Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel Page 2

  He glanced over at Lady Penelope as they stood across from each other, their part of the dance now finished. She grinned and clapped in time with the music, watching the other dancers finish their sets. But Gabriel couldn’t take his eyes from her.

  Was it the dancing that made him feel so alive? Or the dancing partner?

  Lady Penelope’s face was flushed from exertion, her green eyes bright with merriment. Tiny ringlets of her blond hair had dampened with perspiration and now clung to her temples and nape. She was the quintessential picture of an English rose—all slight and pale and graceful, with delicate ankles and wrists, a patrician nose and dewy skin. Everything a young Englishwoman should be.

  Everything he’d fought to preserve.

  Why shouldn’t I seek my happiness? he thought. There was more than one Lady Penelope in the world. Perhaps it was time he ventured out from his self-imposed exile and found a wife of his own.

  He’d need a lady a bit older than Michael’s bride, of course—and one more worldly. He’d make a terrible husband for an innocent young debutante. He’d seen more death and destruction in his years than anyone should be burdened with, and it had changed him. He’d also need to look for a woman who was not quite so . . . sunny. All that brightness might be a shock to his system, accustomed to living in darkness as he was. But the point remained.

  A spot of applause broke out as the last of the dancers came to a breathless stop. Gabriel broke his gaze away from his cousin’s wife and joined in.

  Michael bounded over from his place in the line as the clapping died down. “Gad. Haven’t danced that one in an age.”

  Damn, but Michael seemed like such a young pup. It was hard to remember he was only two years Gabriel’s junior. Gabriel had often envied the seemingly inexhaustible energy Michael exuded. His cousin never tired. With his typical exuberance, he threw an arm around his bride and brushed a kiss on her temple. “Were you feeling nostalgic, dearling?”

  Lady Penelope returned her husband’s squeeze with a fond smile. “Indeed I was,” she answered lightly, but her eyes met Gabriel’s.

  And in that moment, Gabriel knew she’d chosen the dance specifically with him in mind. She’d sensed his distress, even though he’d fought to suppress it. She’d also interpreted at least part of it for what it was and picked a dance he was likely to know. He marveled at her intuitiveness. And at her consideration.

  Just as he realized that she hadn’t been mocking him before. Somehow, she had understood. How, he couldn’t fathom. Perhaps someone else she knew suffered as he did. Her cousin had recently married the Earl of Stratford, a man who’d been grievously injured in the same battle Gabriel had been. Maybe Stratford experienced the same gnawing restlessness, the overvigilance, the insomnia . . . the nightmares. Reliving battles won and lost, night after night after night . . .

  “Well, no more of that, my love,” Michael declared. “From this moment on, we only look forward.” He swiped a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. The servant stopped, and thirsty dancers swarmed him for the rest of the libations as the poor man’s eyes widened comically.

  Michael snagged a flute for his bride and another for Gabriel before raising his own in an impromptu toast. “To our future!” He touched his glass to Penelope’s, the crystal kiss ringing with a high-pitched ting.

  “To your future,” Gabriel agreed. His gaze strayed once again to Lady Penelope. “I wish you every happiness.”

  Michael gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder that tipped champagne over the rim of Gabe’s glass, splashing his hand and wrist with the frigidly sticky stuff. His cousin followed that up with a half squeeze that constituted affection amongst the males of the species, sloshing yet more liquor onto Gabriel’s shoes.

  Lady Penelope simply murmured, “Thank you, Lord Bromwich.”

  “Gabriel,” he insisted, kicking droplets of champagne from his feet. At the dip of her brow, he explained, “We’re family now.”

  “Then thank you, Gabriel.”

  “Yes, thank you, Gabriel,” Michael parroted before plucking the still full champagne flute from Lady Penelope’s fingers. “Now come, wife,” he said with an exaggerated waggle of his blond brows, as if he relished the word. Then his voice dropped to a low tone, infused with an intimacy that made Gabriel turn his head. “Let us away.”

  “Let’s do,” Lady Penelope answered eagerly, and the happy couple hurried off together.

