Moonstruck Madness

by Laurie McBain

  “It would have happened anyway. They would’ve come to Verrick House and found us there. It was out of our hands; it was inevitable.”

  “Damn his eyes,” Sabrina swore. “He thinks he can come back and play the father to us, ordering us about. Well, he has a surprise coming if he thinks to get away with that.” Sabrina sighed despite her show of bravado. “I wonder what his game is. He doesn’t do something unless there is some gain in it for him.”

  “I don’t like him,” Richard said sullenly, sniffing at his tears. “And I won’t go with him, either.”

  “He’ll leave soon, he must. He’ll get tired of playing with us.”

  “You won’t let him take me, will you, Rina?” Richard tugged at her arm, a pleading look in his eyes.

  Sabrina smiled. “He’ll never take you from us—or separate us.” She smiled with anticipation. “Should he decide to play rough, then so can we.”

  Richard visibly relaxed against Sabrina as she and Mary exchanged worried glances, Mary’s tinged with apprehension at the determined look on Sabrina’s face.

  Mary suddenly gasped, giving Richard an encompassing stare. “In all of the excitement I nearly forgot about your eyeglasses, Richard,” she exclaimed.

  Richard’s face cleared, and with a beaming smile held his face up for her inspection. “I can see ever so good, Mary. I’m going to learn how to shoot as good as anybody, too.”

  Mary smiled happily. “That’s wonderful. The only bright spot in this day. It makes everything worthwhile.”

  Sabrina looked at Richard’s happy face and knew that what Mary said was true—it had all been worth it. After a quiet luncheon by themselves, Mary and Sabrina bid a tearful farewell to Richard and Aunt Margaret, Hobbs muttering under her breath while she gathered up Aunt Margaret’s scattered sewing. They watched from the door, waving until the coach disappeared from sight, and then went back inside to wait anxiously in the salon for the marquis’ next move.

  It came at teatime while Mary was pouring the dark brew into, wafer-thin cups. The door was opened and the marquis entered, relaxed and fresh from a rest.

  “Ah, just what I need, a cup of tea. Pour your father a cup, Mary,” he ordered pleasantly. He watched her for a moment as she capably fixed him a cup, her movements smooth and sure. “I really had no idea that I had two such attractive daughters. Of course, Sabrina’s looks are extraordinary, but you, Mary, with your red hair and gray eyes, are quite lovely, a quiet, serene type of beauty. Yes, yes, I’m really quite pleased. It was the contessa who brought it to my attention. You see,” he confided, “we are in a bit of a financial difficulty at the moment. That is why we came to England, partly to escape our creditors and to see if I could raise some money by selling some land I own.” He looked at Sabrina slyly. “And maybe even Verrick House, since I don’t believe it’s still entailed.”

  “You’d sell Verrick House? But that is Richard’s inheritance, and our home,” Sabrina said in disbelief.

  “Well, it may not be necessary, now. Marvelous tea, my dear,” he complimented Mary, nodding his head complacently, a smile of smug satisfaction on his lips.

  Sabrina sipped her tea, a mistrustful look on her face as she watched him covertly, still smarting under his threat to sell Verrick House. He was definitely up to something.

  “I’ve been looking over my correspondence and see quite a few suitable invitations to balls and assemblies which will be perfect for launching my two lovelies into society,” he said archly, watching for the effect of his words on their faces.

  Sabrina and Mary sat in stunned silence as the meaning of his words sunk in, their faces stony as they stared at their father.

  “I think we might do quite well. There are quite a few eligible, and rich, dukes around. Nothing less than a marquis, I should think though,” he declared, a calculating look in his violet eyes.

  “So, you’re going to sell us to the highest bidder?” Sabrina jeered, the numbness leaving her as she felt the heat of anger flush her face. “We’re to find you and the contessa a pair of rich sons-in-law, are we? Well, you will have to face a disappointment, for I have no intention of falling in with your schemes.”

