chapter Nineteen
Gabriel sat with his head in his hands, squeezing against the throbbing pressure at his temples.
He sat upon the bed in the marquess chambers, where he’d been confined for two nights and a day now—most of which he had no memory of. A blessing, he was told. The last episode had come on faster and was more intense than any he’d ever had, they’d said. And he believed it. The pounding in his head, the nausea and the jittery feeling in his limbs that usually came after was so much worse than before.
I hurt Penelope.
A swift ache sliced through his chest, laying him open.
He’d never once imagined he would be saying this, but thank God he’d had the episode when he had. Had it happened tomorrow or the next day or next week or next year, for that matter, Penelope would have been bound to him, trapped in a marriage with a madman.
If there was anything good that would come out of this mess, it was that she had escaped that fate.
His heart ached again, a fierce, sharp pain, one he knew would never truly go away. It would forever hover over his heart, threatening like an executioner’s blade—waiting to slice him open whenever he thought of her . . . whenever he missed her, as he would every day of his life.
The weight that had settled over him when he’d awoken yesterday grew heavier. His life. It was over as he knew it. All of the hopes and plans he’d made gone along with his freedom. Now all that was left was to wait for the madness to eventually overtake him, locked away. Alone. Perhaps he could have borne it better a few weeks ago, before he’d allowed himself to dream so high. Before . . .
His chest squeezed and twisted like a bathing cloth being wrung, flinging moisture to the back of his eyes and clogging his throat.
If a lonely descent into madness was what awaited him, did he even wish to go on at all?
The dark question circled him, whispering that he didn’t have to feel this pain if he didn’t want to. Murmuring that he had control over himself in this moment, that he had a choice. That he could end it all before the choice was taken from him.
Voices rose in the hallway, drawing his head up. He listened, but didn’t recognize the speaker. Nor could he hear the man’s muffled words. Then he heard Edward. “—might as well be. The hearing is tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is not today,” said another voice that sounded very like the Earl of Stratford. “Now, open the bloody door.”
Gabriel came to his feet, wincing as blood rushed to his aching head. Why had Stratford come here? Surely Penelope had explained all that had happened.
The lock gave way with a rusty click, and the door swung open.
His heart leapt as Penelope swept into the room. She slowed only when she reached him and then just long enough to slip her arms under his to wrap around him. “Gabriel,” she said against his chest, and her voice was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.
He couldn’t help himself from returning her embrace, from dropping his face to her hair and breathing her in. He closed his eyes and breathed again, trying to store up enough of her sweet scent to last him a lifetime.
Too soon, she pulled back and looked up at him.
He felt gut punched when he saw her face. An angry gash, more than an inch long, streaked red across her forehead. It was thin and shallow, but it would leave a mark. Christ, he’d marred her precious face.
“I was so afraid I wouldn’t see you again,” she said, her face lined with both worry and relief. “I tried all day yesterday, but your rotten brother refused to allow me into the house.”
Bile had risen into his throat at the thought that he had done that to her. How could she be here, talking to him as if she cared for him, when he was responsible for injuring her so?
“But I’m here now,” she went on, reaching out to take his hand. “And I am taking you away with me.”
“What?” He pulled his hand from hers and eyed her warily. She had the same intent look on her face now that she’d had when she’d demanded he get into that damned black carriage on the road behind Vickering Place so many weeks ago.
His throat closed with emotion. He was glad he’d gone with her. He wouldn’t give up the past two months with Penelope for even his sanity. But he would not go with her again, no matter how much his heart cried out for him to. “Pen, you can’t just kidnap me out of this,” he said gently.
Her chin jutted forward. “It is not kidnapping this time. I’ve gone to rather a lot of trouble to get you out of here, legally,” she said. “I convinced Geoffrey to persuade a solicitor of the Court of the Chancery that it was unlawful for your family to hold you against your will until you were proven non compos. We then had to bring the man here and force our way inside. Now, come along. We must hurry. There is much to be done before tomorrow’s hearing, and we haven’t much time.”
A small part of him exalted. Pen must care for him to have gone to such lengths. He would lock that truth in his heart, taking it out when he needed a kindness.
But the rest of him stayed rooted in reality. “You don’t seriously think we stand a chance of proving me competent now, do you?”
Her brows dipped, shading her eyes. But she didn’t lie to him. “No. No, after what happened in the parlor, I think it is safe to say the commission will find against you for certain.”
Even though he’d known that would be her answer, hearing the words aloud hurt worse that he’d have thought. “As they should. I am mad.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Anger flushed his cheeks at her stubbornness. “Damn it all, Pen. When are you going to face facts?” His gaze found the mark on her forehead. The cut had already started to heal, but the surrounding skin bloomed purple, and the sight lashed him with guilt.
