Mayhem and the Marquess Read online

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  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2019 Win Hollows

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-917-1

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: CA Clauson

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Robert and Valerie—the kind of love that lasts a lifetime is often seen between the pages of books, but the truest incarnation I have seen is between the two of you. I am so very fortunate to have begun my story as part of yours.

  MAYHEM AND THE MARQUESS

  Lords of Havoc, 1

  Win Hollows

  Copyright © 2019

  Chapter One

  Leeds, Yorkshire

  December 28th, 1840

  “Why won’t you just go away?” Asher whispered, teeth squeaking from the force of his clenched jaw.

  No one answered. That’s what usually happens when one talks to oneself, he had found. Twasn’t a socially acceptable habit, and a fat lot of good it did him anyways. He should probably stop.

  The smokestacks of Leeds on the brightening horizon outside his room’s window evoked a more visceral reaction in the Marquess of Blackbourne than most would say was warranted. It was that time of morning when the sky blushed a surreal cast of tangerine over the face of all things. The vast majority would consider it lovely, if one was impressed by the sort of tenacious urbane beauty to be found in moments like these.

  He wasn’t one of them.

  “Your attention is woefully divided of late. Come back to bed,” the blonde woman complained from atop his bed’s counterpane where she lay in deliberately tempting dishabille.

  His heart beat a panicked tattoo under the lawn shirt he hadn’t bothered to change from the night before. He always dreaded this part, knowing he would have to obey her command eventually.

  Asher smiled briefly at her and looked back at the sharply interrupted sky which both repulsed and kept him rapt.

  It had begun again already, more quickly this time than last. Geometric shapes within the outlines of buildings formed in front of his eyes, numbers appearing soon thereafter. Lines were drawn, and equations melted into one another in succession. All angles and patterns were laid bare, and he connected the information into a supposition concerning Leeds’s geo-industrial development on the East Bank in recent years. This all occurred in the time it took lightning to complete an arc in the sky.

  After his mind had examined and discarded those thoughts, it moved on to calculating the speed of the carriage trundling down the street below, taking into account the measurements between landmarks, the curve of the street, and time it took between those measurements. Just for fun, he threw in the number of times the carriage wheel rotated per second.

  He closed his eyes, willing the flashes of thoughts to stop. Sometimes this worked. This time, it did not. Tendrils of pain began to worm their way through his head and dissolve as quadratics danced behind his eyes.

  Shame washed through him. He would not let it win.

  A memory seethed to the surface. He had been nineteen years old the last time it had won.

  Upon his parents’ death in a house fire, solicitors had come to Cambridge for the reading of the will and to bestow upon him his birthright as their only child. But instead of being able to concentrate on the words spoken, his mind had raced behind and ahead, calculating how long it would have taken his family’s manor home to burn, solicitor’s fees, funeral costs, the time it took to die from smoke inhalation, staff change pensions, the temperature of melting skin, estate management records, and a thousand other things he knew he was now responsible for.

  The pain, sudden and sharp, had pierced his mind like an arrow. He had cried out and doubled over, clutching his head and pulling at his hair. Unresponsive to touch or sound, his mind had trapped him in a place where only agony existed, only trains of numbers rushing in, pits of hypotheses and cages comprised of innumerable matrices.

  He had been told later that those in the room thought it might be a reaction to the sudden and terrible news. However, it soon became clear that it wasn’t grief affecting him, but something else entirely.

  Shocked, the solicitors had called for a doctor and a mental competency hearing. His mind had been declared sound but unstable, and so every few months since, eager men in suits would appear to assess his faculties and suitability in governing the Marquessate.

  He could not afford to ever let it win.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said to the woman through gritted teeth.

  An opera singer, she was. He remembered her name—he remembered every name he’d ever heard. Yet he didn’t use it.

  “Already done, Lord Blackbourne,” she informed him in calculated tones.

  He turned and opened his eyes, taking in her form. The equations disappeared, obliterated by simple need. He went to her swiftly and laid her back on the bed. She squealed in high-pitched giggles and drew him down. The pain receded as his hands smoothed over her hips, and he pushed aside any guilt he had over the use of her body. She didn’t mind, and as long as his head was filled with her heady perfume and tangled limbs, he welcomed the oblivion her lust invoked. For now, he only had to tire himself to exhaustion in her arms to earn a few more hours of blessedly blank sleep.

  And tonight, he would start the search for another diversion again after he attended his Society’s monthly lecture series. Maybe a brunette next time, to keep his mind busy with the novelty. He made sure they never cared, he reminded himself, sinking into the insensibility of skin and heat…

  ****

  Ivette stopped to rest in the alleyway. She put the handles of the cart down and wiped the droplets of sweat from her brow. Though the night was frigid, she could feel perspiration trickling down her neck and chest. Her small, wheeled handcart of porcelain vases seemed to become heavier by the minute, siphoning the vestiges of her energy more quickly than she could recover.

