Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  “Oh!” James swept her off her feet right then and there. “My goodness, Lord Devlin, I feel better already.”

  Snuggled next to her husband’s breast she heard Ava say, “A trifling sneeze? Lord, old people are rather silly, aren’t they, Hes? Thank heavens we shall never be so barmy.”

  Author’s Note

  Mental illness has been misunderstood for centuries. Only recently are we beginning to divine the mysteries of the brain. In 1863, these poor “unfortunates,” as they were sometimes called, were subjected to terrible abuse and degradation, and were even a source of amusement for the, more or less, firm of mind. While researching Mad for the Marquess, I discovered many Victorian “cures” for madness. Most were too unpalatable for use in a romance novel, but I wanted the reader to get a taste of what these people had to endure, hence the cold plunges, restraints, bleeding, and cupping.

  Devlin suffers from what is now known as PTSD. Today doctors can put a diagnosis to his behavior, but back then, the accepted cure-all was bleeding to “adjust the humors” of the blood. Being poisoned with mercury and arsenic exacerbated his condition and prolonged stints in the dungeon of Ballencrieff, which was rife with black mold, only added to his malaise. Certain molds are now known to cause depression and erratic behavior. I only hint at this in the book, as this theory was unknown in 1863.

  I took some creative license when Queen Victoria deigns to attend the Duke of Malvern’s ball and the art exhibition. In 1863, with Prince Albert dead only two years, the queen was still in deep mourning and only visited London on rare occasions.

  Lastly, I so enjoyed creating my hodgepodge of secondary characters. I wanted this little tribe, with their variety of afflictions, to shed light on how those considered “abnormal” were treated in Victorian times. Horace Beauchamp is in fact very bright but has Asperseger’s. In the case of Phoebe Nester and Matilda Tippit, husbands or fathers could institutionalize any wife or daughter who did not “behave” in the way deemed correct. “Female Hysteria” was a diagnosis that encompassed everything from depression to excessive sexual urges. And then there is Major Cummings, whose only crime was being a homosexual. He could have been imprisoned, but I chose to have him confined to Ballencrieff.

  Humanity comes in an array of glorious color. Let us celebrate our rainbow.

  If you haven’t yet read the author’s first novel, here’s a brief sample to get you started:

  The

  Dressmaker’s

  Duke

  by

  Jess Russell

  Chapter One

  London, England

  Late March 1810

  Good God, did she not see the carriage?

  Rhys Merrick’s expelled breath fogged the shop window in a silent shout. Heart pounding, he rubbed the glass.

  The carriage careened by and—there she was. Intact.

  Silly female, she could have caused all manner of damage by her folly. She certainly had ruined her gown, her backside now liberally daubed with street filth and wet. But what was more singular, the woman seemed oblivious to her near escape, still wrestling to close an ancient-looking umbrella. Another gust of wind caught its underbelly, and Rhys was certain this time it would take flight, but the woman held on, only to have the thing turn itself inside out for her trouble. Ribs dangling, it now resembled a large, black, extremely dead bird.

  “Mr. Merrick, I will only be a moment longer.” The shopkeeper’s moon like face and bulging eyes appeared from around the door at the back of the shop. Twin shocks of glossy over-long hair lapped his ears, framing his huge eyes and snub nose.

  Remarkable. If the man were shrunk and glazed, he would make a very fine Staffordshire dog.

  “While you are waiting, you may like to look at that fine temple clock on the table against the far wall.” The shopkeeper’s enthusiasm begged for only a pink tongue and wagging tail.

  Rhys turned back to the window, but the woman was gone.

  Blasted rain.

  Passing the giant Egyptian sarcophagus, which stood as a kind of sentinel to the left of the shop’s door—Horus, perhaps?—Rhys moved to the back of the room and the temple clock.

  The front door bell jangled.

  A gust of fresh air blew in, carrying a scent of lemon mixed with some smell he could not immediately identify. The aroma rose like a high note over the heavy dank and must of the shop. The door swung shut, sealing out the noise of the street and rain.

  Rhys pressed himself into the farthest corner of the long narrow room. Likely he would never be recognized dressed as he was, especially in this part of town, but he did not want to chance the inevitable fawning that would take place should someone recognize him as the Duke of Roydan.

