Free The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden Page B

man, stooped and weathered, near the front row of horses. Her eyes went again to the closed carriage door. The curtains were drawn. He had not yet emerged.
    Before she could think better of it, she took a deep breath and marched ten paces to grasp the door handle.
    “I wouldn’t do that, were I you, m’lady.” It was the coachman, another of her father’s hires.
    Giving the ash-haired, grim-eyed man a blink, she retorted, “Whyever not?”
    “In a bad way, he is. Seein’ visions and whatnot. Give him a day or two, he’ll come right.”
    Visions? Her stomach gave a peculiar clench. He must be much worse than I thought. “All the more reason to inquire after his well being.” She twisted the handle and pulled the door open.
    And nearly staggered at the smell.
    “I did warn you, m’lady. Drunkards what stop sudden-like suffer mightily for their sins, they do. Best to leave ’em be.”
    Wafts of trapped, sour air plumed from the interior, their source a hunched, shadowed figure leaning against one tufted wall. All she could see of him in the low light was grayish-white skin and dark clothing. But he trembled and panted in a way she had never seen, especially in someone as controlled as the devil-may-care Benedict Chatham.
    “Has he had anything to eat or drink?” she asked the coachman.
    The man rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t rightly know.”
    “Fetch my flask from the other carriage, if you please.”
    The stout, grim-faced servant stared at her like she had begun speaking French.
    “Now!”
    He nodded and obeyed.
    She turned back to her husband, who appeared to be suffering the agonies of the damned. He muttered nonsense beneath his breath. One lean hand gripped his walking stick so hard, the thing had begun to split. His other hand scraped his face then dropped to form a fist on the bench.
    “G-go away.” The normally silken voice was as broken as a tree struck by lightning.
    “Chatham,” she said calmly, turning her head a moment to breathe fresh air. “I am coming inside.”
    “No.”
    She ignored him, grasping the frame of the door and pulling herself up until she was bent in half, crouching beside her husband’s sprawled knees within the close interior. Good God, the smell was revolting—sour and pungent, as though he had vomited for hours and sweated for longer. Glancing around at red velvet and tufted leather, she could find no evidence of such fluids, but then it was dreadfully dim.
    “This what you wanted, m’lady?” Her flask was thrust past her waist by a meaty hand.
    “Yes, thank you.” She took the silver container and loosened the lid. “Chatham, you will drink this now, do you understand?”
    His head rocked back and forth. “Bloody red-haired witch. Trying to destroy me.” His breathing shuddered. The walking stick cracked loudly in his fist.
    She scooted closer, daring to perch on the bench beside him. Turquoise eyes tracked her movements, rolling and flaring like a startled horse as she carefully settled her gloved hand over the tight fist beside his thigh. Stroking his knuckles gently, she held his gaze and commanded, “Open for me.”
    “Witch,” he whispered.
    “Let me have your hand.” She pressed harder, prying at his fingers, finally managing to loosen them enough to curl her own fingers inside his grip. Pulling his hand up, she forced him to grasp the embossed metal, then cupped her hands around his and brought the spout to his mouth. “Drink, now. Go on.”
    Surprisingly, he did as she asked, closing pale lips around the oval flask’s opening and downing the entire contents in several long swallows. His breath hissed out as he finished, his eyes never leaving her face. “Not what I want.”
    Her mouth quirked. “Of that I am certain. But it is what you need.”
    Suddenly, the hand she held twisted and grabbed her wrist, yanking her closer so her shoulder pressed against his chest. She shoved to create more distance—he smelled appalling—and he