  It was only a little further to go, however, so she took a deep breath and mustered her remaining stores of willpower for the last stretch of the journey to Merchant Fabrice’s townhome. He would be waiting for this special delivery, hopefully with a contract soon to follow.

  “Chin up, Ivy,” she murmured to herself. “You are no withering vine.” She snorted at her jest and then sighed as she grabbed the handles of the cart and began pushing it once more.

  The darkness of the night didn’t frighten her. It hadn’t for a long time. Despite her slight stature, her awareness of the city’s underworld and the knife stashed between her corset strings quelled any concern she might have had about being accosted in this area.

  In fact, it was safer to travel at night in this case. Pickpockets and traffic were much more likely to disrupt her cart during the day, and she couldn’t let that happen.

  This was going to be her saving grace. After almost two years working at a paper mill in the bustling city of Leeds to survive, she had finally caught her break. When the dye merchant Fabrice Rouleau had seen a painting of a vase she had given to the miller’s wife as a wedding gift, he had informed her that she could make them both wealthy with her talent.

  “I have connections to the manufacturing designers for Josiah Wedgwood and Sons, and they often contract design work to artists they deemed worthy. I have rep
resented two other artists to them in the past.”

  Ivette’s eyes had grown round as paint pots. “You truly think I could paint for Wedgwood?”

  Fabrice had chuckled. “I assure you, if you can design a showcase as good as this painting that meets with approval at Wedgwood, I will offer you a contract. You will be paid handsomely on a regular basis for your work.”

  Ever since, she had been laboring round the clock after her shifts at the mill to complete designs on the six large vases that now sat in her rented handcart.

  “However,” Fabrice had warned her, “If the showcase isn’t ready on time, there won’t be another chance. I cannot waste time or money purchasing more porcelain for you to work with. I need a business partner, understand?”

  Ivette had smiled. She understood, all right, and Hell would freeze over before she let this opportunity pass her by. Nothing else was more important than this showcase.

  Pulling the cart down the empty cobblestone street, she looked at the numbers on the low stone wall passing by. 2224 Corsair Place, 2226 Corsair Place…

  Finally. There it was, right on the corner. 2228 Corsair Place. Mr. Fabrice Rouleau lived here while looking in on his factories.

  She would not miss the long days of working the paper press, pulling the large steam-powered stamps up and down and up and down, marking the newly mulched paper with the different stationary designs required for each order. Though she also designed the expensive stationary watermarks that were now associated with the Mill’s brand, it was mostly tedious, sweat-drenched days that often turned into nights.

  Yet lately, even when she worked more hours than anyone else, she didn’t have enough to pay for her boardinghouse rent or enough food to eat. Rents had been climbing steadily since other factories for wool, printing, and iron had been built nearby. Now there were too many people wanting rooms near the industrial center, and she knew that it wouldn’t be long before she could not afford to keep her closet-sized room and communal privy. If something didn’t change, she would be back on the streets in the middle of winter, a situation she knew from experience could be fatal.

  Her neighbor down the hall, Priscilla, said she should start accepting late-night customers to make rent as she did. The young redhead had told her that, with her abundance of chocolate-colored hair and large blue eyes, men would line up to take her to bed. But the thought of that made her stomach clench. It just wasn’t for her. No matter how many times she had to forgo a meal or steal an item of clothing from the morgue’s refuse bin, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  Sometimes, she lied in bed and wished there was a man there to just hold her. To keep her warm and tell her that he would make sure everything was all right. The sort of men that liked to visit Priscilla, however, weren’t the type that stayed. They never did, no matter how prettily Priscilla spoke to them and did their bidding.

  Besides, she couldn’t allow herself to be intimate with anyone. Her tainted family blood had eliminated that possibility before she’d ever had a chance to make the decision for herself. Who her father was would forever determine her future.

  Tears of relief welled in her eyes. A life of worrying about keeping a roof over her head would soon be over. Each vase had taken her many hours, and she knew the work she had done on them was immaculate. Fabrice would be impressed, she was sure. She turned to maneuver her cart to the side of the walkway, and then swiveled backwards to drag the cart up the white steps of the immense home, anxious to see the man who would ensure her future.

  As she turned to face the gate, a large mass rammed into her shoulder, shoving her slight body into the cart at her right and sending it toppling over on its side. As if it took an hour instead of a second, her breath caught, and she watched as the contents of the cart crashed to the ground and shattered.

  “No!” she cried, falling to her knees to examining the shards of pottery. Not one vase had been left intact. She felt her future slipping away as flakes of snow already began to scatter over the intricate designs.

