The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (41 page)

Syphilis doesn’t always cause madness, but it can, and it can show up years after
the illness seems to have “gone away.” It was often called “the great imitator” because
of the varied paths the disease can take, which confused diagnosis in the days before
we knew about bacterial infections. Although the link between syphilis and madness
was only confirmed much later than the period depicted in my book, I figured that
some doctors would have to have noticed the connection, even if they couldn’t yet
prove it scientifically.

The quarantine situation is taken right out of the quarantine laws of the time. No
one was very sure about what or who needed to be quarantined, so they erred on the
side of caution. Then the merchants complained about it so much that the laws were
changed . . . and changed and changed. Eventually, the Privy Council really was given
the power to decide, which allowed for judgment calls to be made. I would imagine
there was more than one man of consequence who tried to persuade the Privy Council
to act in his favor!

Pocket Books proudly presents

’Twas the Night After Christmas

S
ABRINA
J
EFFRIES

Coming soon in paperback from Pocket Books

Turn the page for a preview of
’Twas the Night After Christmas
 . . .

N
O ONE HAD
called for him yet.

Eight-year-old Pierce Waverly, heir to the Earl of Devonmont, sat on his bed in the
upper hall of the Headmaster’s House at Harrow, where he’d lived for three months
with sixty other boys.

Today marked the beginning of his first holiday from Harrow; most of the other boys
had already been fetched by their families. His trunk was packed. He was ready.

But what if no one came? Would he have to stay at Harrow, alone in the Headmaster’s
House?

Mother and Father would come. Of
course
they would come. Why wouldn’t they?

Because Father thinks you’re a sickly weakling. That’s why he packed you off to school—to
“toughen you up.”

His chin quivered. He couldn’t help that he had asthma. He couldn’t help that he liked
it when Mother showed him how to play the pianoforte, which Father called “dandyish.”
And if he sometimes hid when Father wanted to
take him riding, it was only because Father always berated him for not doing it right.
Then Pierce would get so mad that he would say things Father called “insolent.” Or
worse, he’d start having trouble breathing and get panicky. Then Mother would have
to come and help him catch his breath, and Father
hated
that.

He scowled. All right, so perhaps Father
would
leave him to rot at school, but Mother wouldn’t. She missed him—he knew she did,
even if she didn’t write very often. And he missed her, too. A lot. She always knew
just what to do when the wheezing started.
She
didn’t think playing music was dandyish, and
she
said he was clever, not insolent. She made him laugh, even in her infrequent letters.
And if she didn’t come for him . . .

Tears welled in his eyes. Casting a furtive glance about him, he brushed them away
with his gloved fist.

“What a mollycoddle you are, crying for your parents,” sneered a voice behind him.

Devil take it. It was his sworn enemy, George Manton, heir to the Viscount Rathmoor.
Manton was five years older than Pierce. Nearly
all
the boys were older. And bigger. And stronger.

“I’m not crying,” Pierce said sullenly. “It’s dusty in here, is all.”

Manton snorted. “I suppose you’ll have one of your ‘attacks’ now. Don’t think I’ll
fall for that nonsense. If you start wheezing with
me,
I’ll kick the breath out of you. You’re a poor excuse for a Harrovian.”

At least I can spell the word. You couldn’t spell
arse
if it were engraved on your forehead.

Pierce knew better than to say that. The last time he’d spoken his mind, Manton had
knocked him flat.

“Well?” Manton said. “Have you nothing to say for yourself, you little pisser?”

You’re an overgrown chawbacon who picks on lads half your size because your brain
is half-size.

Couldn’t say that one, either. “Looks like your servant’s here.” Pierce nodded at
the door. “Shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Manton glanced to where the footman wearing Rathmoor livery stoically pretended not
to notice anything. “I’ll keep him waiting as long as I damned well please. I’m the
heir—I can do whatever I want.”

“I’m the heir, too, you know.” Pierce thrust out his chest. “And your father is just
a viscount;
mine’s
an earl.”

When Manton narrowed his gaze, Pierce cursed his quick tongue. He knew better than
to poke the bear, but Manton made him so angry.

“A fat lot of good that did you,” Manton shot back. “You’re a pitiful excuse for an
earl’s son. That’s what comes of mixing foreign stock with good English stock. I daresay
your father now wishes he hadn’t been taken in by your mother.”

“He wasn’t!” Pierce cried, jumping to his feet. The glint of satisfaction in Manton’s
eyes told Pierce he shouldn’t have reacted. Manton always pounced when he smelled
blood. But Pierce didn’t care. “And she’s only half-foreign. Grandfather Gilchrist
was a peer!”

“A penniless one,” Manton taunted. “I don’t know what your father saw in a poor baron’s
daughter, though I guess we both know what she saw in
him
—all that money and the chance to be a countess. She latched onto that quick enough.”

Pierce shoved him hard. “You shut up about my mother! You don’t know anything! Shut
up, shut up, shut—”

Manton boxed Pierce’s ears hard enough to make
him
shut up. Pierce stood there, stunned, trying to catch his bearings. Before he could
launch himself at Manton again, the servant intervened.

“Perhaps we should go, sir,” the footman said nervously. “The headmaster is coming.”

That was apparently enough to give Manton pause. And Pierce, too. He stood there breathing
hard, itching to fight, but if he got into trouble with the headmaster, Father would
never forgive him.

