The Dark Affair

by Máire Claremont

  When she stood before the mahogany door leading into one of the receiving rooms, she smoothed her hands over her hair, assuring herself that she was perfectly ordered and not still visibly shaken from her response to the viscount. She turned the latch sharply and stepped through the open door.

  The Earl of Carlyle stood before the crackling fire.

  Like his son, he was a remarkably handsome man. Except worry and age had etched his countenance considerably. He twisted toward her the moment she stepped into the intimate and fairly cheerful room, a room meant to ease the consciences of the families committing sons, daughters, or wives. His black superfine wool coat hung lankly about his big frame. A clear sign he’d lost weight. His cheeks were two hollows, brushed with a barely groomed silver beard, and his eyes, though blue, unlike his son’s, were dark with fear. “My son? You’ve seen him?”

  She closed the door behind her, buying a moment. She studied the lace draping the small table by the fire. It was never simple or pleasant, assisting the family in understanding the destruction of a loved one. She lifted her gaze to his hopeful one. “I have, my lord.”

  “And you will help him?” Doubt lifted the old man’s voice to a high pitch. His hands shook slightly at his sides, whether with strain or ill health, she was uncertain. “No one else will.”

  No one else will.

  And that, of course, was why he had sought her out. It saddened her that it often took so long for powerful men to seek the help of a woman, no matter how qualified, but there it was.

  Folding her hands calmly before her, she gave a succinct nod. “Indeed, I shall, my lord.”

  Most inappropriately, the earl darted across the room and seized her hands in his. Swiftly, he brought them to his lips and kissed them the same way a penitent might kiss the dusty preservations of a saintly relic. His whiskers brushed roughly over her skin as he murmured, “Thank you, my dear. Thank you.”

  Margaret stared at the bowed silver head of the older man, thinking of her own father for a moment. A lord with no real power and no money. A failure to his people. He’d been so broken and desperate at the end.

  The room began to close in, pressing tightly, sucking the air out of her lungs. Unlike the earl, her father’s desperation had not been for one man, but the millions he had seen placed in mass graves on lush green hillsides or shipped off like meat in overpacked and filthy ships.

  God’s country. Her country. So beautiful it stirred the heart . . . But the beauty had served only as a painful contrast to the corpses, which had appeared barely human as they’d been stuffed in the earth together. For one brief moment, the smell of lye stung her nostrils, and she pulled her hands from the earl’s lest she recalled with any greater detail the dark years of her youth. “’Twill be no simple task. He is not well, yet we will see it done.”

  He nodded, conciliatory but determined. “But he is not mad. Just immersed in drink and opium?”

  She hesitated, wishing to be honest. “I do not believe he is mad, but he is a man ruled by pain, and we shall have to alleviate it.”

  The earl’s expression dimmed, and then he forced a bright, brittle smile to his face. “Be certain he will succeed, Lady Margaret. He is of strong stock.”

  Breeding. In her experience, it meant little, even though the English were so very fond of its supposed importance.

  She cleared her throat. “First we must diminish and eventually end his consumption of the devil’s brew.”

  The earl’s bushy brows drew together. “Devil’s brew?” he echoed.

  “Poppy. Poppy juice. Horse. White dust. Flea powder. China flower.” So many names for one deadly substance. She licked her lips before saying simply, “Opiates.”

  “I see.” The earl looked askance, his fingers worrying the chain at his waistcoat. “What a knowledge you do have.”

  She shrugged, then said kindly, “It is necessary for me to have knowledge of it. And your son has a dependency. As many have. Even so, it will be no easy task to divest him of it and then see how easily he will be able to cope with his internal pain without the narcotic. Pain is a powerful thing.”

  “Yes.” The earl winced. “The doctors, they’ve all concluded that he will do himself . . . a mischief.”

  “Which is why I am here,” she assured. “To establish he is not a danger to himself.”