  The marquis shrugged amicably. “You have no say in the matter, my dear. You should be pleased that I intend to make such suitable matches for you. What sort of prospects would you have stuck in that backwater village?” he laughed derisively. “Some rustic? A country squire? Hunting, fishing, riding all day, only to have him fall into a drunken stupor before the hearth each evening and snore you to death?”

  He laughed at his witticism. “I can see that doesn’t amuse you. No, you leave the matrimony stakes to your dear father, and I shall have us all living the life of ease.”

  He stood up, gathering his cane and gloves. “I’ve checked your wardrobes, and although you’ve plenty of clothes, you’ve not any ball gowns or fancy dress outfits. I’ve made appointments for you two and the contessa to get you fitted out proper. There’s a masked ball tomorrow, so we’ll have to hurry if you’re to be presentable. Oh, and don’t be difficult, my dears, I really do so hate having to play the villain—but I will, you know, I will.”

  He left the room with a jaunty step, humming a cheerful tune under his breath. Mary gave a sigh of despair and poured herself another cup of tea. “More?” she asked Sabrina wearily.

  Sabrina shook her head. “I’d rather a brandy, I need it. We must have been born under an evil star.”

  “What are we going to do, Rina?”

  Sabrina shook her black curls. “I don’t know. All we can do is play along with him. There’s nothing else we can do, at least for now, but he won’t have his way for long,” Sabrina promised. “Let’s just hope nothing else happens to complicate our lives.”

  A chapter of accidents.

  —Philip Dormer Stanhope

  Earl of Chesterfield

  Chapter 8

  The Duke of Camareigh turned as the doors of the salon were opened and his fiancée, Lady Blanche Delande, entered with two small, yapping dogs at her feet. Lucien stared at her dispassionately, noting the flushed cheeks and windblown auburn curls that had strayed across her temples, bright blue eyes sparkling beneath the brim of her peacock-blue bonnet.

  “Oh, Lucien,” she said breathlessly as she saw him rise from the settee. “I had no idea it was you.”

  “Why should that surprise you? A man does on occasion visit with his fiancée,” Lucien said without much interest. “I’ve been out of town, and thought I would see what you’ve been up to while I’ve been away.”

  “Up to?” Blanche laughed nervously. “Why ever should you imagine I had been up to anything?” She dropped her scarf, gloves and purse in a chair, and pulling off her bonnet, smoothed her curls with agitated fingers.

  Lucien glanced at her curiously. Blanche was always in a fidgety, excitable mood, reminding him of her two lapdogs that danced around and were constantly underfoot. After the first few minutes of her company he was bored senseless, her conversation running to little more than the latest fashion and most scandalous gossip. She was a silly little creature, but harmless, and although he felt little affection for her, he couldn’t really dislike her, either.

  “What have you purchased now?” he asked.

  Blanche looked blank for an instant. “Bought?”

  “Yes, you’ve been out shopping again, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she replied quickly, her cheeks pinkening in confusion. “I’ve bought a few gowns.”

  “I trust by now that you’ve about completed your trousseau? We do get married next week.”

  Blanche perched on the edge of the settee, one of the dogs panting in her lap as she rubbed its head. “Of course, I have. And, I took you at your word and charged everything to your credit.”

  She peeped at him. “I have been horribly extravagant, Lucien.�
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  Lucien shrugged. “If you are to become my duchess, then you must be dressed accordingly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if I am to become your duchess’? I have every intention of marrying you, Lucien.”

  “I’ve no doubts on that score, Blanche. It was just a manner of speech, although one would think you had a guilty conscience,” Lucien remarked casually.

  Blanche gave an incredulous laugh, its shrillness grating on Lucien’s nerves. “Me? Don’t be ridiculous, Lucien. Just because I’ve become engaged to you, doesn’t mean I shall forgo my pleasures, nor shall I retire to the country as soon as I am wed,” she informed him, and with a challenging look added, “Besides, a married woman has far more license to enjoy herself than an unwed girl.”

  Lucien smiled. “And you intend to participate fully, if I understand you correctly?”

