Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1)

by Maggie Jagger

Chapter 17

  The berline turned a corner and rattled over London’s cobbled stones, while the viscount carried on a low conversation with Gladys. “Anston has not much longer, he grows worse. The surgeon is ready but Angel keeps putting off the day. Says he’d rather die by the sword than the scalpel.”

  “Poor gentleman,” Gladys said with sympathy. “Still, there is not much chance he can die fighting, not if he is so near death just lying in his bed. Is the surgeon fast?”

  “Saint Sirin assured me he is a very skilled man. Fast-fingered and sure. Never cuts off anything by accident, which I have seen done. The problem is this type of operation cannot be done quickly, not like an amputation. There is no way to know what is causing him such agony. The surgeon will have to search poor Angel’s guts for a shell fragment or, heaven help him, there might be more than one or none at all.”

  Lizzie awoke and wrinkled her nose. She nudged it deeper into a fold of cloth. “Why does London smell like a cow barn from Hades in dire need of mucking out?” she grumbled.

  The viscount had drawn her into his embrace while she slept. She felt him laugh while he kissed the top of her head. “We are almost there.”

  “Are we in Mayfair?” Lizzie raised her head from the viscount’s chest. She had dozed since luncheon. Simply could not keep her eyes open after being ravished all night long by a man who may, or may not, have brought his mistress with him to London. Time would tell. Certainly her neighbors thought him capable of worse. Even James, who had not been allowed to accompany her to London, had warned her Dacey Felmont was capable of anything.

  Lizzie wriggled out of his arms with a sniff of disdain.

  The berline came to a stop. Dickon opened the door with a cheerful smile. The viscount stepped out to offer her his hand. She took it, needing some assistance to the pavement, and dropped it as soon as possible.

  Victory Crescent lay in a large semicircle around her. The largest, grandest house in the middle of the crescent belonged to the Duke of Saint Sirin. It towered above its neighbors, with elegant windows and black stone walls. Every house on the crescent was stained black with soot from what could only be the filthiest air in England. The victory it celebrated was certainly not very recent.

  The carriage set off to go to the yard at the back of the house, with Gladys still inside to supervise the unloading of the baggage. Lizzie looked over at a pretty park with walks and tall trees, even a pond graced the center. She could hear the children shouting as they played with boats, watched over by nursery maids. The entire park was fenced in by iron railings, imprisoned for its own protection. A watchman’s hut stood by one of the gates, looking like a toy house in a grimy Eden.

  Felmont nudged her. “My dear, let’s go greet our host. Let me deal with him where Sarah is concerned. We cannot shoot him, no matter how tempted.” He drew her towards the stairs, an imposing flight higher than any of the others. They were half way up when the doors above them suddenly opened.

  Lizzie looked up to see a coffin being carried out. Her heart leaped into her mouth. They were too late! The viscount’s friend had died. Alone, with no one to comfort him! She’d never be forgiven. His friend was dead!

  Four men carried the coffin and groaned at the weight of it. They staggered with their effort to keep it level, their shoes scraping against the steps. The wood creaked with an eerie moan.

  Unless the man was a giant, the coffin was far too big, the largest she had ever seen. The viscount looked as pale as death. He gripped Lizzie’s hand, his breath ragged.

  The coffin reached them, still held level by the four porters. A sudden unearthly cry came from within. Lizzie gave a shriek of fright. The sound seemed to wake the dead even further. The coffin shook and jerked as a whispered, “Let go of her,” came from deep within it.

  Long, white fingers thrust through holes in the latticed top where the lid should have been. Hands pushed against the wicker distorting it until the lock and hinges creaked alarmingly.

  Lizzie felt the world darken.

  The viscount said in a soothing tone, “Angel, the lady is with me. You frightened us both half to death.”

  She held onto her husband and swayed on her feet. He hid her behind his back, where she clung to his coat and screamed inside her head. Silent screams. If done with vigor, they had the power to stop a fainting spell. It was amazing the things one learned in a sickroom.

  The sounds stopped. Lizzie peeped around to see that it had the wrong shape for a coffin. It was merely a litter, topped by a bent wicker top, loosely woven to let in the air.

  The fingers still poked through, long and white. Her husband reached out to touch them with one hand while he pushed her up towards the door with the other.

  Lizzie didn’t need any prodding. She fled toward the sanctuary of the house as quickly as her quivering legs could manage.

  A dull thud told her the men rested their burden after descending the stairs. She turned to watch. The viscount leaned over the litter to listen to his friend, who spoke in a voice too low for her to catch the words. At last, the fingers disappeared.

  “Right then, lift again, lads,” said the kindly voice of one of the porters. “Gently does it. You all right in there, governor?”

  Lizzie could not take her eyes off the wooden litter as the men grasped the poles at the corners and set off for the park. Her husband followed.