  The earl’s shoulders sagged and he turned away. “God, I never should have brought him here. He must hate me now. But I needed him to understand how dire his condition is. He doesn’t seem to see it.”

  She took a small step forward, wishing for him to understand that he was not at all in the wrong. “My lord, you did the right thing by your son. If you hadn’t intervened, he’d be dead. I saw the reports. His consumption of opiates is high enough that he might accidentally take it to such excess that it would kill him. There is also the fact that he wanders about the worst areas of town while inebriated.”

  He lifted a hand and pressed it to his eyes. “If only I’d known of you sooner. I could have taken him to the country. Kept him there . . .”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” She smiled slightly. “And in a few months, after much work and when he is ready, all this unseemly questioning of his health will be of no matter.”

  The earl whipped around, his face tense. “You must understand how important this all is. He’s my only son. My heir. If he cannot care for himself, the line will die . . .”

  Was that the only reason the old man cared? The need to pass on a heap of rocks and a title as old as England itself? Perhaps that’s what he told himself, but she’d seen genuine emotion as well. The ways and coldness of the English were a mystery to her. They always would be. “All will be well, my lord. I don’t believe your son wishes to die or that he is truly ready to give up on himself. You must leave it to me.”

  The earl shifted uncomfortably, then pulled a silver cigar case from his pocket. Hands shaking, he slipped a slim stick free and tapped it against the back of the case. “There is something else I should like to ask of you.”

  “I am at your service.” She was proud of her work helping people, even if they were sometimes simply young lords who had lost their way. It had taken her years and the assistance of many war-torn and troubled lordlings to rise to a place in which she could command a fee that was enough to support herself and her ultimate mission, to send significant money home to St. Catherine’s Home for Orphans in Galway.

  Resolution seemed to shape the earl’s face and square his shoulders. “I—I want you to marry my son.”

  She gaped, disbelieving the words that had just passed such a powerful man’s lips. “My lord?”

  “I want you to remain with him always,” he said slowly, firmly. “To protect him.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “You’re a lady of aristocratic birth. He needs a wife and an heir, and surely a husband of such means would give you more freedom to work at your causes.”

  She sought some articulate reason, but the proposal was so intensely shocking she had no idea how to formulate an argument. “I—I—”

  “I have thought everything through. No usual young lady can handle or manage my son.” The earl paused, a shadow crossing over his face. “History has proved this. But from all reports, and from my own impression of your character, you can. James didn’t cow you, unlike all the men I sent in to evaluate him.”

  The earl lit his cigar and then lifted it to his lips, appearing so remarkably calm given his demeanor a few moments before. It was as if he was finally on ground he understood. The ground of arrangement. “I don’t expect you to marry my son without proper motivation. So, in addition to having the power of a viscountess, I would set up funds and land entirely in your name.” He waved his hand, but there was a sharpness to his movements. “Here or in Ireland. I would ensure that after my son’s dea
th, you had a portion entirely of your own. You’d be reliant upon none, not even in marriage. You could continue to help soldiers. I have no objection to such a noble undertaking, and then, of course, there is the money you can send home to your brother’s earldom. As I understand, the young earl is bankrupt, unable to look after his people, and travels in questionable political circles. I would be willing to offer him my support, giving him a stronger voice here in the House of Lords. The only conditions I have are that you keep my son in a state that allows him to retain the title and produce an heir.”

  Produce an heir.

  The thought ricocheted through her head. She didn’t know Powers. The possibility of sharing his bed should have horrified her.

  It didn’t.

  More important, it suddenly hit her that the earl had given this extensive thought and had investigated her suitability not only as a nurse but as jailer-cum-broodmare.

  “I’m Catholic,” she protested, searching for any reason that might dissuade the older man. She hadn’t been to Mass in years, but the English were very clear about their opinions of those of the faith she’d been born to.

  He narrowed his eyes and puffed at his cigar. “Such things can be got around.”

