The Decadent Duke (20 page)

John, who slept naked, grabbed a dressing gown and followed the servant downstairs.

The courier stood in the entrance hall, stamping his feet. “My lord, I bring an urgent message from the Marchioness of Bath.”

“Come in here man, and get warm.” John took the letter and led the way into the drawing room, where the footman had replenished the fire and lit the lamps. John poured the messenger a whiskey.

He broke the wax seal, took the note from the envelope, and held it beneath the lamp.

 
“My wife suffers from ill health. I will go immediately. The note is brief. Can you tell me anything more?”

“The doctor's been twice. That's all I know, my lord.”

“I'll take my carriage. You can leave your horse in the stables.” He spoke to the footman. “While I pack a bag, will you kindly see that this good fellow gets something to eat?”

 
John decided he would make better time if he drove his phaeton, and before he reached Richmond, the messenger was sound asleep. Though he stopped only to water and rest his horses and grab a bite to eat at an inn in Basingstoke, it took all day to get to Longleat House in Warminster.

On the long drive, he'd had lots of time to ponder what Isabelle meant when she had said the situation was dire. He knew from experience his wife often warned of impending danger, and the dark portents of doom and imminent catastrophe might well seem dire to someone who'd not been exposed to Elizabeth's ravings.

John hoped that her illness was nothing serious. He felt confident that if it were just a manifestation of his wife's melancholia, he would be able to soothe her and calm her fears. Most likely her sister Isabelle wanted to be rid of her and had summoned him for that purpose.

Longleat was a magnificent Tudor house, far more impressive than many castles. John turned over his team of grays to a stableman and asked him to give them a good rubdown.

The majordomo took his caped greatcoat and led him down a long hall to the Marchioness of Bath's private sitting room.

“Thank the Lord you came.” Isabelle clutched her hands together tightly. Her face was a mask that told him nothing.

“Tell me what has happened.”

He heard a cry, and for the first time became aware that his wife's other sister, Lucy, was in the room. When Lady Bradford covered her face with her hands and began to sob, John became anxious. “Take me to Elizabeth.”

“I cannot go and see her again,” Lucy moaned.

John's anxiety turned to alarm.

Isabelle did not look him in the eye. “Come with me, John.” She led him to the main staircase and they ascended to the second floor. She opened the door to a guest bedchamber and allowed him to enter before her.

John strode across to the bed, where his wife lay still with closed eyes. “Elizabeth.” He knelt down and reached out to touch her. For a moment, he thought his wife was dead. Though lifeless, however, her flesh was still warm. He stared up at Isabelle, trying to control his anger. “She's unconscious. How long has she been like this?”

“Yes, I know. When I could not awaken her, I sent for you immediately.”

“When did this happen?” he demanded.
“How
did this happen?” He got to his feet and stared down at Elizabeth, imagining he was seeing her corpse.

“We had been in Bath for a week, taking the waters. Sadly, the cure did not help her condition. She fainted early yesterday, and I summoned my doctor. We put her to bed, and he gave her some medicine. At dinnertime she could not be roused, so I sent again for the doctor. When he arrived, he said there was nothing he could do—that she would regain consciousness on her own, or not,” she finished ominously. “Dr. Neville ordered me to send for you immediately.”

John's eyes fell on the brown bottle on the bedside table. “What medicine did he give her?” he demanded.

“Elizabeth asked him for laudanum. She said it was the only medicine that eased the painful symptoms of her consumption and allowed her to sleep.”

“My wife does not have consumption! She has an addiction to laudanum. It is an opiate. That is what has almost killed her!”

“How
dare
you accuse my sister of such a wicked thing? I am outraged that you would even
insinuate
that she has an addiction.” Isabelle's face registered horror, and she moved toward the door. “I shall leave you with your wife, so you may beg her forgiveness.”

John stepped back to the bed and stared down at Elizabeth. “I do need to ask your forgiveness—for not being more vigilant. I should have weaned you from your addiction.V He felt anger at himself, his wife, her sister Isabelle, and the doctor. All were to blame that his sons had almost lost their mother.

Angrily, he tore back the bedclothes and hauled his wife's torso up over his shoulder. He secured her body with a powerful arm across the back of her thighs. Her head and arms hung limply down his back. John strode to the door, flung it open, and marched down the hallway until he came to a bathing chamber. He went inside and slammed the door closed with his foot.

He lowered his wife to the floor and bent down to turn the tap and fill the bathing tub with water. He paid little heed to regulating the temperature of the water, reasoning that if it were cold enough, it might shock her back to consciousness.

When he gauged that the water was deep enough, he picked up Elizabeth with ungentle hands and submerged her. When there was no response, he pulled her head above water quickly. He cursed vilely and plunged her under once again. Still nothing. Her head flopped to one side, resting on her shoulder.

The third time he pushed her beneath the surface, she began to cough. He raised her head from the water and slapped her face. When she coughed again, he bent her forward and, with the flat of his hand, hit her sharply on the back three or four times.

She moaned, her eyes fluttered open, and then closed again.

“You pathetic bitch—wake up!V he shouted. John cupped his palm about her cheek, then gave it half a dozen sharp slaps. He moved his hand to the opposite cheek and repeated the action.

Elizabeth gasped and moaned again.

“Can you hear me?” he thundered. “Can you hear me, Elizabeth?”

Her eyes opened to half slits, and she slowly nodded her head.

John took hold of her shoulders and he shook her. “Don't you dare go back to sleep. Speak to me!” he ordered.

“Don't ... hurt ... me,” she begged weakly. “You are hurting yourself, you stupid creature!”
Easy, John. If you don't control your anger, all hell will break loose.