  She was forgotten. Left at the entrance of the French duke’s house to face him by herself. Although married, Lizzie did not feel any safer. This duke was known for his preference for married ladies. Lizzie had grave suspicions about his nose. It looked Felmont to her. A French Felmont, a thief who stole children!

  What if he did not have a hostess to greet her?

  Lizzie looked through the open door. The hall seemed deserted. They had not been announced. The footmen hesitated, as if waiting for her to say something. They had no idea who she was.

  Lizzie sailed down the stairs like Lord Nelson’s flagship with a regal nod to no one in particular.

  Her bonnet caught the breeze. She retied her ribbons and kept a watchful eye on the viscount from behind his back. The litter bearers deposited their charge on the grass in the park. Short wooden blocks kept it from resting on the sod. No one took the least bit of notice of her. She strolled along the crescent to enter the park from a distant gate.

  A hurried glance backwards gave her the distinct impression she was being followed by a footman wearing Saint Sirin’s colors, a funeral black trimmed with maroon.

  The viscount left the park and strolled in an easy manner towards a small house set close to the road, in the shadow of the Duke of Saint Sirin’s residence. Two windows graced either side of the door, matched by the four on the upper floor. Its tiny garden, edged with an iron fence, contained a few low shrubs neatly clipped. He opened the gate and walked down the side of the house to disappear towards the service area.

  The litter bearers wandered off to sit in the watchman’s shelter, leaving the invalid to enjoy as best he could the air and sun.

  Lizzie strolled into the park. Could Felmont not even visit with his friend? Had he nothing to do, but must go immediately to the house his father kept for his mistresses? Lizzie had heard all about it. Orgies had been held there. Not that Felmonts shared their women, not were they incapable of loving them, but they were rarely satisfied with one. Only Bertram Felmont, as far as she knew, had been faithful to his wife.

  Angel Anston lay forgotten in the dappled shade of a crooked elm tree. Was it all an excuse to give the viscount an urgent reason to come to London? The only urgency being his Felmont urges.

  “Not fair!” The childish voice came from the youngest of a group of five girls, only two of whom looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom. They strolled just in front of her. “I see no reason why you should marry him just because you are older than me.”

  “Don’t be silly, you won’t be out for years,” replied one of the girls.

  “Neither will you!
We must make Raxie introduce us. Why won’t he?” the little one asked. The others answered with giggles.

  The tallest young lady shushed them all and whispered, “Mr. Anston will hear you. I shall be out next season. Do you suppose he is handsome? Dace said he is as ugly as he is, which means he must be rather splendid, don’t you think?”

  Lizzie followed Mr. Rackham’s five sisters as the girls circled the pond. They were fair like their brother. She managed to see their faces when the path turned and the resemblance was quite startling, as if they’d all been made in the same mold. They wore their prettiness better than their brother, who looked like a perpetual youth to Lizzie, when she compared him to her husband.

  “If you are going to claim precedence,” one of the younger girls said, “why can’t you marry the duke?” They all gave mock sighs and laughed like the schoolgirls they were.

  When the laughter waned, the oldest replied, “I’d like to bring him to his knees to better kick him. If only he weren’t the rudest man in creation. Besides, I think Dacey is far handsomer than the duke. What a pity he was forced to marry Miss Tempest.”

  Miss Rackham thought him handsome? Had Wellington started a fashion with his beak of a nose? By comparison, the Felmont nose was less prominent if somewhat longer.

  She followed the girls as they strolled around the park until they approached the litter. Its occupant no longer clutched the slats, nor moaned his distress, he lay as one dead or asleep.

  “Angels are heavenly, if a duke can’t be brought up to scratch,” whispered Miss Rackham. “Wait for me.”

  She unfastened the flowers at her breast and went to thread the stems through the lattice covering the litter. As she let go of each blossom, an unseen hand pulled the fragile flowers into the litter. Some petals fell off, caught in the woven lid where they lay trembling in the faint breeze.

  Lizzie stayed on the path. A few murmured words in a soft voice, rather angelic sounding, floated to her ears. That might be why he was called Angel. Either that or he behaved in demonic ways when healthy.

  Miss Rackham gave a low murmur of delight. Her sisters crowded around the litter with the smallest one bending down to peer through the lid.

  “Oy!” called the head porter. “Leave him alone, ladies. Leave a dying man in peace, won’t you?”

  The girls fled, the younger ones giggling, the two oldest arm in arm.

  Lizzie hurried after them. Men always wanted to show her their ailing parts. She couldn’t bear to look at any more.

  The windows of her splendid husband’s townhouse were open, as was the front door. Molly appeared to look around. The viscount reached over to close the door, giving them privacy.

  Beast! Mad, fornicating, dastardly, Beast! She hoped he rotted—no, not that! What was she going to do? What could she do, but catch him in the act and be free forever. Free of Felmonts. Free of him!