Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel (27 page)

I
hope that you enjoyed
Sweet Madness
. Penelope was an interesting heroine for me to write, particularly as she was so different from Liliana, the chemist heroine of
Sweet Enemy
, and Emma, the criminologist and mathematics genius of
Sweet Deception
. You see, those heroines were born with brilliant minds and fought against what society expected of them. Penelope, on the other hand, was happy to be a debutante and content to live the life she was born to. Unfortunately for her, life (or in Penelope’s case, the author!) had other plans for her.

What made her a challenge for me was that I needed her to do something extraordinary, even though she wasn’t brilliant—at least not in the classical sense. Where Liliana and Emma strove to discover things and purposefully pushed their boundaries, Penelope didn’t. Nor did she want to or even believe that she could. But to be able to save Gabriel, she had to. Therefore, I had to give her a terribly difficult reason—the suicide of her husband—to dig within herself and discover her inner gifts.

Since Penelope was not necessarily the scholarly sort, I had to be true to her nature and really resist making her hit the books and attack her problems with confidence, as my other two heroines would have done. Not that she necessarily could have. Psychology was a much different science than it is today. The study of mental maladies was a very muddy field in the nineteenth century. Many irreconcilable theories and misunderstandings abounded. Some thought madness to be evidence of moral failing on the part of the patient. Others thought it was due to an imbalance of bodily humors, which itself was faulty medicine (blame it all on that pesky spleen!). Some still suspected the devil had a hand in lunacy. Others argued that madness was a “lesion of understanding” and that lunacy was simply a self-contained defect of reason or a misuse of will. The mental philosophers of the day expounded on their variant theories with lengthy treatises that would have made Penelope’s head spin (as they did mine just reading them!).

So I gave Penelope good instincts and common sense. She took bits and pieces of what made sense to her and experimented practically until she found things that worked. She wasn’t trying to prove anything. She simply wanted to help people. She was an intuitive soul, even in
Sweet Enemy
, and that is the strength (and weakness) I tried to give her in her own story.

The theories I had her work with came out of the British associationist school of thinking. Associationism had its roots in Aristotle, but really started to take shape in the seventeenth century with the philosopher John Locke. He believed that our ideas formed from our experiences and sensations, and that madness could result from the wrong joining together of ideas rather than simply uncontrolled or disturbed “animal passions.” In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, many others ran with that idea, working on theories of how those ideas/associations were made and could be broken (such as David Hume’s Law of Causality), which would later lead to such treatments as cognitive behavioral therapy. Penelope simply applied those theories to otherwise sane soldiers to try to explain where their harmful associations might be coming from in relation to their war service.

While “art therapy” didn’t become its own distinct profession until the twentieth century, visual and creative expression has been used in healing throughout history, according to the American Art Therapy Association. Penelope’s art therapy experiments came from who she was as a person and artist. Painting made her feel better, so she gave it a try with the soldiers she worked with and noticed positive results.

As for other parts of the story, lunacy hearings were the public spectacles that I described and were printed up as entertainment in newspapers. Nearly two hundred such cases were featured in the London
Times
alone between 1820 and 1860, and about a dozen of them were considered the top news of their day, depending on how salacious the hearing was, how depraved the testimony, or how well-known the lunatic. One of the most sordid was the 1823 hearing of the 3rd Earl of Portsmouth, which shocked the reading public with claims of abuse, adultery and threesomes, and which resulted in the earl’s marriage being set aside and his wife’s children being declared bastards.

Finally, the inspiration for Gabriel being trapped beneath his dead horse actually came from the life of the real Prussian general who also plays a small part in this story. During a serious defeat at the Battle of Ligny, the then seventy-two-year-old Blücher was repeatedly run over by cavalry as he lay beneath the body of his dead horse for several hours. He was rescued by his loyal aide-de-camp, and after bathing his wounds in brandy (and drinking some, I’m sure!), he was able to rejoin his army and later lead them to victory at Waterloo two days later. Color me quite impressed.

