A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

“I need to thank the bishop,” Thea protested.

  “He’ll show up soon enough, for tea and gossip, and you can thank him then.”

  “Besides, we need to discuss Christmas,” Nicholas said. “Judith and I have decided that you will host the extended family for Christmas at Brinkley End this year.”

  “We will not,” Rafe said, as Thea cried, “Oh yes!”

  Rafe might have argued, but he spied Miss Larke wrapping a velvet cloak around her shoulders, preparing to slip out. Something in her expression compelled him to follow her.

  “Miss Larke?”

  She paused in the open doorway. “My lord?”

  “I behaved badly toward you when we first met,” he said. “The threats I made, the way I used you to manipulate Thea— I apologize for causing you distress.”

  She considered him coolly. “Treat Thea well, and all is forgiven.”

  “You were a friend to Thea when she most needed one, at risk to yourself. I am in your debt. Only say the word, and we shall not hesitate to help.”

  A bleak look shadowed Miss Larke’s eyes, as if she might weep. But a heartbeat later, the expression passed, and she was her usual proud, aloof self.

  “Good grief. Love does soften a man’s brain,” she drawled. “Why on earth would you imagine that I might need help?” She inclined her head. “Good night, my lord. Felicitations on your marriage.”

  With that, she stepped into the night.

  A moment later, Sally and Martha hurtled past, calling good-byes as they ran to a waiting hack, and finally, Rafe managed to shove Nicholas out the door and slam it shut. At his look, the last of the servants melted away, and he and Thea were blessedly alone, in the blessed silence.

  “Finally,” Rafe said, slipping his hands around her waist. “All those blasted people are gone.”

  Thea smoothed her palms over his chest. “You did a lot of talking tonight.”

  “So I shall not talk to anyone for a week.”

  “You’ll talk to me.”

  “I will.” Rafe slid his hands up her arms to cradle her face. He brushed his thumbs over her lips. “I have syllabub waiting upstairs. You will not have to choose between pleasures.”

  A wicked gleam lit her blue eyes, sending desire shooting through his groin. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her promising softness against him. “Will you feed it to me?”

  Rafe ducked and scooped her into his arms, laughing at her squeals of delight.

  “I shall paint it on your skin,” he said. “I shall kiss you everywhere, and make love to you until all you can think of is me.”

  “And then?” she whispered.

  Rafe tightened his arms around her. “And then I shall take you home.”

  Epilogue

  To the delight of the hordes that invaded Brinkley End that December, it snowed a few days before Christmas.

  Rafe arrived from his greenhouse, the cold air slicing his cheeks, and stopped short at the sight of the lawn. Or, more precisely, at the inordinately large number of children running around in the snow, squealing and yelling. Christopher and Mary had several children, and Mary’s sister and husband had shown up with their children, and Thea’s parents had brought the Little Ones, and while that added up to an absurd number of children, it still did not account for the masses on his lawn.

  One figure parted from the others and hurled herself at him, blue eyes bright. Rafe dropped a kiss on her pink nose, and another on her pink lips, then pulled her against him and studied the screaming creatures.

  Thea elbowed him. “If you keep scowling at the children like that, they’ll get frightened and run away.”

  “There’s an awful lot of them,” Rafe remarked. “I think there are more than before.”

  “That happens with children.”

  “Yes, but don’t they usually go through a pink, screaming stage before they get to the shouty, sticky-fingered stage?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean.” Thea laughed and hugged him. “The village children are here, to rehearse for the Christmas pageant.”

  “The Christmas pageant?”

  “Had you forgotten?”

  “Yes. And now I shall forget it again.” With one look at her, he did indeed promptly forget the pageant and the children. “Will you skate with me today? I have news.”

  She answered with a broad smile, but before they could make their escape, one of the creatures came slipping and sliding across the snow toward them.

  “Uncle Lucky! Uncle Lucky!” cried the creature.

  Thea cast him a look. “‘Uncle Lucky’?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  The creature revealed itself to be a girl, who said, “You told Charlie that crocodiles live in the lake, but I looked it up in the bestiary and they say crocodiles like hot places.” She frowned anxiously at the frozen lake. “Will the poor crocodiles be all right?”

  “I assure you, they are fine,” Rafe replied. “In autumn, they roll in the warm mud at the bottom of the lake. Then they happily hibernate like bears until spring.”

  “Wonderful. I was so worried about them.” She turned. “Charlie!” she screamed and Rafe winced. She ran back to the crowd, yelling, “Uncle Lucky says the crocodiles are warm and happy!”

  Rafe caught Thea’s look. “What? I was educating her. That’s what we’re meant to do with children, isn’t it? Educate them?”

