Miss Madden waved him away, her face pinched and annoyed. "I rather think that this sleeve will be all the rage in London this year, too. And this lovely shade of blue . . . Mama says it sets off my eyes to their best advantage, would you not agree, my lord? Do you remember when Lord Charles de Montforte's wife, Amy, made her debut last year wearing that brilliant peacock gown? And how everyone was wearing peacock after that?" She gave a twittering, grating little laugh. "Well, I was thinking that if Lady Charles could set a fashion, then so could I. In fact . . ."
She trailed off, her face going suddenly white.
"What is it, my dear?" asked Gerald, setting down his cup and feigning concern when inside, his every muscle was tensed and waiting for her to attack him and rip off his clothes. Waiting for her ferocious mama to come storming in from the room next door. Waiting for the two of them to be caught in a compromising position so that she'd have to marry him and he'd finally have his hands on a fortune.
"I . . . suddenly don't feel very well," she said faintly, her hand going to her stomacher and tiny beads of sweat breaking out on her brow.
He rose. "Here, let me assist you."
"No!"
"I insist."
But she leaped to her feet, her cheeks pasty beneath their rouge, and with a panicky look, bolted from the room.
Moments later, the formidable Mrs. Madden swept in. "Lord Somerfield," she said gravely. "I fear I must beg your forgiveness. My daughter has suddenly become quite violently ill and has taken to her bed. Perhaps you will call again tomorrow, when it is hoped she will be feeling better?"
Gerald bowed, confusion and anger warring within him. "Of course, madam. Please convey my best wishes for a full recovery to Miss Sarah."
He turned and left, the footman, Perkins, escorting him to the door and handing him his hat.
It was only after the door had shut behind him that a troubled Perkins begged a private word with his employer.
"I don't know what is wrong with Miss Sarah," said the man, unaware that the subject of his query was, at that very moment, squatting upstairs over a chamber pot while ferocious cramps purged her insides, "But I
do
know I saw something a few minutes ago that I tried to warn her about, something I'm thinking you ought to be aware of."
"And that is?"
"That Lord Somerfield tapped a few drops of something into her tea right before she fell ill."
"You don't say!"
"I do say. And I'll swear it on my life, ma'm, that I saw him do it."
~~~~
Eva de la Mouriére arrived in Paris later that evening and was immediately ushered into the young queen's private chambers.
"Ah,
mon amie
!" cried Marie Antoinette, rushing forward. "You are here at last! You have the potion, no?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," said Eva, curtseying. "I have the potion."
Or that part of it, in any case, that she was willing to part with. She had retained a good half of it in preparation for whatever the future might demand of it. But at the moment, America's future demanded it, and so Eva sacrificed part of her trophy. She stood watching with veiled triumph as the queen all but grabbed it from her hand and held it up to the light from the window, her face flushed with excitement.
"Ah, Eva!" she cried, clasping the bottle to her bosom and looking as though she was actually going to hug her benefactress. "Thanks to you and this English inventor, perhaps I shall succeed where time and nature have failed! Ah, you are
splendide
,
trés splendide
! You have ensured the succession of the monarchy, and your generosity will not go unrewarded. I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me! What you have done for France!"
Eva hid her satisfied smile. Marie Antoinette had good reason to be thankful; she had been desperate to provide the king with an heir, desperate to disprove, once and for all, the ugly rumors that he was incapable of great passion. Let the young queen be grateful. Eva knew just what she wanted as payment for the trouble she had gone through to get the potion.
She inclined her head. "I am delighted to be of service," she said diplomatically. "And I am sure that I, as well as Mr. Franklin, would find ourselves deeply in
your
debt, Your Majesty, should France lend her weight to our struggle to throw off the yoke of Britain forever."
"If this potion," cried Marie Antoinette, holding up the bottle, "produces the next king of France, your country will have all the aid we can give! You want ships? We supply them. You want an army? We send one! You want a war? We make one! And now you must excuse and forgive me, Eva, for I am eager to see my Louis!" Her voice dropped to an excited whisper. "Eager to see if this famous love potion works on French kings as well as it does on English nobility, ha!"
Laughing gaily and leaving Eva to smile in savage triumph, Marie Antoinette swept from the room in a rustle of silk and perfume and headed for her husband's bedchambers . . .
Never knowing — as Eva did not know, as Celsie did not know, as Lord Andrew himself did not even know — that the bottle did not contain the aphrodisiac at all . . .
But something very, very different.
~~~~
Lady Brookhampton wasn't the only society matron who had a mouth.
Two hours after Gerald took his leave of his prospective heiress, all of London knew of his attempt to "poison" her. By that evening, the news was spreading out into the countryside as fast as couriers could speed a letter. But it wasn't until Gerald walked into his club that evening and straight into a reception as warm as the Arctic that he realized something was wrong.
Horribly, dreadfully, wrong.
Conversation immediately ceased. A roomful of faces all turned to stare at him. And there, at the table nearest the fire at which were also seated Sir Roger Foxcote, the earl of Brookhampton, and a very cold-eyed and intimidating Major Charles de Montforte, lounged the duke of Blackheath.
A glass of brandy dangled from his hand. His coat was of midnight blue velvet, and he was gazing at Somerfield with a smile that did nothing to align itself with the total lack of warmth in those chilling black eyes.
Gerald swallowed.
"I say, Somerfield, is it really true that you tried to poison a certain young heiress this afternoon?" he said, still smiling that terrible little smile.
Gerald's glass of brandy slipped from his nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a tinkling crash. "
What?
"
"Oh, do you mean you haven't heard?" The smile broadened. "My dear boy, it is all over London."