“Aren’t you lucky?” Manton drawled. “We’ll have to continue this upon our return.”

“I can’t wait!” Pierce spat as the servant ushered Manton from the room.

He would probably regret that after the holiday, but for now he was glad he’d stood
up to Manton. How dare the bloody bastard say such nasty things about Mother? They
weren’t true! Mother wasn’t like that.

The headmaster appeared in the doorway accompanied by a house servant. “Master Waverly,
your cousin is here for you. Come along.”

With no more explanation than that, the headmaster hurried out, leaving the servant
to heft Pierce’s trunk and head off.

Pierce followed the servant down the stairs in a daze. Cousin? What cousin? He had
cousins, to be sure, but he never saw them.

Father himself had no brothers or sisters; indeed, no parents since Grandmother died.
He did have an uncle who was a general in the cavalry, but Great-Uncle Isaac Waverly
was still fighting abroad.

Mother’s parents had been dead for a few years, and she had no siblings, either. Pierce
had met her second cousin at Grandfather Gilchrist’s funeral, but Father had been
so mean to the man one time at Montcliff—the Waverly family estate—that he’d left
in a huff. Father didn’t seem to like Mother’s family much. So the cousin who was
here probably wasn’t one of Mother’s.

Pierce was still puzzling out who it could be when he caught sight of a man at least
as old as Father. Oh. Great-Uncle Isaac’s son. Pierce vaguely remembered having met
Mr. Titus Waverly last year at Grandmother’s funeral.

“Where’s Mother?” Pierce demanded. “Where’s Father?”

Mr. Waverly cast him a kind smile. “I’ll explain in the carriage,” he said, then herded
Pierce out the door. A servant was already lifting Pierce’s trunk onto the top and
lashing it down with rope.

Pierce’s stomach sank. That didn’t sound good. Why would Mother and Father send a
relation to pick him up at school? Had something awful happened?

As soon as they were headed off in the carriage, Mr. Waverly said, “Would you like
something to eat? Mrs. Waverly sent along a nice damson tart for you.”

Pierce liked damson tarts, but he had to figure out what was going on. “Why did you
come to fetch me home? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing like that.” Mr. Waverly’s smile became forced. “But we’re not going to
Montcliff.”

A slow panic built in his chest. “Then where are we going?”

“To Waverly Farm.” He spoke in that determinedly cheery voice adults always used when
preparing you for something you wouldn’t like. “You’re to spend your holiday with
us. Isn’t that grand? You’ll have a fine time riding our horses, I promise you.”

His panic intensified. “You mean, my whole family is visiting at Waverly Farm, right?”

The sudden softness in his cousin’s eyes felt like pity. “I’m afraid not. Your father . . .
thinks it best that you stay with us this holiday. Your mother agrees, as do I.” His
gaze chilled. “From what I gather, you’ll have a better time at Waverly Farm than
at Montcliff, anyway.”

“Only because Father is a cold and heartless arse,” Pierce mumbled.

Oh, God, he shouldn’t have said that aloud, not to Father’s own cousin.

He braced for a lecture, but Mr. Waverly merely laughed. “Indeed. I’m afraid it often
goes along with the title.”

The frank remark drew Pierce’s reluctant admiration. He preferred honesty when he
could get it, especially from adults. So he settled back against the seat and took
the time to examine the cousin he barely knew.

Titus Waverly looked nothing like Father, who was dark-haired and sharp-featured and
aristocratic. Mr. Waverly was blond and round-faced, with a muscular, robust look
to him, as if he spent lots of time in the sun. Pierce remembered now that his cousin
owned a big stud farm with racing stock.

Most boys would be thrilled to spend their holiday in such a place, but Pierce’s asthma
made him less than eager. Or perhaps Manton was right, and he really was a mollycoddle.

“So I’m to stay with you and Mrs. Waverly for the whole holiday?” Pierce asked.

The man nodded. “I have a little boy of my own. Roger is five. You can play together.”

With difficulty, Pierce contained a snort. Five was practically still a baby. “Are
Mother and Father not coming to visit
at all
?” He wanted to be clear on that.

“No, lad. I’m afraid not.”

Pierce swallowed hard. He was trying to be strong, but he hadn’t really expected not
to see them. It made no sense. Unless . . . “Is it because of something I did when
I was still at home?”

“Certainly not! Your father merely thinks it will be good for you to be at the farm
right now.”

That made a horrible sort of sense. “He wants me to be more like the chaps at school,”
Pierce said glumly, “good at riding and shooting and things like that.” He slanted
an uncertain glance up at his cousin. “Is that what he wants you to do? Toughen me
up?”

His cousin blinked, then laughed. “Your mother did say you were forthright.”

Yes, and it had probably gotten him banished from Montcliff. Perhaps it would get
him banished from Waverly Farm, too, and then his cousin would
have
to send him home. “Well, I don’t like horses, and I don’t like little children, and
I don’t want to go to Waverly Farm.”

“I see.” Mr. Waverly softened his tone. “I can’t change the arrangement now, so I’m
afraid you’ll have to make the best of it. Tell me what you
do
like. Fishing? Playing cards?”

Pierce crossed his arms over his chest. “I like being at home.”

Settling back against the seat, Mr. Waverly cast him an assessing glance. “I’m sorry,
you can’t right now.”