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  MESMERIZING THE MARQUIS

  Noah Haskett, the Marquis of Hesterton, is a recluse. His late brother's actions in battle have forced him to shy away from the ton. When the sole survivor of his brother's company begins speaking, Noah is lured out of hiding. But the answers he seeks are slow to come and it appears someone might be trying to kill him. Of course, being enchanted by a woman is not part of his plan and is making matters rather complicated.

  Miss Helen Craig has spent a lifetime hiding her ability to see the future. Despite her reluctance to accept her gift, she has also begun to have visions of the past. Concerned her gift may lead to madness, she volunteers at a hospital for the sick and insane in the hopes of learning how to avoid such a fate. But when an omen of death comes to her after an encounter with a sullen, brooding marquis, she is compelled to do something she's never done before: attempt to change the future.

  When the past and future collide, will love be enough to save them or will the sins of others be their doom?

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  MESMERIZING THE MARQUIS

  Copyright © 2018 Madeline Martin

  Excerpt from Kiss of the Grimoire copyright 2018 by Torie James

  Cover design by Victoria Miller

  Cover photo by Period Images

  Vector images by Zhaolifang on Vecteezy

  All rights reserved. The author has provided this book for personal use only. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For information, address Madeline Martin at http://madelinemartin.com

  Dedication

  To Erica Monroe –

  yes, I’m dedicating another book to you. You swooped in and saved the day on this story with your amazing copy edits, and you kept me sane with your fantastic humor. You’re always there for anything I need and I have so much less stress because of you. Thank you for all the years you add back onto my life.

  Chapter One

  June 1816

  Days like the one stretching before Noah Haskett, the third Marquis of Hesterton, served to commend the significant benefits of having become a recluse. A swallow of scotch burned down his throat while he stared at the broadsheets, aware that the hour declared it only just past morning. He didn’t care a fig for the hour. He cared only for the day, and its represented pain.

  His gaze swept first to The Times, the edition published a year prior. “Glory to Wellington, to our gallant Soldiers, and our brave Allies” had been printed in heavy text across its front page. Gallant soldiers, indeed. Noah made to pull another long swallow of scotch and found the glass empty.

  He placed it by the side of the offending paper with a thunk, and regarded the other set before him. The Times as well, this one dated nearly two weeks after the former. Its weight was more considerable, not only due to the extra paper the “lists” required, but with the impact of its purpose - the announcement of scores and scores of dead. Including Rupert’s name, stacked in a string of others, rendering nearly insignificant what was to Noah so very poignant.

  A rap came from the door to Noah’s study. He continued to stare at the inanimate pages. The rap sounded again, harder and with an obvious insistency.

  He pushed up from his chair, empty glass in hand. “Go away.”

  Noah’s butler, Bradly, spoke through the door. “Forgive me, sir, but—” A muffled argument cut him off. A woman’s voice, followed by the low murmured dispute from Bradly.

  Noah rolled his eyes, limped over to the decanter, and splashed a generous amount into the cut crystal.

  Maybe a bit more. He tipped the bottle.

  “Please. Sir, I—”

  The door flew open and in spilled both Bradly and a flounce of pink-sprigged, overly-ruffled ridiculousness. Noah eyed the lady who dared offend his privacy. He met eyes the same color blue as his own, hair the same auburn-hued brown. Her embarrassed smile in contrast to the scowl on his lips clearly marked his older sister most decidedly unlike him.

  “I knew you wouldn’t see me,” she offered with a not-so-apologetic huff. She patted a hand over her hair, smoothing what had never been out of place.

  “Apparently I shall have to train you in the art of restraining intruders.” Noah stabbed a glare at his butler.

  “As you will, sir.” Bradly closed the door in an obvious show of escape.

  The lucky devil.

  “You are well aware of why I’m here.” Nancy strode forward and plucked the glass from his hands. Liquid splashed over the rim and darkened the carpet below.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Noah reached for his glass. “And mind the carpet. I’m rather fond of it.”

  “I’m rather fond of you, yet I haven’t seen you for the better part of a year.” Her gaze flashed with the temper she’d always possessed. The temper he’d always delighted in goading, much to their governess’s chagrin. Nancy lifted the scotch in a mock salute. “You know exactly why I’m here. What day it is.”

  “It’s not the best time to visit me on the anniversary of our brother’s death.” Bitterness peeled the words up from Noah’s blackened mood.

  When she spoke again, Nancy’s tone was softer, the one she used for cajoling. “I’m going to his grave today, if you’d care to join me.” That explained the hideously cheerful selection of her attire. Nancy had always tried to offset sadness with joy in any way she could, be it an arrangement of flowers on the table, or a brilliantly colored gown and ribbons wound in her hair.

  “No.” He limped toward her and held his hand out for the return of his purloined cup.

  “You’ve had enough.” She drew his scotch further from his reach. “Please, join me. It’s Rupert, Noah. He would want you there.”

