The Birth of Blue Satan by Patricia Wynn Page A

Fitzsimmons family has a violent temper. And he said it would get them into trouble one day.”
    No one could have missed the implication. St. Mars had argued with his father about his plans to marry Isabella, and in a fit of temper he had killed his father. Hester would not be surprised if the reason for their quarrel was just that. Isabella would not be the choice a man as powerful as Lord Hawkhurst would make for his son. Her portion was much too small.
    But her aunt would never admit that any such considerations should be made when it came to her daughter.
    Apparently St. Mars had ignored his father’s objections, for he had clearly been intent on pursuing her the night of the ball. He must love Isabella very much. But would he have continued to love her in the face of his father’s disapproval? They would never know.
    “Well,” Mrs. Mayfield said, and something in her shrug caused Hester a twinge of anxiety, “I’m sure I do not know what to make of it all. All I do know is that St. Mars was in a very queer frame when he arrived at Lord Eppington’s ball. He nearly bit my head off when I made a polite inquiry after his papa. It struck me as queer at the time for wherever I go, I am usually treated with the greatest respect. I remember wondering how he could be so intemperate with Isabella’s mama. He has been quite wild for her, you know.”
    Hester had to bite her tongue. She looked up from her stitch and poked the needle into her thumb.
    One of their other visitors asked Isabella, “Did you notice anything odd about him, my dear?”
    “No.” Nibbling on a piece of cake, Isabella shook her head—truthful, at least, if unconcerned. “Not until that man took him by the arm and I saw his blood. That made me scream.”
    “She didn’t notice, naughty puss,” her mother inserted quickly, “because she was busy dancing with so many fine gentlemen. But I am certain she would have noticed that there was something wrong had she not been so distracted.”
    Hester thought it very unlikely. Isabella seldom noticed anything but her own pleasure. Certainly no one but herself had noticed St. Mars’s fever.
    She wished she could make that point, and she was wondering how she could do so without appearing to be particular, when a lady whose daughter had been named maid of honour to the Princess of Wales asked Mrs. Mayfield, “What did you notice?”
    For a moment Mrs. Mayfield was stumped. She had not had time to think of a credible lie.
    “St. Mars didn’t want me to dance with anyone else,” Isabella offered unexpectedly.
    This made the ladies glance around at one another. “Do you mean he was jealous, dear? Did he threaten you at all?”
    Hester could not keep from snorting, though her snort went completely ignored.
    Isabella seemed unsure. “No,” she finally said on a drawn-out note. “I wouldn’t say that he was threatening. He just seemed so serious, and I could tell that he wanted me all to himself.”
    Beneath the ladies’ painted faces, Hester detected a cold, silent waft of suspicion. She sensed an uneasiness so deep, it threatened the very ground on which they stood. No one wanted to be the first to point an accusing finger at a peer, but the notion that violence in its most heinous form might have infected one of their rank had them examining their neighbours with barely-disguised fear. The security of their class rested firmly on the keeping of the King’s peace. The aristocracy must always be above the sins of the rabble. This sort of violence must never be seen to spread.
    If Hester had possessed the smallest degree of influence, she would have used it at once to quell their gossip. Dismayed, she found no opportunity to broach the subject until the next day when she was sitting with Mrs. Mayfield and Isabella in the back parlour. Then, she urged them both to demonstrate their faith in St. Mars.
    Mrs. Mayfield took immediate exception to her suggestion. “I do not see that my Lord St. Mars’s