“When they make sense!” she countered, eyes flashing. “Yesterday was a setback. That is all.”
“A setback?” he roared, his eyes fixed on the ugly bruise. “I could have killed you. What if I’d shoved you harder than I did? What if you’d hit that corner table with your temple instead of your forehead? Or what if I’d punched you? Or snapped your neck?” An image of Penelope limp and broken at his feet flashed through his mind, and his knees weakened. “A setback?” He snorted in disbelief.
Pen’s eyes had gone wide during his tirade, but besides that she didn’t seem daunted by it.
“A setback,” she repeated slowly. “It happens even in the most successful cases. And this one—” Her voice broke as sudden tears glassed her eyes.
His anger deflated in the face of her distress.
“—is my fault, Gabriel,” she went on, as a lone tear slipped down her face. “I never should have pushed you so hard to remember the horrors of your past, not when you were already strained by the carriage ride and the upcoming hearing. I should have pulled back. And now look at what I’ve done to you.” Her lip quivered violently.
Damn it all. He’d known she would blame herself if all didn’t go well. His heart squeezed at the sight of her pain. He took back what he’d thought before about being glad he’d gone with her. He would give anything to go back and make her leave him at Vickering Place—to save her from this.
He stepped toward her and cupped her face in his hands. “This is not your fault, Pen. You’ve done nothing but heal me, in every way imaginable.”
“Then come with me,” she insisted.
“To what purpose?” he said, letting go of her. “The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow. It is over.” And even if it wasn’t, he would never trust that another “setback” might not strike him at any moment.
“There are options, Gabriel,” Pen said earnestly. “We could try to negotiate with your brother to call off the hearing, or postpone it at least. You could agree to temporarily sign over power of attorney in return for a trust—enough to buy a small cottage somewhere tranquil where we can continue working on getting you well. That would buy us time—”
“Edward, or rather Amelia,” he amended darkly, “would never accept such a proposition, not when they are so close to having it all free and clear anyway.”
Pen released a disgusted huff. “You’re probably right.” She closed her eyes for a long moment, just long enough for him to wonder what was going on in that mind of hers.
But then she opened them and pinned him with a fiercely determined gaze. “There is another option,” she said steadily. “We can marry.”
He sucked in a breath so quickly that he choked. “No, Pen.”
“Yes. You’ve already procured a special license,” she argued. “If we wed today, before your hearing, the marriage will be legal. Or at least it would be more of a challenge to set aside. If you are declared non compos, your brother still gets what he wants, which is control of the marquessate, so he would have no reason to try to force an annulment.
“And I would get what I want—control of your person. As next of kin, I would dictate your care. There would be no Vickering Place, no blistering or cold baths. Just all of the time in the world to make you whole.”
He stood gaping at her, stunned. Not even Pen would be self-sacrificing enough to do such a fool thing if she didn’t love him, would she?
“Why would you do that?” he whispered, needing to know. “Why would you tie yourself to another madman?”
She pressed her lips together in irritation. “I’ve told you, I do not think you’re mad.”
“But if I am—”
“Then you are mad!” she cried, shocking him to his toes. “I will marry you anyway. At least I would know where you are—how you are. Do you know what it has been like for me the past day and a half? Watching people I don’t trust drag you away from me? Being utterly helpless to stop them? To not even have a say?”
Some strong emotion flared in Pen’s eyes, strangling the breath in his chest.
“I lay awake, agonizing over the unknown,” she said, her voice cracking. “Were you recovered from your episode or were you still in the throes of it, lashed to the bed and hiding your eyes from the light? Had you awoken surrounded by the enemy, wallowing in despair because you thought your madness had returned?” Her eyes had gone bright and glassy. “Did you lie there all alone, wondering if I had abandoned you?” she asked, her chin trembling.
“No, Pen,” he whispered. “Never.”
Her features firmed and her eyes gleamed with resolution. “Good. Because I never will. I don’t care if you are mad, Gabriel. If that is the case, then we will live with it. We will learn to fight it together.”
At her words, his heart filled with a searing, bittersweet joy. She loved him. She had to, to be willing to enter into another marriage like her first. To risk living every day wondering when the madness would next strike.
He couldn’t not take her hands in his. He had to touch her one last time. “I am humbled,” he whispered. “Deeply. Truly. But I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me.”
Her eyes closed. “Gabriel—”
“Look at you, Pen. Bruised. Exhausted. Emotionally spent, and this just in two days. You are a nurturer, love. You will kill yourself trying to make me whole.”
