Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel (15 page)

“How did you know he was overheated?” Liliana interrupted. “Were his clothes soaked through?”

“Um . . . no. He’d, um, stripped off all of his clothing.” Penelope’s face flushed with the memory of Gabriel’s nakedness.

Liliana’s violet eyes widened.
“All?”

Penelope nodded quickly. Now that she was not caught up in the shock of the moment, her mind recalled the hard lines of his body with more vividness than she’d noticed at the time. Every exquisite, explicit detail.

“Yes,” she replied, trying to hurry past that revelation before Liliana commented on her blush. “And he was scratching at his skin as if the clothing had irritated him.”

“Hmmm,” Liliana repeated, watching her a little too closely. But thankfully, she didn’t pry. “You said he was not perspiring, though?”

“No. His skin was hot to the touch, but dry. He also seemed desperately parched, but no matter how much water we gave him, it was never enough to quench his thirst.” It had been awful, listening to him beg for more to drink. She’d felt so helpless.

“Oh, and his pupils were enlarged,” she went on, “so much that his eyes were like black marbles in his face. They were extremely sensitive to the light, too, even hours later.”

Liliana was nodding and tapping her index finger against her lower lip. “Have you seen any of these same symptoms since, even to a lesser degree? Either individually or in combination?”

Penelope blew out a frustrated breath. “No.”

“Let’s say I knew nothing about Lord Bromwich’s mental state and was presented with an otherwise perfectly healthy patient . . .” Liliana settled further against the back of the settee, still tap-tap-tapping her finger, thinking while Penelope waited anxiously for her cousin’s opinion. “If that were the case, I would say that what you have described sounds very much to me like the body’s rejection of something. Perhaps something Lord Bromwich may have come into contact with or ingested.”

Penelope’s breath caught with shock. “What?”

“You said yourself that your instincts are telling you to look elsewhere. If his mania doesn’t stem from madness, the next logical place to look is the physiological.”

Gooseflesh pimpled her forearms even as Penelope told herself not to get her hopes up. Still, she scooted forward in her seat, leaning toward her cousin with an anticipation she couldn’t seem to quash. “Is it possible? Truly?”

“Certainly. The human body is a complex and mysterious thing, much like the mind. I believe we could study either one of them for centuries and never fully understand all there is to know.”

Good Lord. If Gabriel’s episodes of mania were not madness but something else altogether—

There would be no reason to put a stop to his kisses,
some horridly wicked part of her mind whispered.

There will
be
no more kisses,
she fired back. To herself. Lord, perhaps she was the mad one. “But what could cause such a reaction?”

Liliana’s face scrunched up into a wince. “Well, that I can’t answer. I don’t actually know of any one substance that would cause the combination of symptoms you mentioned.”

Penelope deflated a bit, her shoulders slumping as she eased back in her seat.

“The fact that his pupils were dilated brings to mind a reaction to medication. An opiate like laudanum would affect the eyes. However, an opium eater would have pupils like pinpricks, not marbles. I know of no medicine offhand that causes the reverse.”

Drat.

“The severely dry mouth can be attributed to a multitude of things, so we can’t really discover anything from that alone.” Her finger was tapping her upper lip again. “You said Lord Bromwich was scratching at his skin. Did you see any eruptions? Like hives or boils, perhaps?”

“No,” Penelope said, slipping further back into the armchair. “His itch seemed to come from the inside.”

“Odd,” Liliana answered. “I would expect a reaction to a food to have at least some external manifestation. But that doesn’t mean we are not onto something.” Now she pulled her lower lip between her teeth and worried it a moment, lost in thought.

Penelope tried to fight her growing disappointment. “Even if we can explain away the other symptoms, can one even ingest something that causes him to see things that aren’t there?”

“Now, that I can answer with a definite ‘yes.’ Ingesting ergot can create delusions in its sufferers, for example. Even mania. As well as the extreme heat and thirst you described.”