  She stared at him, unblinking. “You wish to hire me as your son’s lifelong keeper?”

  “Exactly. Yes. It must be done. He cannot be left to his own devices.”

  She raised a hand and pressed it to her stomach, wondering how the devil things had gotten to this point. Never in a month of Sundays would she have seen things heading in this barmy direction. “You are blunt.”

  “I have no choice but to be so. I will not be here to protect my son forever. And I want an heir. That must be absolutely understood.” He rolled the cigar between his fingers, agitation making the motion jerky.

  The implication was clear. The earl was aging and was worried about the fate of his only child and the earldom. And though she felt for his predicament, she would not sacrifice herself on the altar of his peerage. Not even for what seemed such a lucrative proposal. “I shan’t do it.”

  “Why not?” he scoffed. “It is a better offer than many women could ever hope to have.”

  Any sympathy she’d had for him vanished. Just like the English. She never should have expected anything but this sort of calculation and drive to further his own wishes. “I cannot be bought in such a fashion.”

  “So,” he mocked. “You will be bought all your life by others until you are old and alone?” He pointed a finger at her. “I offer you security.”

  She did not care to be pushed, and if it weren’t for the man abandoned in the cell in this ward, she would have turned on her heel and left the earl twisting in the wind. She valued her own independence and self-worth far too highly to sell it. “What you offer is out of the question.”

  That strong entitlement that had wrapped him up these last moments cracked again, exposing the desperate man. The man the earl doubtless wished had never been allowed to see the light of day, let alone be exposed in the presence of a woman. “Please.”

  “I will help your son, my lord, but I shan’t give up myself to do it.”

  All the bravado, all that English stiffness, crumbled away, once again leaving a man who had no control over the fate of his son’s mind, and as a consequence, the legacy he’d worked all his life to pass on would vanish. The earl nodded slowly, and Margaret couldn’t help but feel as if she’d slid a dagger between the old man’s ribs. Still, she wouldn’t bring herself to do it. Who knew what a life shackled to a stranger would bring? Misery, she guessed. She couldn’t believe he’d even considered such a thing. “Don’t worry yourself. I shall set him to rights,” she said gently.

  The earl drew in a tight breath and turned away. In the firelight, Margaret could have sworn she saw the sliver of a tear trace down his cheek. She wished she could reach out to him, but it would be enough that she’d do everything within her ability to bring Viscount Powers back to himself. Soon the earl would see that.

  • • •

  Matthew Cassidy lurked outside the rickety stairwell that led up to his sister’s dodgy lodging. He took a long draw on his cigarette to calm his frayed nerves. The tip glowed demon red in the murky London night. Faith, he hated the English. He hated what they had brought him to. And now he hated London Town. How he wished he was back in the peat-tinged air of Galway, overlooking the bay. But he couldn’t go back. Not now. Not ever. For many reasons. Reasons too bleedin’ frightening to think about.

  So, instead of thinking, he smoked. Again and again until he held naught but a scrap between his shaking fingers. He tucked himself further into the shadows, desperate not to be noticed.

  The scurry of a rat darting over his boot sent him jumping into a scummy pool of stagnate liquid. Most likely from the cesspool that had gone far beyond its capacity one rabbit warren over.

  “Fecking shite!” he hissed as he flicked his boot back and forth to get the stuff off him.

  He trembled with the horror of the place and his situation. Sure, he’d seen hell in Ireland. But this place was something different. This was a hell where more humans dwelt than any other place in the whole of the world and a man could buy a baby for a shag, gin over half acid, or enough opium to smoke away his brains. This was Gomorrah, and he’d come here to escape so-called British justice and kill the bastards who’d done worse to his people . . . bastards who apparently had no qualms about keeping their own people in the dregs of half-life.

  Holy wounds, if the British could do this to their own people, no wonder they’d systematically starved the Irish. Rubbing his hands up and down his wool sleeves, he hunched, trying to stay out of the muck.