  It was the woman with the umbrella—or rather, without the umbrella. She stood frozen, as if now that she had come in out of the wet, she had lost all momentum. Rhys watched for the moment she would notice the huge falcon head of Horus looming above her and pick up her sopping skirts and leave. Then he might have the shop to himself again.

  This particular shop was not for the faint of heart. Mr. Crup specialized in the macabre. The window boasted several shrunken heads and the skeleton of some unknown creature with a sign looped about its neck identifying it as a Celtic Dragon.

  However, Crup’s oddities appeared to have no effect on this woman. Either she was too numb or too jaded to respond. He could not be sure. A dark lace veil hung limply over the front of her bonnet, obscuring her features.

  “Mr. Merrick?” The shopkeeper yapped sharply. Rhys held his breath and pressed further into the shadows. The man emerged a moment later, scanning the shop. “Oh, shite.” He set a small object on the counter. “Your pardon, ma’am, but a chap goes to all this trouble and for what?”

  Rhys turned away to examine the temple clock.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  The woman’s voice crept into the space right between his shoulder blades. Surprised, he turned to confront her. But no, her attention was firmly on the shopkeeper.

  “Filthy weather we’re having,” she said, shaking drops of rain from her shawl. Her voice was a viola, soft and deeply rounded. It seemed to roll through her, pulling her spine straighter, her shoulders back, and chin up. No longer a bedraggled, bespattered woman, she was a lady.

  However, she was definitely one who existed in that dubious state known as genteel poverty. Even in the dim light, Rhys could see her dress was several seasons old—had to be, for him to notice—and slightly short. The hem turned one too many times, exposing her muddy boots.

  “I swear I would not be surprised to see mushrooms sprouting from between my toes these days,” she said.

  Rhys’s head jerked up, but the woman was still turned toward Crup. A trickle of laughter seeped from beneath her veil, but it seemed forced, like a gaudy ribbon added at the last moment to prettify a gift.

  “I must say, Mr. Crup, I have never—” She looked above her and into Horus’s great falcon eyes and then reached up to touch the god’s huge curved beak.

  Rhys had the notion she did so as a kind of good luck charm. Absurd.

  “You are Mr. Crup, the proprietor, are you not?” she asked turning back to the little man.

  Crup nodded, and scratched behind his ear.

  She wove her way across the shop to the counter. “Yes, I thought you looked the part. A distinguished man, for a distinguished shop.” She tilted her head charmingly.

  She was laying it on a bit thick. No sane person would ever connect “distinguished” with this shopkeeper. Rhys felt certain that beneath her veil, one would see a completely different picture than the one she was taking pains to create. “It is so rare to find someone who obviously knows quality when he sees it.” Mr. Crup’s gaze tracked from the woman’s sodden bonnet and veil down to her muddied hem.

  She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “But I fear I have interrupted a sale?”

  Crup waved a hand dismissively. “Well, madam, I am kn
own in some circles as having the rarest and finest treasures.”

  “I am relieved to hear you say so. Which is why I am sure you will be very interested in what I have to show you.”

  Rhys’s weight shifted to his toes as she dug into a small bag and carefully unwrapped some silver items. Only a brush and mirror set. What a show for nothing. Still, she’d even had him craning to see her tripe.

  “Looks to be only plate,” said Crup.

  “Oh, but note the deep bevel…”

  Their voices faded as Rhys picked up the temple clock and turned it over looking for marks. Nothing. And it should be heavier. Likely made of inferior wood and the carvings were crude. He returned it to the table.

  What was that combination of smells? It was extremely distracting.

  Perhaps he would slip out if the rain had stopped. He glanced toward the pair to determine if escape was possible.

  The shopkeeper pushed the items back across the counter. “You might try Leicester’s down the road.”And he turned away.

  Rhys started for the door. But not before the woman sagged, as if the shopkeeper’s attention was the only thing holding her up. Undoubtedly she had been to Leicester’s along with most of the other more reputable shops.

  Her hand covered her veiled face. She swayed.

  Blistering Hell, she was not going to faint? He did not want to reveal his presence, to play the hero. Nonetheless, he primed himself, ready to spring into action.

  However when Crup turned back, her spine snapped straight as a flagpole, and her veil fluttered with her breath. Rhys relaxed a degree.