Read on for an excerpt from Heather Snow’s

SWEET ENEMY

A Veiled Seduction Novel

Now available from Signet Eclipse.

Shropshire, April 1817

H
e’d never wanted to be the earl, but the one thing Geoffrey Wentworth had learned since becoming such was that an earl could get away with practically anything.

He sincerely hoped that included matricide.

“Let me understand you plainly, Mother,” he growled, resisting the urge to brush the road dust from his coat onto the pristine drawing room floor. “You called me away from Parliament claiming dire emergency . . .” He swallowed, his throat aching with the need to shout. By God, he’d nearly run his horse into the ground to get here, aggravating an old war injury in his haste. His lower back burned almost as badly as it had when he’d been run through. He breathed in, striving to keep the irritation from his voice. “Because you would like to host a house party?”

Genevieve Wentworth, Lady Stratford, sat serenely on a floral chaise near the fireplace, as if he’d politely dropped in for tea instead of racing at breakneck speed to answer her urgent summons. Geoffrey eyed her suspiciously. His mother was typically a calm woman, but he’d been known to send seasoned soldiers scurrying with no more than his glare. She hadn’t so much as flinched in the face of his anger. No, in fact, she looked strangely triumphant. His stomach clenched. Mother was up to something, which rarely boded well for the men in her life.

“Geoffrey, darling, do sit down,” she began, indicating the antique caramel settee across from her. “It strains my neck to look up at you so.”

“I should like to do more than strain your meddlesome neck,” he muttered, choosing to remain standing despite the ache that now screamed down his leg. He turned his gaze to the older gentleman standing behind her.
“Et tu, Brute?”

His uncle, at least, had the grace to look chagrined. Geoffrey shook his head. Uncle Joss always had been easily led. Geoffrey knew his mother played Cassius. This conspiracy had been instigated by her.

Joss squared his shoulders. “Now, m’boy, I must agree with your mother. It’s high time you accepted your responsibilities to this family and provided an heir.”

Hell. So that was what this was about. Well, he wasn’t going to fall in with their scheme. He’d nip this and, after a hot meal and a night’s rest, be on his way back to London. The Poor Employment Act wasn’t going to finish writing itself, and Liverpool wanted it ready to present next month. What was more, Geoffrey had received a disturbing letter that needed to be dealt with. He itched to return to Town to investigate whether the blackmailer’s claims held any credence. The note implied that his late brother had been paying the scoundrel for his silence to protect the family, but Geoffrey couldn’t believe a Wentworth had done anything treasonous. Still, the threat needed to be neutralized.

“Host all of the parties you want, Mother. I’ve never tied your purse strings.” He pivoted toward the door, determined to escape yet another lengthy discussion about duty. Pain flared through his back and leg. Christ, he’d very nearly given his life for duty. Yet his mother didn’t understand that. No, in her mind, duty was defined by one word—
heirs
. “I shall be quite tied up in Parliament for the foreseeable future, so you needn’t worry about inconveniencing me with your entertainments.”

He’d barely stepped one booted toe into the rose-marbled hallway when her words stopped him cold.

“It is not I, dearest, who is hosting our guests, but you.”

Me?
He scoffed for a moment before the rest hit him.
Is?
As in right this moment?

The fist in his stomach tightened. The ride to Somerton Park had quite jarred his teeth loose. He’d blamed it on spring rains, but it could have been . . . Hell, it would have taken a
legion
of carriages to rut the road so deeply. He scanned the hallway.

Where were the servants? He’d yet to see one, not even Barnes. Sure, Geoffrey had bounded up the front steps straightaway, but there were always a few maids milling about in the entryway or the main rooms, unless . . .

Unless they were all busy seeing to the settlement of guests.

He turned slowly, his only family rotating back into view. Uncle Joss’ easy smile faltered at whatever he saw in Geoffrey’s expression, but Mother’s widened with a familiar gleam that struck fear into every wealthy titled bachelor in Christendom.

Geoffrey advanced, his boots clicking an irregular rhythm against the drawing room’s walnut floors. He prayed his suspicions were incorrect. “What have you done?”