  “Yes,” Blanche answered adamantly, “as indeed you do.”

  “Well, at least we shall have no misunderstandings in our relationship, nor tiresome theatrics of jealousy and wounded pride.”

  Blanche preened herself, feeling very pleased. “When do I get the family jewels?”

  “In due time. My grandmother, since she is still the duchess, has them in her keeping, and will turn them over only to my wife, so I would imagine you will receive them on our wedding day.”

  “Oh,” Blanche murmured in disappointment. “I so wished to wear them with my new gown tomorrow night. I’ve already told Lettie I would. Oh, please, Lucien, talk her into giving them to me. Please, Lucien,” she pouted prettily, glancing at the duke under her eyelashes expectantly.

  “I’m hardly on favorable terms with the duchess, Blanche,” he replied crushingly. “Of course, if you tempted me with a few kisses I might intercede on your behalf,” he added sarcastically, expecting the look of revulsion that she could not hide as her big blue eyes were drawn irresistibly to his scar.

  As she shuddered delicately, Lucien was suddenly reminded of another woman’s eyes that had looked at him unflinchingly, even going so far as to rub her cheek against his scarred one.

  “What are you going to do when we wed, Blanche, and I demand my rights as a husband and lover?” he asked, a smile of contempt on his lips.

  Blanche turned her delicate profile to him and replied steadily, “I shall submit to you, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Blanche turned to him in puzzlement. “What do you want, Lucien? I know that you do not love me. You are only marrying to gain your inheritance. I want to be a duchess. It is all very simple, isn’t it?”

  Lucien stared at her moodily. “Is it?” he answered enigmatically.

  Blanche looked away from the duke’s scarred cheek, feeling uncomfortable as he stared at her, and looked out of the window instead. She could hear the carriages passing by, and a gleam of anticipation entered her eyes as she remembered the thrill of lips against hers and the promise of more to come.

  ***

  Lucien sat back against the cushions of his coach and contemplated the rabble beyond the coach window, his farewell to Blanche having been brief and desired by both. Taking out his pocket watch he checked the time impatiently and was putting it back in his waistcoat pocket when his coachman poked his head into the coach, and he knew he would be late visiting his grandmother.

  “Bit of a snarl-up, your grace. Damned riffraff clogging the streets; don’t know how to handle the ribbons, the bog-trotters,” he said with disgust at his fellow travelers.

  “Very well, but do try and hurry us along before I need another shave,” Lucien answered dryly.

  “Right, your grace,” the coachman chuckled as he hopped off, flinging curses at the wagon blocking the way ahead. The wagon directly in front of them had lost a wheel and another wagon had closed behind, wedging them between the two. Directly to the right a narrow street joined the busier one and it was on this one, opening directly onto the place where Lucien’s coach now sat immobile, that a runaway farm wagon careened out of control, heading straight toward the big black coach with ducal crests boldly emblazoned on the doors for all to see.

  Lucien heard the cries of terror and warning blending with a rumbling sound and glancing up curiously, looked out of the coach window to see a wagon, heavily laden with supplies and gaining tremendous speed, rolling down the narrow side street toward his coach.

  He reacted on a surge of adrenaline and dove through the coach window, hitting the cobbled street in a hard, tumbling fall, rolling over and over until he was clear of the wheels of the coach. Faces and feet flew past him and he heard the loud crash of splintering wood as the two vehicles met. His team of horses panicked and pawed the air in fear, their neighing screams piercing the moment of stunned silence before the crowd reacted.

  Lucien felt rough hands help him to his feet as he staggeringly tried to rise. The cloth of his coat and breeches was torn and muddied from his fall, and somewhere beneath the shuffling feet of the crowd were his wig and hat. The cobbles were slick from the light rain that was falling, but people still came running to see the destruction of his coach, and any injuries he might have suffered.

  “Cooee! But that was a grand bit ’o tumbling, guv’nor,” an awed voice congratulated him. “Never seen anyone fly like ye did. Eh, but it was a sight to see. Yer wig and shoe going one way, and the rest o’ ye going the other,” the man chuckled in remembrance.