  Laughing, Thea took his hand, and together they ran through the snow to the lake’s edge, where they helped each other put on their skates. Hand in hand, they slid and circled over the ice, more or less making their way toward a cozy cabin at the far end, which Thea had prepared as Rafe’s secret hideaway, should his extended family threaten to overwhelm.

  “I have received news from London,” Rafe said. “Lord Ventnor and Percy Russell have gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “An informal ducal inquiry revealed that Lord Ventnor was living beyond his means. Most of his investments failed, and what with keeping up appearances, he fell into severe debt. His solution was to help himself to the Treasury purse.”

  Thea’s jaw dropped. “He was stealing from the government?”

  “Depends whom you ask. Ventnor insists he was merely taking his due for his invaluable services. Everyone else calls it stealing.”

  “What will happen to him? The Crown won’t seize his property or title? What about Helen and Beau?”

  “His property and title remain intact. However, after some negotiations, Lord Ventnor accepted a position as governor of the colony of New Wessex. It is situated some four hundred miles west of Sydney Cove, the main center in the colony of New South Wales. Percy will accompany him, as he dare not show his face in society. Or his buttocks, for that matter. Ventnor has been instructed that he may not return to Britain until his colony generates enough money to replace the funds that he misappropriated.”

  Thea skidded to a halt, aghast. “How can you smile? After all he did, he gets rewarded with the governorship of a colony where he can make money?” She snorted. “What a very imperial solution: ‘By George, this man is good at stealing. Send him off to steal more land for us!’ I suppose he’ll end up filthy rich as governor of this colony of… Where did you say?”

  “New Wessex.”

  She nodded knowledgeably. “New Wessex. Yes. I see. Right.”

  “Have you ever heard of New Wessex, Countess?”

  “You mentioned it just now.” She glared at him. “Oh, very well. I confess I have never heard of New Wessex.”

  “No one has. It doesn’t exist.”

  Thea looked at him sharply. “Then what lies four hundred miles west of Sydney Cove?”

  “We don’t know. No Englishman has yet ventured that far inland.”

  “But he…” A slow smile spread over her face. “No! Really?”

  “Ventnor and Percy will spend six months sailing to the other side of the world, where they will land at Sydney Cove and inform Governor Macquarie that he, Ventnor, is the new
governor of—”

  “—Of a place that does not exist!” She laughed. “And Governor Ventnor may not return until he makes money from this place that does not exist. You did this?”

  “As you requested: You said you wanted him to rot on the other side of the world. Although given how hot it gets in the penal colonies, he may well roast, rather than rot.”

  “Then they are gone, and we can forget all about them.”

  “I already have.” Rafe skated in a slow circle around her. “I would much rather think about you, for I intend to take you into that cabin, where it is warm and cozy, and spend the rest of the day making love to you.”

  “Perhaps you will. But first…” She slid out of his reach, teasing him with her playful, enticing smile. “First you will have to catch me.”

  Thea winked, spun around on the ice, and skated away.

  Rafe forced himself to wait, watching her skirts swirl around her. Love and desire filled him, leaving little room for air. He would need air, he reminded himself, for what came next.

  So he breathed all the way in, and all the way out.

  Then, smiling, he gave chase.

  Author’s Note

  Plants, whether for food, textiles, or medicines, were a major factor in European colonial expansion, and botany was both big business and big science. I confess that, before starting research for this story, I knew little of the history of colonial exploitation of medicinal plants, with the exception of opium. As is often the case, much of what I learned had to be omitted from the novel itself.

  The plants named in Rafe’s greenhouse, and their purported uses, appear in historical sources cited in books and journal articles on colonial botany and medicine. These studies examine how Europeans gathered, exploited, and tested the knowledge of enslaved and indigenous people—while often simultaneously persuading themselves that the knowledge of enslaved and indigenous people was somehow lesser, and thus erasing their expertise. Works I consulted include Londa Schiebinger’s Secret Cures of Slaves: People, Plants, and Medicine in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic World (2017) and Plants and Empire: Colonial Bioprospecting in the Atlantic World (2004). See also the list of resources on my website.

  Cannabis came into use in medical treatments in the UK during the 19th century, although the British knew of its properties long before then, as documented in James H. Mills’ Cannabis Britannica: Empire, Trade, and Prohibition 1800-1928 (2003).

  The medical and intoxicating properties of cannabis are mentioned in several texts published in the UK in the 18th and early 19th centuries (often appearing as “bhang,” “bangue,” or “bang”). Europeans who traveled to Asia and the Middle East had been gathering such information since the 16th century, but their accounts were often embellished or distorted to sell titillating tales of exotic vices. It was not until the 19th century that British scientists and doctors turned their serious attention to it, although work was often hampered by their prejudices against Indian medical systems and religious practices.