  “What have you done?” Ivette sobbed, gathering the broken pieces towards her. Why, she didn’t know. They were useless now. She looked up to see a tall, elderly man with a gray beard and glasses standing over her.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” He squinted at her in puzzlement. “Didn’t see you there. Came around the corner too fast, I think,” the man said, itching his head.

  As if speaking too loudly would summon more doom upon her, she whispered, “You’ve ruined everything. My life.” She indicated the pieces scattered across the damp cobblestones. Ivette looked up at the man who had just quite literally broken her future irreparably.

  “I’ll pay for it all, never worry. Reginald Morganstern pays his debts,” he guaranteed, giving her shoulder an awkward pat.

  She met his eyes and frowned. One bushy eyebrow was coming off of his face. She narrowed her gaze on his skin—his remarkably young skin. “Are you—are you wearing a false beard? And a wig?”

  ****

  Asher’s hands immediately went to his face. The long gray beard was still intact, as was his matching wig.

  “Erm… No, of course not. That would be ridiculous.” He chuckled in his best old-man rasp.

  “All right,” she answered. “But I think you should know your eyebrow is falling off.”

  “Wha-?” He reached for his eyebrows and found she was right. The left one was dangling with no hope of being put back without more glue. He sighed and took it off the rest of the way.

  In his usual dry tones, he asked, “I don’t suppose you’ll forget you ever saw me?”

  She pursed her lips, looking as if she was going to cry. “Not likely, seeing as you have ruined my chance of paying my board and having food to eat and … and,” she waved her hand in a wide arc, tears beginning to fall. “…and not accepting night visitors who won’t stay, and I’ll probably be cold forever now,” she wept, curling into a defeated heap on the walk, one shard of what looked like white and blue pottery grasped in the palm of her small hand.

  Asher had no idea what she was talking about, but it was clear he had done something which had grave consequences for her. However, he couldn’t be caught dawdling out here any longer. Someone from the British Association for the Advancement of Science lecture might see him, and that wouldn’t be good at all.

  He had already been questioned about his background last time, and he had made the mistake of making up a family, complete with a deceased wife and younger siblings who also took an interest in science. Now all the patrons wanted him to bring some of his family to the next soiree, and they wouldn’t be put off again. He couldn’t afford to have any more mysteries attached to his name in the Association.

  He crouched down next to her and gently took the piece of pottery from her open hand as she sniffled. “Madam, you’ll cut yourself if you continue to handle those shards. Will you come with me to the inn, and we’ll sort all this out?” he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  She flinched, and her eyes grew wide with panic. “Don’t touch me!”

  Ash drew his hand back quickly. “I’m sorry. I meant no harm, madam. I truly want to help. Tis only right, wouldn’t you say?”

  She paused, and he could see she was weighing her options. In the end, her entire being seemed to let go of some invisible string holding it up, and she shrugged dejectedly, which he figured was as good a response as he was likely to get. He put his hands around her slim shoulders and pulled her up, escorting her to his carriage, which was parked only a few dozen yards away. She kept her head down, not seeming to care where she was going.

  He positioned himself across from her in the carriage, wondering what he was going to do with her. He couldn’t tell much about her from her appearance. Her face was obscured by a mass of tangled hair, and the rest of her was wrapped in a nondescript cloak that had seen better days. No sounds emitted from her now, no movements, as if she’d decided to decline to participate in reacting to the debacle now that it was done.


  His stomach churned with guilt as he eyed her huddled form. Asher knew he could easily repay whatever the pottery had cost, and they had looked to be high quality. Being a Marquess with a well-endowed set of estates had its advantages, and one was the luxury of not worrying about paltry sums that might have crippled another man. Offering her a comparable amount should suffice to satisfy her apparent desolation and send her on her way to whatever she had planned.

  When they reached the inn, he shuffled her out of the coach and straight up the back stairs to his room, not wanting to embarrass her by having any locals note her presence in his company. Women tended to be put into a certain category after they were seen with a man at an inn, and he didn’t want to further destroy her plans, whatever they may be. She didn’t protest, letting him push her along docilely till they were safely in the privacy of his rooms and the door locked behind them.

  He sighed, watching her still, silent form stand in the center of the sitting area. It was one large room that included a bed on one end and a divan, two chairs, and an already blazing fireplace on the other. The best available, he’d been assured. Still, she looked dwarfed by the surroundings, small as she was.

  He realized then that he didn’t know her age, her marital status, not even her name. Tugging the wig from his head and running a hand through his dark gold locks, he blew out a stream of air. Time to resolve this matter and get back to business.

  He came up behind her and put a hand gently on her shoulder, directing her to a chair near the fire. “Please sit, madam. Would you like me to send for some tea?” He tried to get a look at her face through the matted strings of hair, but couldn’t discern anything telling of her features other than that she had them.

  She shook her head, keeping her face downturned.