  As he watched them depart, Gabriel was finally able to name that elusive feeling that had filled his chest when Lady Penelope had first smiled at him.

  Hope.

  Hope for his future.

  Gabriel swallowed what little champagne remained in his glass, raising it in his own toast. “May it be as blissful as theirs.”

  Chapter One

  The West Midlands, February 1820

  Two and one half years later, shortly after the death of Mad King George III

  Lady Penelope Bridgeman, Baroness Manton, alighted from the carriage, her sturdy black kid boots crunching gravel beneath them as she stepped onto the drive of Vickering Place.

  At first glance, the seventeenth-century mansion looked like any other palatial spread. No fewer than a dozen chimney blocks jutted from the slate roof, each spouting puffs of smoke that spoke of toasty fires within, keeping the residents of the brown brick home warm in defiance of the chilly February winter.

  Ivy strangled the west wing of the structure, as well as the walls leading up to the entrance of the main house. The vines were brownish green and barren now, but Penelope imagined they would be beautiful to behold come springtime. So would the large ornamental fountain that fronted the house when it was once again filled with water, as well as the acres upon acres of parkland that surrounded it when they were greened up and in bloom.

  However, Penelope fervently hoped she would have no occasion to visit Vickering Place in the spring. Indeed, she wished she weren’t here now.

  The carved oak door was opened for her before she even gained the top step of the stoop.

  “Lady Manton.” A thin man, clad in a serviceable black suit, greeted her by her name, though they had never met. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Visitors were likely regulated here and expected well in advance.

  “Mr. Allen, I presume?” she inquired, pulling her dark wool cloak tighter around her as a frigid wind nipped across her nape. She stamped her feet in an effort to warm them, her eyes shifting involuntarily over the man’s shoulder to the roaring fire she could see blazing from a hearth within.

  “I am he,” Mr. Allen confirmed stiffly, but he did not step aside to allow her inside. Penelope rubbed her gloved hands together and looked pointedly at him. Finally, the man relented. “Please do come in,” he said, but his tone was clear. He did not want her here.

  She slid sideways past him before he could change his mind, grateful for the blast of warmth as she crossed the threshold into a well-lit foyer. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the painted ceiling that arced high above, depicting fluffy clouds in a blue summer sky that faded into the throes of a brilliant sunset around the edges.

  She hadn’t expected such a cheerful scene.

  A woman’s desolate wail sliced through the hall, raising the hair on Penelope’s arms, even covered as they were with layers of wool and bombazine. The high-pitched cry was cut off abruptly, leaving only an eerie echo ricocheting off of the marble walls of the foyer.

  Penelope shivered. That was more in line with her expectation of Vickering Place. The illusion that the manor was still a country mansion fell completely away. Certainly the flocked wallpaper of gold damask and the plaster molding and expensive artwork that lined the walls spoke of its aristocratic history, but Vickering Place had been sold by its owner and converted to a private sanatorium for lunatics. A place where the wealthy sent their sons and daughters, their mothers and fathers, their wives and their husbands—for treatment, or simply to hide them away from society.

  As M
ichael’s family had done to poor Gabriel.

  Mr. Allen, she noted, seemed unruffled by the noise, almost as if he hadn’t even noticed. One grew used to it, she supposed. Allen extended an arm to usher her into what appeared to be his office, and as Penelope took a seat in a plush armchair across from his stark, imposing desk, she strove for a similar sangfroid even as her stomach churned with nerves.

  “I’m afraid your journey may have been in vain, my lady,” Mr. Allen began, lowering himself stiffly into his own seat. “It seems his lordship has descended into a fit of mania this morning. When he gets like this, he can be very . . . dangerous. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you near him. For your safety’s sake.”

  Penelope winged a brow high at the subtle condescension in the director’s nasally tone. She pursed her lips.

  Mr. Allen, apparently misinterpreting the reason for her irritation, said defensively, “I did send a messenger to the inn where you are staying, but he must have just missed you. I am sorry you had to come all this way.”