“Don't ... drown ... me.” She clutched at his hands.

“I ought to drown you,” he muttered. He lifted her from the water and tried to stand her on her feet. Her knees buckled and her body sagged against him. He tore off her soaking-wet nightgown and lifted her naked in his arms.

John carried her back to her bedchamber and again slammed the door shut with his foot. He sat her in a satin-upholstered bedroom chair and ordered, “Sit up, damn you—don't slump over.” He went to the washstand and found a jug of water. It was for washing, but at the moment he didn't give a damn for niceties.

He poured a glass and held it to her lips. “Drink”

He saw her eyelids close and she nodded off.

He dashed the water in her face and she spluttered awake.

He poured another glass, put it to her lips, and this time forced her to drink. “We have to wash it from your system.”

John was so adamant, she had no choice but to obey him. He looked down at her straggling, wet hair and rail-thin body with distaste.
I don't want her. Why in Christ's name am I trying to save her?

It took him the better part of four hours to get four glasses of water into her. Now, long after midnight, she was hissing and spitting, and wide-awake. She was also ready for a fight. And John was willing to oblige.

“You are a brutal swine!”

“I kept you clean of your filthy poison for a month. I hoped a sojourn in Bath with your sister would help you to overcome your addiction. But, as always where you are concerned, my hopes were in vain.”

“You won't be happy until you have killed me!” she screeched.

“In your soporific state, it wouldn't take much.”

“I hate you! I hate you!”Elizabeth cried.

“Hate is often a two-way street, madam.”

“You are so dominant and controlling, you wield a heavy hand, overruling all my wishes.” She flung the accusation dramatically.

“Truth be told, Elizabeth, you are the one who manipulates and controls with your addiction to opium.”

“You make my life unbearable!” she screamed.

“You make my life hell on earth.” Suddenly John realized what he must sound like. Not only would his wife's sisters be able to hear him, but also Longleat's large staff of servants would be privy to this vicious quarrel.

John went to the bureau, took out a clean nightdress, and went to put it on his wife.

“Don't touch me!” she cried in a screeching voice.

“Believe me, to touch you is almost more than I can stomach.” He pushed her arms through the sleeves and pulled it down over her naked body. Then he turned on his heel and left the chamber. Because of his anger, he crashed the door closed.

John sought a bedchamber a few rooms away down the hall. He flung himself into a chair, far too overwrought to lie down on the bed. He leaned his head back in an effort to calm himself. In a couple of hours it would be dawn, and he would have to start his vigilance all over again.

 
In her own bedchamber, the horrified Marchioness of Bath lay rigid in her bed. She had heard Elizabeth accuse her husband of trying to drown her. Heard her cries and moans. Heard angry voices quarrelling. Heard crashes and bangs. It sounded as if John and Elizabeth were killing each other. Isabelle kept her distance from the combatants for fear of becoming embroiled in the horrendous situation.

John roused from a dreamless sleep when a maid knocked on his door. He brushed the hair back from his forehead. “Yes?”

“I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord, but I have knocked on your wife's door several times, and there is no answer.”

He rose from the chair and opened the door. “Thank you. I will look after her,” he said quietly.

The housemaid followed his footsteps down the hall. John strode across to the bed, where his wife lay still with closed eyes. “Elizabeth.” He knelt down and reached out to touch her. She was cold and stiff and lifeless. “Good God, my wife is dead!” he said with stunned disbelief.

The maid gasped and threw her apron over her face. “I'll tell her ladyship we'll need the doctor!”

John stared down at Elizabeth's corpse, trying to comprehend. He instinctively glanced at the bedside table, where another brown bottle sat. He picked it up and found it empty. “Christ!”

Isabelle came hurrying to the door, but stopped on the threshold. “Can it be true? Is she . . . ?” She looked at John with accusing eyes. “May God forgive you!”

He stared down at Elizabeth, his brain trying to grasp the fact that she was really dead. He tried to gauge how much time had elapsed since he left her spitting and screaming. He knew it could be only two hours, no more than three.
She killed herself!
Whether it was deliberate or accidental, he could only guess.

“I've sent for the doctor!” Isabelle informed him sharply.

John looked up in time to see her disappear. Again he stared down at his wife. Her fair hair had dried in delicate wisps about her face.
She looks like an angel.

He paced the room as it sank in that his wife and the mother of his children was dead. He put a clamp on his emotions and began to make a mental list of the necessary arrangements he would need to plan. The Russell family church and burial place were at Chenies, a few miles from Woburn. It would be a private funeral for family members only. He paced to the window and gazed out at the gardens with unseeing eyes.

After some time had elapsed, a knock brought him back to the present. Dr. Neville entered and approached the bed. John saw him feel for a pulse, but knew he would find none.

“I offer my condolences, Lord Tavistock.” He reached into his bag. "I will make out the death certificate. If it is any consolation, your wife passed away most peacefully.”

Apparently you haven't been told of our vicious quarrel.
Dr. Neville handed John the death certificate.

“You have the cause of death as consumption. My wife did not have consumption, Dr. Neville. She had acute melancholia and an addiction to the laudanum that you supplied,” he said bluntly.

“Since this tragedy has happened at Longleat, it will be far more circumspect for the Marchioness of Bath if the official cause of her sister's death is consumption.”

“I don't give a damn about the Marchioness of Bath. I'm not the sort of man who covers the truth with lies because the facts are inconvenient. You cannot invent an illness to save face.”

“The situation is delicate, my lord. An overdose could be construed as suicide by those prone to gossip, or even something far more sinister.”