“Taken matters into my own hands,” his mother confirmed in a satisfied clip. She stood, her skirts swishing smartly as she retrieved a handwritten list from atop her escritoire. “I have been observing ladies of suitable age, station and character for quite some time now.” She waved the list for emphasis. “Since before you returned, even. In fact, wartime is an excellent time to judge one’s integrity, at home as well as on the battlefields. It is imperative that the future Countess of Stratford be above reproach.” She sniffed, probably expecting him to argue, as his older brother would have done were he still alive. Since Geoffrey wholeheartedly agreed with his mother on that one point, he remained silent.

“Though I’m sad to say we’ve lost some wonderful candidates to marriage recently, there remains an excellent list from which to choose,” she finished, tapping the vellum she held with one perfectly manicured finger.

“Absolutely.” Uncle Joss nodded, his head bobbing several times in quick succession. “I’ve even added a few names m’self. And they are all here on display, just for you.” He winked.

Winked! As if they fully expected that Geoffrey would just fall into line, peruse their list of names and pick a wife at their whim. He imagined they intended him to court said wife during their little house party and propose by the end of the week.

Bloody well not.

Geoffrey straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, slipping into the stance that had become so natural during his military life. “I hope you have better entertainments planned for your guests than Catch an Earl by His Nose or I fear they will be sorely disappointed.” He again turned to the door, lamenting for only a moment the hot meal and good night’s rest he would have to forgo. “As
I
shan’t be here.”

He strode toward the hallway, contemplating the wisdom of pushing his horse another two hours back to the nearest coaching inn. It couldn’t be helped. A man had to stand on principle, after all. He would not have a bride foisted upon him. The earldom, yes. The responsibility of bringing his family back from the brink of financial ruin after more than a decade of his brother’s negligence and reckless spending, certainly. But a bride?

Never. Whom he married would be his choice alone. And he had very specific requirements that his mother wouldn’t possibly understand.

“Before you leave,” his mother called out, her voice still too smug for his liking, “you should know that when I sent the invitations—marked with
your
seal, of course—I made sure to include the Earls of Northumb and Manchester. Oh, and Viscount Holbrooke, I believe, as well as Lord Goddard. They were thrilled to accept.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Geoffrey halted with one foot out the door.
She sent invitations using my name, my seal.
By God. Were she anyone else, he’d have her thrown in Newgate. Hell, the idea sounded rather appealing at the moment. How she’d gotten her hands upon the seal when it was kept under lock and key in his study, he didn’t know. He’d have to see it moved. But now he had a more pressing problem. She’d invited powerful political allies he couldn’t afford to offend. Had she known he was actively courting the support of these particular men?

She must have.

He closed his eyes—embarrassed, really, at having been so outmaneuvered. His mother had managed to arrange this entire farce without even a whisper reaching him. Had he underestimated the French this badly, he’d never have survived twelve long years of war.

As he faced her once again, Geoffrey eyed his mother with grudging respect. Her smile held, but her knuckles whitened as she gripped her list. At least she wasn’t completely sure of his capitulation. Geoffrey took some small satisfaction in that.

Still, she’d left him no immediate choice. He knew when to admit defeat.

“It seems, Mother, that you have won the day,” he conceded with as much grace as he could muster. He gave his relatives a curt nod and, on his third attempt, quit the room.

Geoffrey slapped his leather gloves against his aching thigh as he climbed the grand staircase to his rooms, one thought reverberating through his mind in time with his echoing footfalls.

But I am going to win the war.

*   *   *

Miss Liliana Claremont fixed what she hoped was an appreciative smile on her face as she viewed Somerton Park for the first time. She found the Earl of Stratford’s country home rather attractive, for a lion’s den. But then, so was the Colosseum, she imagined.

As her aunt and cousin bustled out of the carriage, Liliana studied the imposing redbrick home. A columned templelike portico dominated the front, forceful and proud. Like the rest of the house, it annunciated the wealth and power of the Wentworth family.

Liliana swallowed. Had she really considered what she was up against?