  Penelope barely resisted the urge to snort. The only thing he was sorry about was that she’d come at all.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Your man delivered the message in plenty of time. However—” However, what? She’d been a fool not to anticipate this sort of resistance. She’d gotten spoiled, working with her cousin Liliana, the Countess of Stratford, over the past year and a half, treating ex-soldiers and their families. No one ever questioned Liliana because she was a woman. Her cousin had a brilliant mind that commanded the respect of her peers, male and female.

  Penelope, however, had neither Liliana’s intelligence nor presence. She chewed her lip, trying to imagine how her cousin would handle Mr. Allen. She took a deep breath and stiffened her spine. Well, she didn’t know exactly what Liliana would do, but she knew how her own formidable mother would handle the man if this were a domestic situation.

  She adopted her best “lady of the house” tone, all clipped and commanding. “However, it is my understanding that Vickering Place is a private sanatorium. Your guests are here voluntarily, at the behest of their families, are they not?” She raised both brows now, staring Mr. Allen down. “At their very expensive behest.”

  At his stiff nod, Penelope could almost taste her victory. She reached into her cloak, efficiently pulling out a packet of letters from Gabriel’s family, detailing their wishes. Her hand trembled a bit as she leaned forward and handed them across the desk. “Then I expect to see his lordship immediately. In whatever condition he may be in.”

  It was Mr. Allen’s turn to purse his lips, which thinned to the point of almost disappearing as he skimmed the letters. Disapproval lined his features, but all he said was, “Very well.”

  Penelope gave the director a curt nod and rose to her feet. She exited the office on her own, not waiting to see if he followed. He did, of course, and quite quickly. He seemed the type who would detest having her roaming around his domain on her own.

  “This way, my lady.” Mr. Allen rattled a heavy set of keys, plucking the head of one between his fingers as the others settled with a jangling clank on the ring.

  As they made their way down a wide hallway, another howl rent the air. A man’s this time, Penelope thought. The cry was accompanied by a harsh, rhythmic clanking, as if the poor soul banged something against metal . . . bars perhaps?

  An ache pierced her chest. She couldn’t imagine Gabriel in a place such as this. The moment she’d met him, she’d sensed he was cut from similar cloth as Liliana’s husband, Geoffrey. Both ex-soldiers, both honorable and courageous. Gabriel had a commanding air, an independent and self-reliant streak that must chafe against confinement. It had to be driving him mad to be locked up so.

  No, madness is what brought him here.

  Penelope shivered. She’d have never believed such a thing about Gabriel two and a half years ago, but he was blood related to Michael, and if Penelope knew anything, she knew now that Michael had been mad.

  The affliction had driven her husband to take his own life barely six months after they’d been married.

  Penelope’s steps faltered. Oh Lord. What made her think she could be of any help to Gabriel Devereaux? She’d been worthless to Michael when he’d needed her. Worthless.

  Mr. Allen halted, as if noticing his footfalls were now the only ones ringing on the marble floors. He turned to look over his shoulder. “Have you changed your mind, then, Lady Manton?”

  Yes.

  Penelope’s chest tightened, her breaths coming with great difficulty as the horror of another frosty winter day invaded her mind.

  He’s not breathing! Michael!

  Penelope shook her head, as much to dislodge the memories as to reply to the director. “No. No, of course not.” Yet her voice was much more assured than her feet. She had to force them to get moving again.

  Mr. Allen fixed her with a doubtful look before turning back to lead the way once more.

  She was not that naïve young society wife anymore, Penelope reminded herself. For the past two years, with Liliana’s encouragement, she’d thrown herself into studying the inner workings and maladies of the mind. At first, it had been a way to distract herself from her grief, but then she’d realized she had a gift.

  People of all classes had often told her she was easy to talk to, so when Liliana had suggested she spend time just talking to the ex-soldiers served by the private clinic that she and her husband, Geoffrey, had built, it had been easy to say yes. And that one yes had turned into a calling, one that had met with some success.