And just like that, hope flooded the discouragement out of her heart. “That is the fungus that grows in rye, is it not? If Gabriel ate bread made with diseased grain—”

“He would have been retching, as well as convulsing, most likely. As would everyone else who might have shared his meal. No, I doubt Lord Bromwich suffers from ergotism,” Liliana said. “Especially not if, as you’ve said, these episodes have recurred with some regularity. I’m simply stating that there
are
natural substances that can cause mania in an otherwise sane person. I just do not know of any that fit with the other symptoms you mentioned.”

And Penelope didn’t know any person who knew as much about chemistry and medicinal herbs as Liliana. If she didn’t have an idea of what it could be . . . “Well, so much for that,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as dejected as she felt.

Liliana laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t know everything, Pen. But I’d be happy to do some research.” She patted her middle. “It isn’t as if I can be out wading in the bogs collecting specimens right now.” Her lips twisted. “I cannot even work in my laboratory these days. You wouldn’t believe how much glassware I’ve knocked to the floor and shattered with this stomach of mine. It is sad. And expensive!”

The cousins had a laugh over that, and then Liliana placed her hands low on her hips and pressed her shoulders back into the settee, stretching. “Ah.” She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as she settled back into the cushions.

That moment stretched into two. Then three. Just when Penelope thought perhaps Liliana had nodded off, she said, “Sometimes the mistakes we make in life change us for the better. We learn and grow. You need to start trusting yourself again, Pen.”

Penelope swallowed against a suspiciously aching throat. Then she cleared it. “Yes, well, I’ll leave you to your nap. Did Geoffrey say when he and Gabriel were expected to return?” If they wouldn’t be back for a bit yet, maybe she’d pop up to the nursery and visit her darling niece.

“Mmmm,” Liliana murmured, already drifting off. “I expect they will be out most of the afternoon. Geoffrey said something about needing to inspect the new shaft at the mine.”

The mine? How would Gabriel be able to do that? He’d barely made the carriage ride yesterday. Being in the dark underground would be impossible. Just attempting it might be enough to throw him into a panic. Surely he wouldn’t even try.

And yet she’d worked with soldiers enough to know how men were with other men, loath to reveal any weakness.

The nursery would have to wait.

*   *   *

The thunder of hooves beat the turf as Gabriel pounded along, staying slightly behind Stratford and his mount as they charged up a shallow hill. The brisk late-morning air whipped his cheeks, its clean crispness filling Gabriel’s lungs—and lifting his spirits.

Galloping into the eastern horizon, the sun bright in his eyes and the harsh exhalations of man and beast loud in his ears, he felt nothing but pure exhilaration.

So how could Penelope’s suggestion possibly hold water? She’d said that things that reminded him of the war might throw him into episodes of battle fatigue. But if anything would bring to mind his wartime service as a cavalryman in the 10th Prince of Wales Own Hussars, it would be galloping at high speeds over an open field. And yet he felt stronger than he had in months.

Granted, the sights, sounds and smells of the battlefield were far from those of the pastoral scenery of rural Shropshire. But one would think his mind would still make whatever mysterious association Penelope had been trying to explain to him.

Stratford slowed his horse as they crested the summit of the hill, and Gabriel followed suit, reining in beside him.

“Not bad horsemanship, Bromwich,” the earl called, leaning forward to pat his charger’s neck. When Stratford straightened, he looked over and grinned. “For a Hussar.”

Gabriel snorted, but a corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. He found he liked Geoffrey Wentworth. The men hadn’t had much occasion to socialize in the past. They’d known
of
each other, of course. But Stratford had been a few years ahead of him in school. There hadn’t been much opportunity for fraternization during the wars, either. While they’d both been light cavalry, Stratford had been 12th Light Dragoon.

“Take heart, man,” the earl went on, with a laugh. “At least you lot got to sport those fancy collars and
dashing
mustaches.”

Gabriel gave Stratford a good-natured scowl at that. He’d hated those uniforms, with all of the elaborate braiding and colorful layers. They had been Prinny’s idea, of course.

No, the man is King George IV now,
Gabriel reminded himself. Much had changed in the weeks he’d been locked away at Vickering Place—not the least of which was the death of the mad king.

Well, anyway, that damned uniform had not been very practical in the midst of battle. Nor had those cursed mustaches. They’d itched. Not to mention they’d trapped dust around one’s mouth, making everything taste perpetually of dirt.