Gerald's mouth fell open. His panicked gaze shot to the crowd of hostile faces, all watching this horrifying drama unfold. Back to the duke of Blackheath. "I — I don't know what you're talking about —"
"Certain sources close to me" — the duke's black gaze flickered to the army officer beside him — "have also told me of a recent . . . robbery. Dear me. The lengths to which some men will go in order to get a woman into bed with them. I
do
wonder if that bottle of love potion that . . . disappeared . . . causes illness such as Sarah Madden is suffering?"
Nausea rose in Gerald's gut and his brow exploded in sweat.
Oh, God. He knew! But how the devil
could
he know?!
And now, all around, people were getting to their feet, a low murmur like a swarm of angry bees going through the room.
"Do you mean he poisoned the gel with a
love potion
?!"
"Ain't letting him anywhere near
my
daughters, I tell you!"
"Don't even want him in my house!"
"Is this claim of yours true, Blackheath?"
The duke, still lounging in his chair, merely picked up his glass and smiled.
Lord Brookhampton walked forward, his eyes hard. "You had best be away from here, Somerfield, if you value your health. You will find no friends here."
Gerald stared around him at men he had known for years, people he had gambled, socialized, got drunk, and grown up with, and fought down panic as he sought out a friendly face, a sympathetic smile. But there were only icy stares, hostile eyes, and a wall of black, tension-charged silence.
And now, at another table, the earl of Tetford was setting down his glass and getting to his feet. The marquess of Morninghall was clearing his throat and rising. Around them, others, too, began to push back their chairs.
Gerald fled the club. In a state of rising panic, he went to his friend Taunton's house and was refused an audience. He pounded on the door of Mrs. Bottomley's bawdy house in hopes of finding another group of acquaintances, only to be denied entrance. Even Bonkley refused to see him, and as one door after another slammed in his face, Gerald sunk further and further into a nightmare from which there was no awakening, clawing futilely for the remains of his life.
The truth hit him.
Andrew de Montforte's potion had cost him not only Miss Sarah — but every heiress in the country. Andrew's potion had cost him his place in Society, his friends, his honor and his respect. Andrew's potion had cost him not only his present — but his future.
Lord Andrew de Montforte had ruined his life.
Fearing her wrath if he didn't warn her, Gerald sent a note off to Eva and returned to his rented rooms only long enough to retrieve his pistol and ammunition.
By midnight, he was galloping west towards Rosebriar . . .
And revenge.
~~~~
Celsie awoke sometime just after dawn.
The room was gray. In the distance a long, low rumble heralded an approaching thunderstorm. How strange, she thought, for late autumn. She sighed and reached for her husband. The bed was empty save for Freckles, sprawled across her legs.
She sat up. "Andrew?"
Blinking, she looked around the room. A single chrysanthemum stood in a glass decanter by the bed, a note tucked beside it.
"Dearest heart. I love you more than half. I love you more than whole. I love you with everything I am, which is why you have woken to find yourself alone — I am wide-awake and could not bear to trouble your sweet slumbers with my restlessness. I am off to inspect and set up my delightful new laboratory. Will you meet me for breakfast at nine? I am hungry for far more than just tea and toast . . ."
Your adoring husband,
Andrew
Celsie smiled and held the note to her heart. Well,
she
was hungry for far more than just tea and toast, too! Her first thought was to go to the laboratory and help him set it up . . . or simply seduce him into an early
breakfast
. But even an adoring husband needed a little time to himself — not only to adjust to the sudden institution of marriage, but to find a sense of familiarity in the things that made up his working world. Let him play in his new laboratory. She could wait an hour or so for breakfast.
She went about her morning toilette, dressed in a riding habit of dark plum wool, and pinning a smart round hat to her upswept hair, called for Freckles, who jumped down from the bed and trotted stiffly to the door. There he stood, tail wagging, his cloudy old eyes watching her expectantly.
"I know. I'm getting far too lazy, being a married woman, aren't I, Freck?"
She bent down to hug him, but he was impatient; he needed to go out.
Outside, the morning was still and grey and unseasonably warm, with low, fast-moving clouds filing in from the west. There was rain in the air. An expectant hush. No birds were singing, and a light breeze was already moving ominously over the grasses. Yes, it would rain soon, and even as she watched Freckles trot off over the heath, still a bird dog despite his aging body and senses, she heard again the low, distant rumble of thunder.
Leaving Freckles to his business, Celsie headed down the hill towards the kennels. How she had missed her dogs! There was Tipper, short, scruffy, and loveable, tail wagging as she ran out of her indoor area in greeting; there was Molly, barking in excitement as she spotted Celsie; and there — what was
he
doing here? — was Gerald.
He had been leaning against the old oak that in summertime shaded the outdoor runs, arms folded, obviously waiting for someone.
Her.
"Gerald?"
He smiled and straightened. "Good morning, Celsie. You're late for your morning doggie visit. New husband replaced them in your affections already?"
She stilled, not liking his tone of voice, not liking his unkempt, unshaved appearance, not liking the way he was looking at her with that ugly, angry light in his eye. She saw an empty wine bottle on the grass near his feet. Again, the thunder rumbled, far away still, but getting closer.
Celsie drew herself up to her full height. "I thought I asked you to leave."
"You did." He was no longer smiling, and his bloodshot eyes were hard and glittering. As he uncrossed his arms, she saw that he was holding a pistol. "But I have no where else to go, you see, thanks to your
husband
."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, nervously eyeing the gun.
"Oh, Celsie. Why lie to me? Surely you knew he sabotaged the aphrodisiac. Surely you knew that the solution Eva stole was not the same stuff that caused you to attack your eccentric young inventor like a bitch in heat."