  Which was why Lady Bromwich, Gabriel’s mother, had visited Penelope in London and begged her to visit him. Well, that, and the marchioness knew she would keep news of Gabriel’s condition private. She’d been married into their family, after all, and they counted on that loyalty for her silence.

  Mr. Allen stopped before a massive wooden door, its brass knob polished to a high shine. He pulled the door open easily, revealing the heavy iron bars that had been installed to barricade the entrance of the suite of rooms that had recently become Gabriel’s home.

  The director slid the key into the lock, twisting it with an efficient click. The bars swung open noiselessly, too new yet to creak with rust.

  Penelope schooled her features, trying to prepare herself for anything. She smoothed a nervous hand over her widow’s weeds, her mood now as somber and dark as the colors she always wore.

  What kind of Gabriel would she encounter beyond that threshold? If his affliction was similar to Michael’s, he could be flying high, gregarious and grandiose, awake for days with no end in sight. Or he could be a man in the depths of despair, wallowing in a dark place where no one could reach him, least of all her.

  Was she ready to be faced with the stuff of her nightmares?

  Penelope swallowed hard. Yes. Because Gabriel was still alive, still able to be saved. Whatever she must do, she would do it, if only as penance for what she hadn’t been able to do for Michael.

  Penelope stepped into the room, at least as far as she could before shock stilled her feet. “Oh . . . my . . . God,” she whispered, amazed she could push even those three short words through the sudden tightness of her throat. “Gabriel?”

  For a brief second, Penelope wondered if she were the mad one. Because what she was seeing couldn’t possibly be real.

  Gabriel—a very naked Gabriel, she couldn’t help but note with widening eyes—was cornered in the far side of the room, nearly trapped by two attendants who steadily approached him. With a strength and quickness that didn’t seem human, Gabriel lashed out to his left and snagged the corner of a heavily carved rococo chaise longue with one hand, pulling it toward him as if it weighed nothing. A high-pitched screech grated as the wooden legs dragged in screaming protest across the floor. He angled it on the diagonal in front of him, effectively creating a barricade from the grasping attendants.

  “Curse you, you devils,” Gabriel rasped in a scratchy voice that pricked at Penelope’
s heart.

  The stark fear in his eyes turned that prick into a full-fledged pierce. Poor Gabriel was looking at the men as if he truly saw them as the demons he called them.

  “I am burning alive already. Does that not satisfy your thirst for revenge?” he cried, muscles and tendons straining against the skin of his neck.

  Penelope could only watch in horror as Gabriel snatched a pitcher of water from a nearby sideboard and tipped it back. He gulped noisily, not seeming to notice that most of the water missed his mouth, running down his unclothed skin in dripping rivulets that pooled on the floor at his bared feet. Penelope’s gaze followed the trail of liquid as it traversed lean muscle, over his chest, where tiny droplets clung to the dark hair there, down his stomach to . . .

  Dear God, he truly was completely nude—

  A blur of black linen blocked Penelope’s view as Mr. Allen stepped in front of her. “My lady, I must insist you leave this instant—”

  An explosion of glass shattered against marble, jerking both of their attention back to the drama unfolding in the corner. Gabriel had smashed the empty pitcher against the floor, and shards of crystal skittered in all directions.

  Well, she’d be hanged before she allowed Mr. Allen to toss her out of the room. She took advantage of the distraction to dart farther into the parlor so that the director would have to choose between bodily removing her or helping his staff members to contain Gabriel.

  Allen shot her a dark look over his shoulder but moved towards the fracas. She thought to offer her assistance, but there was little she could do with Gabriel when he was in the grips of full-blown mania.

  “Ah, Christ,” Gabriel groaned. “Am I to have no relief?” Water glistened on his skin as he glared accusingly at the men who were slowly skirting either side of his barricade, crystal grinding beneath their boots. “If your thirst cannot be quenched, then neither shall mine be? Is that the way of it?”

  “My lord,” Allen said soothingly, raising his hands as he advanced on the chaise longue from the center. “You know we never deny you sustenance.”