  William Brooke O’Shaughnessy, an Irish doctor who conducted experiments using cannabis in Kolkata in the 1830s, is credited with introducing cannabis into British medicine. For subjects such as this, I work on the principle that, where one person has entered the history books for an accomplishment, many other people were conducting similar work earlier and around the same time.

  The British government primarily valued cannabis plants for hemp, essential for a maritime nation that needed the fiber to manufacture sails, ropes, sacks, etc. The “hemp plant” had long been an important crop grown in Britain; for example, Queen Elizabeth I issued a decree ordering large-scale landowners to grow it. The British were therefore keen to encourage its cultivation in India, and it was a source of conflict that Indian producers resisted changing their cultivation methods.

  By the 1870s, cannabis was being used in the UK to treat mental illness. At the same time, others were claiming that cannabis induced mental illness. This latter view, combined with growing international alarm about narcotics, eventually prevailed, leading to the prohibition of cannabis in the UK in 1928.

  In this novel, Martha’s unnamed medicine is fictional; although she based it on bhang as it was known to the British at the time, she used her own expertise to make modifications and create something new. Although I drew on accounts of William Brooke O’Shaughnessy’s experiments, its effects are not intended to accurately portray the effects of cannabis or bhang.

  I am indebted to a clinical psychologist for her suggestions for depictions of Katharine’s condition, which would likely be diagnosed today as bipolar I disorder and psychosis. Her symptoms are not intended to be universal.

  The UK implemented considerable reforms in the treatment of mental illness over the 19th century. Influencers (referred to by Rafe) were William Tuke, a Quaker and successful tea and coffee merchant, who opened the York Retreat in 1796; and Philippe Pinel, a French alienist who developed the “traitement moral” or moral treatment. Pinel and Tuke were working independently, but both instituted much gentler treatments than the “mad-doctors” of the day:

  “Treatment at the Retreat was based on a family-like atmosphere of kindness and patience… Fixed daily routines promoted self-discipline, with importance placed on a liberal, nourishing diet, fresh air and exercise. … Unsurprisingly, when no longer treated like wild beasts, patients responded to the same incentives, emotions and changes to their environment as people of sound mind.”

  writes Jill Giese in The Maddest Place on Earth (2018). (The “maddest place” refers to Victoria, Australia, which during the late 19th century had the highest rate of insanity in the world.)

  A series of UK Parliamentary inquiries in the first half of the 19th century exposed the horrendous conditions in lunatic asylums, leading to legislative change. Unfortunately, some of the new treatments introduced proved to be as barbaric as those before reforms, and stigmas around mental illness persist to this day.

  The euphemisms for sex used by the “actors” in the tavern theatre scene (Chapter 5) were taken from Jonathon Green’s Timelines of Slang. See http://jonathongreen.co.uk for more.

  I could go on, but I won’t. I am not an historian, and my research is limited to the needs of the story and the resources available to me. For further reading, I have compiled a selection of research books, available on my website.

  MV

  2019

  Acknowledgments

  If not for my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, this novel would still be a 300,000-word mess on my computer. Emily’s feedback on a very early version was invaluable in helping me find the story and dragging me out of the quagmire.

  The final version also benefited immeasurably from feedback from Mikaila Rushing, and feedback and editing by May Peterson.

  About the Author

  Mia Vincy holds degrees in English Literature and journalism, but she has managed to overcome the negative effects of this education and now writes historical romances.

  Her first novel, A Wicked Kind of Husband, won the 2019 RITA® award for Best Historical Romance: Long from Romance Writers of America®.

  Mia’s studies and former work as a journalist, communications specialist, and copyeditor took her to more than sixty countries around the world. She is now settled in Victoria, Australia.

  For more, visit miavincy.com.

  Also by Mia Vincy

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  It was the ideal marriage of convenience…until they met.

  Cassandra DeWitt has seen her husband only once—on their wedding day two years earlier—and that suits her perfectly. She has no interest in the rude, badly behaved man she married only to secure her inheritance. She certainly has no interest in his ban on her going to London. Why, he’ll never even know she is there.

  Until he shows up in London too, and Cassandra finds herself sharing a house with the most infuriating man in England.

  Joshua DeWitt has his life exactly how he wants it. He has no need of a
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  As the unlikely couple team up to battle a malicious lawsuit and launch Cassandra’s wayward sister, passion flares between them. Soon the day must come for them to part … but what if one of them wants their marriage to become real?

  Coming Next

  For news on release dates, future books, and more, sign up at miavincy.com/news or visit miavincy.com.

  A DANGEROUS KIND OF LADY

  They say to keep your enemies close. They don’t say how close.

  Proud heiress Arabella Larke must marry or lose her inheritance and everything she loves. But Arabella is determined to choose her own husband, and for that she needs to buy time. Her solution? A fake engagement with Guy Roth, Marquess of Hardbury, her childhood enemy and the one man she is sure will never want to marry her…