“I believe you labor under a grievous misassumption, Stratford,” Gabriel retorted dryly. “We Hussars didn’t ride behind you because you were faster, but because
someone
had to be there to save your arses.”

Stratford gave a shout of laughter before turning his horse along the ridgeline.

They rode companionably for a while, each man enjoying the freedom in his own way. Gabriel hadn’t known what to expect when Stratford had invited him out to ride this morning. He’d half expected to be grilled thoroughly about his madness. Hell, that’s what
he
would have done to a suspected lunatic staying in the same house as
his
wife and family. He’d want to know if the man posed a danger.

But Stratford had been welcoming and gracious, treating him with nothing but quiet respect.

“You know,” Stratford said as they ambled along, very near the cliff edge overlooking a wide valley, “I’d heard that you and your men were the ones who met Blücher and the Prussian army. If you hadn’t directed them to us . . . if they hadn’t drawn off Napoleon’s reserves when they did . . .” The earl’s eyes narrowed into the distance. “Well, let’s just say even the peasants would be speaking French by now.”

Gabriel pressed his lips together into some semblance of a smile. Well, it was supposed to be a smile, but more likely it had been a grimace. As always when someone mentioned Waterloo, a queer feeling rose up in his stomach. People told him he’d been a hero that day, but he didn’t remember that. All he remembered was that he was the only man in his hand-chosen company who’d come home from that fateful charge alive.

He usually gave a perfunctory nod and then changed the subject when it came up. But Penelope had said that his illness might be helped by facing whatever traumas he’d experienced during the war. He could hardly face this one if he had no memory of it. Perhaps talking with a man who had been on the battlefield that day would help him recall something that might help. “You heard correctly, but I have no memory of any of it.”

Stratford turned a startled gaze on him.

“The last thing I can recall is the damned cannonade.” The French had lined up on the ridge above La Haye Sante and fired directly into Wellington’s center and left flanks. The awful booming and the acrid stench of powder and smoke and burned flesh came back to him like a sense memory.

Beside him, Stratford was nodding, remembering the same moment, though probably from his own place on the battlefield. “Yes. It was the worst barrage I’d ever faced in my dozen years of soldiering,” he said solemnly.

Gabriel understood all too well what Stratford meant. He’d been scared witless, but those quiet words were as close as a soldier would ever come to saying as much. “Well, we knew we were in danger of the French cutting us off from the expected reinforcement of the Prussian army. One of my men was tasked with ferrying messages between Blücher and Wellington. The Prussians had been coming up a little behind but parallel to our own forces. But with the French forcing Wellington back, it became clear that the planned rendezvous point would no longer work.”

His chest tightened as he remembered the precise moment that realization had hit home. “I knew we’d have to reach the Prussians and get them turned in the right direction. I chose a few of my best men to ride through the French lines.”

“Good God, man,” Stratford breathed. “That was a suicide mission.”

“Yes.” Guilt burned in Gabriel’s gut. “If I could have been assured that I would have made it to Blücher alive myself, I would have gone alone. But you remember how it was.”

Stratford nodded grimly.

“I did my best to select men without families, men without children at least, as most had wives or sweethearts.” Or were supporting camp followers. “But some of the family men insisted on coming along.”

“Brave souls.”

“Indeed. Fourteen of us shed our coats and hats, so as to be less recognizable as British soldiers, and set off in pairs by different routes. And then . . .”

“Then?”

Gabriel’s hand fisted tightly over the reins. “Then nothing. That is the last that I remember. I woke up in hospital a week later. I am told that I did reach Blücher—I know this only because the man mentioned my name to Wellington himself afterward. I am also told that I was in on the charge, but as I said, I have no memory of any of it.”

“What of the others?” Stratford asked.

“Lost. To a man.”

Stratford winced. “I am sorry,” he said, genuine regret in his voice. Gabriel nodded. Stratford likely did understand, to a point. As a leader of men, he’d have lost many himself. But Gabriel also knew Stratford’s Waterloo experience had been far different from his. The earl was famously known for rescuing several men that day, even taking a bayonet that was meant for another—one that had laid him up in a Belgian hospital for months.