  “It’s not his grave,” Noah growled. “It’s empty.”

  And it was. The same as almost every other grave belonging to the dead soldiers of Waterloo. The men who had made the ultimate sacrifice to thwart Napoleon’s driving troops were honored with their bodies picked over for marketable souvenirs, deprived of not only their clothing, but even their teeth too. Their bodies had been burned in pyres and their ashes sold as fertilizer.

  There were some reports, many, he wished he hadn’t read. He refrained now from imparting such nightmares upon his sister’s more sensitive proclivities.

  “It’s all we have.” She gave him a sorrowful look before sweeping past him to the desk. “It’s been a year, but I can still find his name without hesitation.” One-handed on account of his purloined scotch, she flipped the large sheet open and pointed to a spot on the page. She might as well have jabbed that finger into his heart.

  Silence stretched between them, weighted with mutual mourning.

  Finally, she put his drink aside and sank into the overstuffed chair behind the desk with a long-suffering sigh she’d stolen from their governess. “He would not want you to be a recluse. Not with so many reasons for you to remain visible and interacting in society.”

  Noah snatched up his relinquished scotch. “You mean the vapid debutantes desperate to flatter an old cripple into marital submission, or the scathing gossip about Rupert?”

  Nancy lifted her head with a note of indignity that set the curls at her brow trembling. He’d prodded the bear mentioning age when she was older than him.

  “One and thirty is far from old,” she snapped. “And I didn’t mean the gossip.” Her ire faded at once and her shoulders relaxed in defeat. “Though it has mostly stopped. Almost no one mentions Rupert anymore.”

  Noah scoffed. Bloody hell they didn’t mention Rupert anymore. It was all the ton could talk about two months after Waterloo when the troops had returned and told their tales of glory. The way they had fought valiantly, and how Rupert had turned away in the thick of it as he fled from the enemy.

  The slander lit Noah’s blood like fire. Rupert had been exactly what a gentleman should be: athletic, charming, brave, assured, confident. Everything Noah was not. It was for that reason he had always looked up to his younger brother, and why he did not for one moment accept the claim that Rupert had died a coward.

  Nancy closed the paper and delicately tapped the crease smooth with the tip of her fingers to avoid smudging the ink. “That isn’t the only reason I’ve come today. There are two more.”

  Of course. Nancy was never about one task.

  “We are putting on a musical to highlight Penelope’s lovely voice and would appreciate you joining us.” Nancy got to her feet and held out her hands in an obvious attempt to stop the argument she invariably knew she’d get. “Please don’t say no. I am well aware of your hatred for social gatherings and the ton and the whole foppish nonsense of it all.” The last part she said in a gruff voice, imitating his scowl.

  Were he not in such a foul mood, he might grudgingly acknowledge it’d been a damn good imitation.

  “She ought to at least have one uncle present.” The cajoling tone again. And the guilt. Blast her for knowing him so bloody well.

  “Fine, I’ll go,” he growled in an agreement he already regretted. “And the last thing?”

  “There is one surviving member of Rupert’s company, a man by the name of Graston.”

  Noah stiffened. “How has this just now come about?”

  Nancy gav
e a noncommittal hum to his question in the annoying air of one with a secret held close enough to be the winning hand in a card game. “I figured you’d want to know.”

  “What does he say of Rupert?” He hated the question once it was out, not only for the show of doubt in his brother, but also out of fear for the answer.

  She made her way to the door. “Come to Rupert’s grave with me today and I’ll tell you the rest.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “That is extortion.”

  “I love you too.” She kissed the air and spun out of the room.

  There it was, through the exploitation of his driving curiosity, she’d twisted his arm into acquiescing to her wishes. After nearly a year, he would finally leave the house. And it better be damn well worth the effort.

  ***

  The most difficult part of Helen Craig’s life was trying to maintain the illusion of who she’d been before she began to go mad. So, when her Aunt Beatrice announced the day to be clear of rain and lovely enough for a walk, Helen had no choice but to forego the confined reprieve of the carriage and opt instead to face the possibility of dealing with her newly expanded ‘ability’.

  After all, Helen had always loved being outside. A small part of her craved it still. And yet, a greater part of her, the new, fractured part, went icy with dread.

  The summer had been unseasonably cold, and it was a right good thing indeed, or Helen might have found herself sweating to death in the thick leather of her winter gloves and coat. But she needed them. As a barrier.

  She swept down the front steps of her home on Park Lane and plastered a smile on her face that would rival the best actresses of the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Or so she hoped.

  Joyce, her trusted lady’s maid, walked behind her and Aunt Beatrice, a happy expression creasing the corners of her large brown eyes. “Isn’t it lovely?” Her narrow chest swelled with a deep inhale of cool air.

  Helen could not resist following suit. As the crisp freshness of the day filled her, a renewed sense of vigor charged her blood. She could do this. Truly.

  “It is.” Aunt Beatrice’s gaze settled pointedly on Helen. “It’s a fine day for getting out and exploring a bit.”