She blinked up at him, unable to deny that truth.
“And it would kill me to watch you do so,” he said.
He brought her hands to his lips and brushed a kiss across each. “You taught me so much in our time together. How to forgive myself for the things I cannot control. How to take control of the things I can. Well, I can control this. Staying here is my choice.”
The tears that had been brimming in her eyes spilled over. “You’re not just going to give up. You can’t.”
His memory flashed back to that night at Vickering Place, when he’d tried to send her away the first time. She’d been so stubborn about seeing him well, right from the start. He heard her fervent vow as if she’d spoken it yesterday:
I cannot know if we’ll meet success. But I do know that as long as you are still fighting, I won’t give up either. I swear it.
They’d been holding hands just like this then, too. And now they’d come full circle.
He knew what he needed to say to set her free.
“Yes, I can. I’m through fighting my madness, Pen. I accept my fate.”
He pulled his hands from hers, even as it killed him to do it. Christ, he loved her. That was the only thing that gave him the strength to say the rest.
“And you must, too.”
Penelope curled her fingers over her palms, desperate to hold on to the warmth from Gabriel’s touch, which was fast slipping away from her, just as he was.
He wasn’t coming with her.
He wasn’t coming with her and there was nothing she could do about it. He would stay here, and she would be forced to leave. Tomorrow his family would present him for his hearing, and by nightfall he’d be locked away in Vickering Place once more.
Fresh tears spilled beneath her lashes as she closed her eyes. God help her, she’d never felt so helpless in her life.
And she couldn’t even be angry with him. He was convinced he was broken and that he needed to protect her from himself. As misguided as he was, she couldn’t help but love him a little more for it.
But she still didn’t think he was mad. Even in the face of his relapse, everything in her remained convinced it was not lunacy behind his episodes. But she also meant what she’d said. Even if Gabriel was mad, she still wanted to be with him.
Because she wasn’t afraid anymore. Gabriel wasn’t like Michael. Michael had embraced his madness. He’d found it necessary to his happiness. He’d craved the highs, no matter what it had cost him—and her.
And she didn’t care what Gabriel said right now. The man she knew would not be able to lie down and accept this forever. Eventually, he’d be ready to fight again.
She had to make him see that no matter what was causing his illness, they were both better off fighting it together. She opened her eyes even as she prayed for the right words to come. “Gabriel, I—”
A light scratching was the only warning before the door opened a few inches. A maid entered, pushing the door open wider with her hip since she carried a large tea tray in her hands.
Penelope turned her body half away and dashed her tears with her hands as discreetly as she could. As she was busy righting her appearance, she heard the click of the metal tray meeting wood as the maid set it down on the table just inside the door.
Penelope tamped down her irritation with the girl. The poor maid was just doing her job. She had no way of knowing that she was interrupting a discussion on which Penelope’s future happiness precariously hung.
With her back to the room, the maid said, “Here you are, m’lord. Just the way you like it.”
It wasn’t until she turned with the steaming cup that she seemed to notice Penelope’s presence. “Oh!” She hastily dipped her head into a bow, snatching the cup she’d been offering to Gabriel close to her chest. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know you had a visitor. Should I fetch another cup from the kitchen?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, thank you, Janey. Lady Manton will be leaving shortly.”
Penelope’s heart squeezed. No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not until she’d convinced him to come with her.
The maid glanced awkwardly between her and Gabriel, still clutching the tea. She started to back out of the room, cup in hand. Penelope wondered that she didn’t just give it to Gabriel as she’d intended. “I’ll—I’ll just come back later, then.”
Tiny hairs rose on the back of Penelope’s neck. Why had the girl stammered? She could be the nervous sort, or embarrassed to have come upon her master with a crying stranger. And yet . . . She narrowed her eyes on the maid, trying to see her face as the girl turned away.
“Wait,” Penelope said impulsively. Both Gabriel and the maid looked up at her in surprise, and she flushed. She was probably making a fool of herself, but something seemed wrong here.
She looked more closely at the maid. There was something familiar . . .
“You were in the parlor the other night,” Penelope recalled. “You held the compress on my wound after I fell,” she said, remembering where she’d seen the girl.
The maid’s cheeks pinkened, and she dropped her eyes to the floor as if embarrassed to be singled out. The girl gripped the teacup nervously. “Yes, m’lady.”
“Thank you for your aid,” Penelope said, and she swore a flicker of guilt flashed over the woman’s face. Odd.
