Page 14 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
“Those born from violent blood are often destined to tragedy,” continued Dr. Hissop. “Poor Mary was cursed, perhaps even in her cradle, for her father was hated and feared. His degeneracy led him into insanity and the murder of two men, including his closest friend, on the very doorstep of Fitzford House. In a final act of wickedness, he took his own life, ceasing the beat of his blackened heart with the last plunge of his dagger.”
“Oh, Samuel!” gasped the doctor’s wife. She gave a nervous laugh. “You’ll be scaring us all from our wits!”
And those being in short supply, it would be foolhardy to mislay them,thought Mallon.
The doctor continued. “At nine years, Mary found herself an orphan, under the care of the Earl of Northumberland. However, his concern seemed to be to lay hands on her wealth, for she was no more than twelve when he married her to his brother, Sir Percy. At that tender age, none suspected her when he, the first of her doomed husbands, caught a fever out hunting. Just two months after wedding her second spouse, Thomas Darcy, she was again a widow and one might have thought a third husband would be wary but, at seventeen, Lady Mary was married once more. Sadly, the match was far from happy, Sir John Howard caring more for her fortune than aught else.”
Dr. Hissop leaned forward in his chair. “By twenty-seven, she was widowed a third time, and there were rumors aplenty that she’d struck a deal with Beelzebub to rid herself of those husbands. When she took a fourth down the aisle, Sir Richard Grenville may not have known Mary had tied up her fortune. He gave her a son, but the marriage was as miserable as the last, and the two parted ways. Choosing never to marry again, Mary retired to Fitz House, accompanied by her son. Sadly, more ill-luck was to come, as the Lord saw fit to take her beloved George.’
He paused to take a sip of his brandy. “Overwhelmed by grief, Mary departed this world but, even then, was afforded no peace. Death and unhappiness had always followed her. The true extent of her sins we cannot know, but it’s said that, at the stroke of midnight, sherides out across the moor in a coach made of her husbands’ clattering bones.”
One of the logs sparked, throwing out an ember to the old rug, but none moved to stamp it out, leaving it to smolder to a dark spot.
“To look upon her as she passes is to feel the Dark One’s claw upon your neck. To accept a ride in her macabre carriage is to offer your soul to the same dark forces that hold hers in nightly torment. At her side bounds a coal-black hound, straight from the gates of hell, its eyes glowing with demonic fire, guiding her journey to Okehampton Castle. There, the dog plucks a single blade of grass and carries it in its mouth for their return to Fitz House. Night after night, she repeats her impossible mission, destined to ride the moor until every blade is plucked.”
As the doctor uttered the last words, Mallon felt a shiver pass over him. It had been many years since he’d heard the legend but its telling still affected him, though the moor was full of such legends—of demon dogs especially. Of course, women were fickle creatures and Lady Mary surely no better than the rest, but what a life she’d led, deserving pity more than condemnation.
Not like his mother, whose particular brand of inconstancy he found himself unable to forgive. Faithlessness not just to her husband but to her children, too.
What sort of woman was capable of that?
Marguerite cleared her throat. She was looking decidedly uncomfortable. Of course, both the countess and Marguerite were widows, and barely two years out of mourning. Marguerite had foundthe story inappropriate, no doubt—a fact which Dr. Hissop seemed suddenly to realize. He grew quite flustered, his hands fluttering as he gave an apology.
“Not at all.” Marguerite smiled tightly. “But, permit us to lighten our mood—perhaps with a game of Bridge.”
The matter was soon settled, with Hugo, the doctor, and his wife completing the four, so that Mallon found himself alone with the French woman. He was not one for excessive small-talk, but it was unavoidable until he might make his excuses—a long journey and his bed calling to him.
However, she spoke before he had the chance to initiate any topic, rising to pronounce her desire to retire.
Mallon drew in his legs as she stepped past, but her skirts brushed his foot, and her perfume lifted to him — a heavy, musky, floral scent, woody, with a touch of citrus. Again, he was struck by the certainty of their having met before, something in the incline of her head or in the way she raised her chin.
“Goodnight, my Lord.”
Even the cadence of her voice was familiar, melodious and sensual.
Get a grip on yourself. She’s just a woman, born with a certain repertoire of charms and all the limitations of her sex.
He berated himself, yet he continued to think of her long after he, too, had climbed the stairs, to the cold expanse of his bed.
With her doorclosed behind her, Geneviève endeavored to steady herself. She could have done with a large brandy rather than coffee, but the temptation would have been to knock it back in one gulp. Keeping a clear head had seemed the better option.
The fire was burning, taking some of the chill from the room, but Geneviève felt colder than she had even on her first night at Wulverton.
After helping her undress, Lisette left her mistress with an extra quilt and two warming pans between the sheets. Still, Geneviève could not melt the ice creeping through her veins.
The viscount had shown no indication of recognizing her. She’d know, she felt sure, by his manner if nothing else. He’d certainly looked her over most thoroughly, and he’d said nothing.
Done nothing.
She was safe, wasn’t she? At least for the time being.
What next? Leave the house and abandon all her plans?
She’d be damned if she would! After all the work she’d put into Hugo, and only today making proper headway.
It had seemed the evening would never end, and that story! She detested the idea of women succumbing to hysterics, but it had taken all her willpower to remain in her seat. Only her ridiculous imagination, of course, but it had felt as if her soul were under scrutiny as Lady Mary’s successive widowhoods were detailed.
Not that she’d murdered Maxim, though she’d helped his ease towardthe end, administering the laudanum. She suppressed a shudder. Not even the angels would hold that against her, surely? She’d given only the dosage advised by Dr. Chevereau and not a drop more.