  Helen cast a long look back at her aunt, who was perfectly aware of what Helen had been battling. No doubt this exercise was part of her encouragement.

  In any event, the walk would be fine preparation prior to entering St. Thomas’s hospital, among all those people. So, so many people.

  Helen volunteered there several times a week in an attempt to get a better handle on her abilities, for they were slipping away from her control more quickly than she could grasp. For the entirety of her life that she could remember, she had been able to see the future of those she came into contact with. However, just over a year ago, their pasts had begun to show as well. No doubt brought on by the grief of losing her father.

  Seeing the past was not a gift as her aunt claimed. It was a curse. One which tangled past and future into her present and rendered her brain fogged with confusion. It was awful. Truly.

  It had been her hope that volunteering at St. Thomas’s with patients who were not always coherent, might enable her to get a better handle on them. Or at least gain control over her own emotions.

  Two men strode in her direction. She tensed, anticipating the possibility of the brush of impact and the slam of unwanted visions.

  “They aren’t boxers, and this is no ring,” Aunt Beatrice said under her breath.

  The men politely stepped aside and tipped their hats at Helen. She smiled weakly. Realizing she’d been perhaps rude with such scant attention to their consideration, she glanced back to offer a nod of thanks. Unfortunately, she happened to be looking at them as she did so and ran straight into another man.

  The careening force of the impact launched an image in her mind of small hands slipping a fat toad into a teacup before running off with a giggle. Immediately, this melted into another scene, a sinfully searing one of a woman wearing a lacy red bit of nothing, baring a naked leg.

  “Forgive me, my lady.” His baritone voice brought her back to the present, where she stood in the shade of a townhouse with Aunt Beatrice at her side and the corpulent man before her. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She could hardly stammer out the words. How embarrassing.

  He reached out to her, but she backed away from the contact. She’d seen enough of what was in his mind. “I was merely startled.” She waved her hand as though the incident had not been of any consequence.

  But it had been. Very much so.

  This blending of the past and the future was troubling.

  It had taken her years to control her reaction to the future. It was an odd thing, and certainly nothing she brought up in polite dinner conversation. Or ever. But at least it’d been manageable.

  It helped too that Aunt Beatrice possessed the same affliction. But while Aunt Beatrice was able to determine futures with her mind rather than by touch, she considered it to be more gift and less curse.

  “Are you well, my lady?” Joyce regarded Helen with concern etching lines of worry in her broad brow. “Shall I go back and have the carriage fetched?”

  It was on the prudent side of Helen’s tongue to accept the offer.

  “That isn’t necessary,” Aunt Beatrice replied for them both.

  “I agree,” Helen said brightly. “It’s far too beautiful to sequester ourselves.”

  “Are you certain, my lady?” Joyce said it slowly. No, not slowly. Warily.

  Drat.

  Helen mustered as much sparkle as she was able, even going as far as to give a little bounce on her toes. “Of course, and besides, if we took the carriage, it wouldn’t be as easy to stop by Hyde Park on our way to St. Thomas’s. It’s so lovely this time of day.”

  Aunt Beatrice’s subtle nod informed Helen she’d handled the situation well.

  Joyce’s doubt melted away with a grin. “We did leave a bit early. We’ll have plenty of time to stop and still arrive on time.”

  Helen avoided other people as they made their way to The Strand. Not that she wasn’t usually careful, but she wished to be doubly so after having just narrowly escaped Joyce’s notice. Drat and double drat. She had to get to the bottom of this mess, so her life could resume the normalcy she pretended it still held.

  As they neared the park, Helen found her mind occupied with the insignificant thought of what her tasks might bring her at St. Thomas’s when a clatter sounded from the opposite side of the street. She spun around with a start to find a man struggling to slow the horse pulling a carriage. It sped directly toward Joyce, without a hope of slowing.

  The maid gave a yelp of surprise. In the moment she did not move, Helen did, shoving her maid from the path of the runaway conveyance and unwittingly putting herself directly into the line of danger.

  Chapter Two

  Time tricked Helen as it seemed to decelerate to an impossibly slow crawl, and yet left no room for her to scramble to safety. No, she was at its mercy as the carriage barreled toward her at a fatal speed.

  An arm clasped about her waist and she was wrenched from where she stood. No sooner had she collided into a solid body, the carriage careened where she’d been and took a sharp turn, tipping slightly as the corner of the coach crashed against the building. Several crates bounced from within and cracked open on the ground to reveal oozing rivers of marmalade. Had she not been pulled free, she would have certainly been killed.

  Voices of concern welled around her, but they faded from her awareness as a vision took its place. Hands and ankles were bound by rope that bit into skin whenever wrenched. And wrenched against it they were, all efforts in vain. The bindings held fast. Something hard and cold jammed to the base of the skull. Unrecognizable, until the unmistakable metallic click sounded.

  A pistol.

  “Are you hurt?” A masculine voice shattered the powerful image.