This was the same maid who’d given Gabriel the brandy he’d drunk just before his episode, too, wasn’t it?
Her mouth went dry. Gabriel hadn’t had an episode for weeks until he’d come back here . . .
Her eyes dropped to the teacup that the maid still held close to her, the one the woman seemed to think better of giving to Gabriel in front of Penelope. Could it be?
No. No. Liliana had said it was possible for Gabriel to ingest something that accounted for his mania, but she’d never unearthed what that substance might be. And besides, he’d had episodes both at his home and Vickering Place. Who would be able to slip him something in both places . . . ?
Penelope gasped, her eyes flying back to the maid. Of course she’d seemed familiar. Penelope had thought it was because of the other night, but now she remembered where else she’d seen her. “Miss Creevey?”
The maid flushed.
“Forgive me for not recognizing you before,” Penelope said, trying to mask her astonishment for social embarrassment, so as not to alert Miss Creevey of her suspicions. “I didn’t recognize you in your uniform.” Or outside of the hooded cloak she’d been wearing in the garden of Vickering Place.
“I wouldn’t expect you to, m’lady,” Miss Creevey mumbled.
A million thoughts flew through Penelope’s mind at once as she scrambled to put them together. Gabriel had said he’d found the mad widow’s sister a position sometime last year. He just hadn’t mentioned it had been in his own household. He must have installed her in his country house in Birminghamshire, so that she could be near her sister.
His episodes had started nine months ago . . . at home in Birminghamshire . . . episodes that, she’d said from the beginning, seemed strange and unlike any madness she’d ever seen.
But then what was Miss Creevey doing here in London? Maids didn’t typically travel between households unless specifically assigned to one of the ladies of the house. Could she be lady’s maid to Gabriel’s mother, then? Or . . . Amelia?
How she came to be here wasn’t what was important right now, however. Penelope’s gaze fixed on that teacup as Miss Creevey glanced back at the door, clearly wishing to leave.
Dash it all. Everything in her screamed that there was something in addition to tea in that cup. But how could she prove it?
“Well, if that is all, m’lord, m’lady,” Miss Creevey said, preparing to escape.
If she left with that cup, Penelope would never know if what her instincts were screaming was true. And Gabriel would forever think he was mad.
She raced to the maid and snatched the cup from her, spilling a bit on both of their wrists.
Miss Creevey gasped as Gabriel gave a startled, “Pen!”
But she paid neither of them any mind. She tipped the teacup to her lips and gulped, quite noisily. The warm, sweet milky taste splashed over her tongue, flavored with a healthy dose of brandy. To mask the taste of whatever else was in the drink?
When she’d finished it all, she looked up. “Sorry.” She gave a fake smile and a shrug. “Thirsty.”
Both Gabriel and Miss Creevey were looking at her as if she were mad. Well, with any luck, she soon would be. It had come upon Gabriel very quickly the other night in the parlor.
Miss Creevey, she noted, looked more than stunned. She looked nervous as she backed the rest of the way to the door and slipped away.
No matter. If what she thought was about to happen did, they’d have plenty of time to catch Miss Creevey and figure out who she was working for. Gabriel’s rotten brother and his wife, no doubt. Maybe even in collusion with Allen.
Gabriel whirled on her as the door closed. “What’s gotten into you, Pen?” he asked, half appalled, half bemused, if his expression were to be believed.
“I just wanted some tea,” she said lightly.
“Obviously,” he said, his lips twitching.
“Did Miss Creevey often prepare your tea when she visited you at Vickering Place?” she asked. Lord, it was getting hot in here. Penelope tugged at her bodice, wishing she’d worn something easier to get out of.
“Yes. No one pours a cup like Janey. She even smuggles in a bit of brandy to top it off with, now and again. At least I’ll have her visits to look forward to when I’m sent back,” Gabriel was saying, but he sounded very far away.
Oh. My. Her skin prickled mercilessly. Penelope scratched at her arms. When she looked down at them, she cried out. Hundreds of ants scurried all over her, engulfing her bare flesh in a wriggling mass of black.
Gabriel blanched and ran to her. “Pen?”
No. No. It is just some sort of drug, she tried to remind herself, but panic was quickly overtaking her senses. I’m not really seeing ants. But her throat closed and her heart rocketed. They certainly looked real, and her skin was crawling. And, Lord, she was thirsty. So thirsty. And the light brightened unbearably, causing her to squint against its harshness.
Gabriel’s hands cupped her face, and he tipped it up to his. “Pen, what is it? Oh Christ!” he cried. “What is wrong with your eyes?”
“Your madness,” she whispered. And that was the last thing she remembered.