  “Very well, sir, you have left me no choice but to bring out the real artillery.” She dipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew something wrapped in a handkerchief, placing it gently on the counter.

  “What’s this?” He plucked at the handkerchief and a heavy object clunked to the counter. The woman’s shoulders jerked with the sound.

  The meager light fell precisely on the pierced case of a watch as if a stage had been set for its unveiling.

  Dear God, it looked to be heart-shaped.

  The guts of a rare, late seventeenth-century Tompion watch sat in an ivory box on a shelf in his library at Roydan House. Its case had eluded him.

  If only he could see clearly…

  Crup took up a loop and held it to his eye covering the watch with his paw. His tongue poked out over his lower lip as he wound the screw. Gently, man.

  “Pretty enough, but it don’t seem to work.” And he looked up, straight into Rhys’s eyes. “Ah, Mr. Merrick, you did not leave.”

  Too late, Rhys realized he was halfway across the shop. The woman’s hand flew up to her veil as she turned away.

  “I have that crystal I was telling you about.” Crup moved down the long counter, the woman now forgotten.

  Rhys ignored the man along with his urge to remain uninvolved. “Might I have a look, madam?”

  She turned back to him and startled. His eyes. Why could his eyes not be a sensible brown like every other fellow? But after a moment, she nodded.

  His fingers ached to brush over the enameled case—a fantasy of scrolled flourishes in various shades of blue—but he made himself painstakingly pull each finger of his gloves and then lay them precisely, one on top of the other, on the counter.

  A bit of enamel was worn away near the left side of the heart’s deep V. He carefully thumbed open the case. Yes, the minute hand was intact, and the gold illuminated numerals clear as the day it was made. He flipped it over. There was the mark, a conjoined ND.

  He mentally opened its back and imagined his Tompion works nestled within this beautiful shell. However, the rest of his body was entirely focused on the woman beside him.

  She must have moved closer, her spicy scent stronger. He would swear he could feel her breathing. His skin prickled.

  “Pity it don’t work.” Crup’s pudgy fingers drummed on the counter. “Still it’s a pretty little trinket. I’ll give you three quid for the thing.”

  The woman was still too close, her arm but a whisper from his own. His heart migrated higher in his chest, far too close to his throat. Likely from the thrill of the hunt.

  Ballocks. As fine as the case was, it was useless to believe certain stirrings in his body were simply the result of a watch—one that did not even work.

  Rhys made himself release the watch, setting it back on the counter. “I am sorry to interfere; I will leave you to your dealings.” He stepped away, restoring the space she had invaded, if not his breathing.

  “So little?” she turned toward Rhys as if he might provide some small miracle.

  “Look here.” Crup’s odor of onions and mackerel overwhelmed her delicate perfume. “The thing don’t work. How am I to sell a bauble that don’t work? Three quid is my final offer.”

  She reached for the watch to take it back. Rhys almost hoped she would, she seemed so distressed. But her hand stopped, then fisted, and finally she tucked it beneath her paisley shawl, leaving the watch on the counter.

  It was not his place to interfere. He had a strict code of ethics when dealing with these shops, and he never deviated from his rules.

  “Mr. Crup, I believe the gold itself is worth five pounds.” Rhys clenched his teeth.

  “Look here, Mr. Merrick—”

  Rhys raised an eyebrow, one of his surest weapons, and gave the man his most ducal look. It never failed him and didn’t now as the shopkeeper blinked, his mouth gapping open. Besides, Rhys was going to buy the thing, at a reasonable profit, just as soon as the woman left the shop. No one would be cheated.

  A word about the author…

  Jess Russell, best-selling, multi-award-winning writer, lives in New York City with her husband and son.

  The Dressmaker’s Duke, her first novel, was a best seller, finaling as a “Best First Book” and “Best Historical” in the National Readers Choice, The Heart of Excellence, The Aspen Gold, and The Golden Leaf Awards.

  Jess is delighted to be a part of the Wild Rose family. She is currently working on two other stories, (working titles) Captivated by the Countess and Daft for the Doctor.

  She is a member of Romance Writers of America, as well as the New York City, and the Beau Monde Chapters.

  She would love to hear from her readers:

  https://jessrussellromance.com

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