  “What in the name of the Holy Virgin are you doin’ here, Matthew Vincent?”

  The knifepoint digging through his thick seaman’s jacket pinched just enough that he froze lest she be giving it a new hole. And as he held still, his cigarette, which had burned so far down to the end, singed his fingers. “Fecking Christ, Margaret,” he hissed.

  She dug the knife just a little farther, hard enough to warn but not rip his coat. “Answer the question.”

  “Is this how you greet your little brother?” He held up his hands in supplication. “What would Mammy say?”

  The knife relented, and the sound of Margaret mumbling under her breath mixed with the howl of drunkards stumbling out of the gin shop down the street. She then proceeded to smack the back of his head, knocking his cap over his forehead. “She’d say you needed to spend a month on your knees, fingering the beads before the Holy Virgin.”

  Slowly, Matthew turned. The sight of his sister twisted up his heart. She looked just like their mammy had when he’d been all of about five years old. Before she’d begun to lose herself, praying on her knees ten hours a day, begging God and the angels to end the famine that ravaged their country, while Da had gone out fruitlessly trying to save the children with bellies out to their knees. “Ya look good, lass.”

  She arched one brow and skimmed his appearance with skeptical eyes. “Can’t say the same for you, Matthew.”

  He forced a grin and brushed a bit of the dust from his lapels. “I’d do a lot better over a cuppa.”

  She scowled.

  “Ah, Margaret, will you not take me upstairs?” he wheedled, trying to keep the fear out of his own voice. He wasn’t quite ready to tell her what he’d done and what straits he was in.

  But he needed to get off the streets. The bobbies would be looking for him soon. Sketches of his face were coming out in the morning, or so his informants had told him. It was a most unpleasant thing, being wanted in his home and all over the empire. But London, with its warrens and packed-in districts, was the best place for a man of his reputation and intention to hide.

  “I’ll let you up, Matthew, but none of your . . . your business in my house.”

  He ga
ve her an oh so innocent stare, batting his lashes. “Sure, and don’t I know how you feel about the lads?”

  She said nothing but turned and started up the creaking stairs. Long strips of her red hair had slipped free of the twist at the back of her neck. A clear sign she’d been worrying at it and had been disturbed by some event of the night.

  He followed quickly, gratefully.

  Margaret was a saint and there was no question, but she needed a taste for blood. With any luck, he’d find a way to give it to her. For a woman such as she? Glory! If she’d just take up the cause, nothing could stand in their way.

  Chapter 4

  Margaret climbed the narrow steps, her long skirts gripped in her bitterly cold fingers. The stairs were rotting shards of wood and twisted nails sticking half up like some devil’s daisy heads waiting to be plucked. In the black, fog-drenched London night, she went ever so slowly. She’d no desire to miss a step, plunge to the rotten ground, and die of a broken neck on the edges of a slum.

  If she was entirely honest with herself, it was her heart that made her heavy and slow as a granny as she ascended. Matthew. Matthew’d left Ireland, the land he loved with every fiber of his heart and soul, to come to London. There could be only one meaning in such a thing.

  A price was out on his head.

  Pressing her lips together lest she lash out at him for putting himself into such danger, she reached into her reticule and pulled out her small iron key. As she fumbled to shove it into the lock and push open her door, her breath blossomed in white puffs before her face. Without moonlight or any sort of gas lamp in this part of town, she used the tips of her numb fingers to find the latch, and at last, she pushed the key home and tumbled the lock. The door creaked crankily for lack of oil on its rusting hinges and too many years of service.

  The chamber was small, pokey, and square with a tiny coal fire burner in the corner. A bed just big enough for her lurked in the shadowy corner, and her small table bore a daguerreotype of her mammy, her da, and Matthew as a baby. Beside it rested two books. Victor Hugo and the new writer Marx, who’d been living in Soho for years.