  Lucien looked at the speaker, whose shirtsleeves were rolled above his big hairy forearms and had a leather apron tied about his wide girth. For the first time, Lucien felt the wetness seeping through his stocking, his shoe having gone in another direction as the butcher had said.

  “Boy, did you give us a show! Better’n the cockfights, for sure. Would’ve bet, though, you’da been squashed flatter’n a flounder. Thought ye was a real goner.”

  “Your grace!” called the coachman, a look of relief on his face when he saw the duke standing in the center of a gawking crowd. “Are ye all right? My God, I’ve never seen anything like it in all my born days. Thought you’d been finished off, your grace.”

  Lucien grimaced and shook his foot free of mud. “I thought so too.”

  He made his way with his coachman toward the remains of what had once been a very comfortable coach. His team of horses had been released and were being quieted by his grooms. The farm wagon had split in two and practically upended over his coach. As they stood there, one of the cages full of frightened, squawking poultry that had been precariously off-balanced by the crash, fell from its perch, sending chickens and feathers in all directions. Lucien looked down at his brown velvet coat, now covered in downy feathers and then at his coachman, who was fighting a feather from the tip of his nose, and a reluctant grin curved his mouth at the picture they must present.

  “Whose wagon is this?” he demanded, his humor fading as he realized how close he’d come to being trapped underneath the twisted wreckage.

  “Odd, ain’t a soul to say it was his, your grace,” the coachman responded. “Though don’t guess anyone would want to claim it, seein’ how it was a runaway and nearly killed a duke.”

  The coachman stood gazing at the wreckage, then added worriedly as he looked at the duke who stood tall and dignified despite his dishevelment, “Don’t see how the wagon could’a been goin’ so fast though? That street ain’t that steep. Seems a mite strange, your grace.”

  One of the grooms came running up at that moment, his face mirroring disbelieving excitement. “Bloke over there says he saw two rowdies pushing the wagon down the street and just standin’ and watchin’ as it gathered speed, then took to their heels and disappeared.”

  “It would seem as though someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to insure my death,” Lucien commented in a hard voice as he exchanged looks with his coachman, who spat contemptuously on the cobblestones and began to curse volubly at the unknown assailants.


  “I suggest that you find me some other mode of transportation,” Lucien ordered as he became aware of the coaches slowly traveling past as they skirted the accident. “I feel quite conspicuous and not exactly at my best standing here in one shoe.”

  When Lucien finally knocked on the large mahogany door of the grand mansion in Berkeley Square that was the residence of his grandmother, he was two hours late. When recognized, the majordomo’s arrogant demeanor changed to obsequious cordiality as he showed the duke through the hall that was crowded with liveried footmen, to wait in the salon while he was announced.

  Lucien glanced at the clock ticking away the minutes and smiled in grim amusement as he realized he was to be kept waiting for his audience in retaliation for being late. He was too well aware by now of the stratagems being played out in his grandmother’s Berkeley Square home to be surprised by her next move, but it never failed to amuse him and slightly irritate him, which he knew was the purpose. Only this time he would checkmate.

  Making himself comfortable, Lucien pulled from a pocket the deck of cards he’d brought along for just such an occasion and shuffling them, dealt them out on the tapestried seat of a chair he’d pulled up close to the settee. Half an hour later he was still amusing himself with his cards when the majordomo entered and announced that he would now be received.

  Lucien looked up in boredom and casually played another card. “In good time. You may tell her grace that I shall be up shortly,” he said lazily, and turned his attention once more to the cards before him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the majordomo’s look of affronted dignity as he nodded his head and stiffly left the room, closing the door firmly on Lucien’s deep laugh.

  Fifteen minutes later Lucien presented himself before the door of the upstairs salon, and in answer to his knock he entered the room and approached the large winged-back chair situated like a throne before the window, the revealing light falling on the visitor as he sat in a small chair facing it.