“Do hurry, girls!” Her aunt Eliza’s anxious voice interrupted Liliana’s contemplations. “That infernal carriage wheel has made us terribly late. We’ll be fortunate if we have time to make you presentable before dinner.” She eyed Liliana and her own daughter, Penelope, shrewdly. “The competition for Stratford shall be fierce. It’s not often young ladies have a chance to engage him in a social setting, and you can bet those other chits have spent all afternoon turning themselves out just so.” She clucked her tongue, reminding Liliana even more than usual of a fretful hen. “We are so far behind already. First impressions, my dears, can be the difference between becoming a Lady or settling for just plain
Mrs.
”

Penelope turned and gave Liliana a conspiratorial smile. Liliana tried not to squirm. Contrary to what she’d led her aunt to believe, she had only one objective in mind here at Somerton Park, and it
wasn’t
to lure the Earl of Stratford into marriage.

No. She wanted to uncover the truth about her father’s murder.

Liliana reached into the pocket of her pelisse, fingering the red wax seal of the letter that had led her here. An unfamiliar chill slithered down her spine, causing her to scan the many windows of the facade. She had the oddest feeling, as if the house itself knew why she had come and was keeping its eye on her. She gave her head a quick shake at the ridiculous thought.

Liliana hardly noticed the elegant front hall with its Roman pillars and prominent dentil moldings, or the grand staircase, as she rushed to follow her aunt and cousin. Their excited chatter rang off the gleaming marble, but she barely heard. Instead, she struggled for breath as the band around her chest tightened with every step she took into the lair of her enemy.

Still, a surge of excited determination shot through her. This was where she would finally unlock the mystery of her father’s death. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that those letters she’d found had been in code, but none of them had been in her father’s handwriting. She could only assume his side of the conversation was hidden somewhere else.

An unexpected jolt of anguish stole her breath. For a moment she missed her father fiercely, pain slicing through her heart as if he’d been taken from her only yesterday. She remembered his gentle smile, his infinite patience as she’d asked him hundreds of questions about his work, about the world . . . about her mother. How she’d loved to listen to him talk.

Find them at summer.
His last confusing words had often plagued her thoughts. But when she’d learned the seal belonged to the house of Stratford, she’d understood what her father had been trying to tell her.
Find them at summer.
He hadn’t said
summer
, as she’d thought, but
Somer
. Yes, the letters she needed to crack his code were here at Somerton Park, and she had just less than two short weeks in the Wentworth house to find them.

Maids fluttered about the airy guest room she’d share with Penelope, unpacking dresses and accoutrements to be aired and pressed. Penelope got right to work on her main contribution to the scheme. Sifting through various evening gowns of muted silk, satin and sheer muslin, she began making selections.

Useless in matters of fashion, Liliana instead unpacked the sketch pad and pencils she planned to use to map out the house. Hers would be an organized search, one she would begin as soon as she could feasibly slip away.

“It wasn’t easy creating the perfect ensemble for you on such short notice. Thank goodness Madame Trompeur values our business.” Pen let out an exaggerated sigh. “Mother was so excited at the prospect of your being willing to consider marriage, she didn’t bat an eye at the added cost for such quick work. It really is a shame to get her hopes up so.” She contradicted her words of censure with a grin.

Liliana winced as her eyes traveled over the array of lustrous fabrics and winking jewels. “She really should have known better, given how vehemently I’ve eschewed every suitor she’s presented over the years. I do feel guilty about the expense, however. I intend to pay it back.”
Somehow.
The inheritance from her father was enough to allow her to live independently, but only if she scrimped.

Penelope, whose back had been turned while digging through a trunk for matching slippers and gloves, straightened and looked over her shoulder. “Bah, we’re rich enough. The entertainment value Mother will get from trying to tempt you to marry will be ample repayment, I’m sure. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the rapturous look on her face when you begged her to secure you an invitation to Somerton Park. She views this as her last chance to see you properly settled. You know it galls her that your father’s will didn’t stipulate you finding a husband. I don’t think you comprehend what you’ve let yourself in for.”