Beatrice knew of the man. Both of his parents were dead, and he’d taken it upon himself to care for his younger brother. Though Mr. Sinclair was undoubtedly a man of poor means, she hoped he possessed discretion.
“Absolutely not,” Charlotte interjected. “Ladies do not engage in commerce. It is uncivilized.”
“So is starving to death,” Margaret countered coldly.
That such words could come out of her daughter’s mouth was appalling. Beatrice stood up, moving between them. “It’s not that bad, truly. Margaret, you should be ashamed of yourself for speaking in such a way.”
A rise of color came over the girl’s cheeks. “I apologize for speaking too plainly, then. But I promise you, we’ve done nothing to risk our family’s reputation. I would never dream of it.”
“It only takes one person’s idle conversation to bring down a good name,” Charlotte warned.
Beatrice agreed with her sister. The girls could not endanger their futures by taking such a risk. “I am grateful that you and Victoria were so resourceful, Margaret, but truly, I cannot condone this. You will not sell garments to Madame Benedict again.”
Her daughter looked as if she wanted to argue, but when she caught sight of her aunt, she stifled the words. Beatrice pressed the reticule back into her daughter’s hands. “Hold on to this for now. And dearest”—she took Margaret’s hands in hers—“thank you for trying. It was thoughtful of you.”
Though she murmured the expected apology, Margaret didn’t look at all satisfied when she left the room. After the door closed, Beatrice turned back to her sister, feeling small and slight. “I didn’t realize they knew.”
“They’re your daughters. Of course they know.” Charlotte folded her hands in her lap. “And although their actions were ill-advised, their hearts were in the right place.”
She believed that. Though she might not have given her daughters a life of wealth and privilege, she’d always made it clear that she loved them.
Her sister was staring at her with a curious look. “When was the last time you had a letter from Henry?”
“I can’t remember,” she lied. It had been seventy-nine days, to be precise. He’d sent her a terse letter asking about the sheep. The sheep, for God’s sake. Not about their daughters or about her. He’d wanted to know how the livestock were faring. And didn’t that just speak volumes for their marriage?
“Beatrice, may I broach a delicate subject?”
Though she nodded, she wasn’t at all certain this would be a good conversation.
“I’d like you to be measured for a new gown yourself,” Charlotte said. “You may be married, but it’s no excuse to ignore your own appearance.”
Her cheeks burned brighter at the accusation. “But I haven’t.”
“How old is the dress you’re wearing, then? I’ll wager it’s more than five years old.”
“Ten,” Beatrice admitted. “But it’s good enough for me. It’s not as if I’m trying to win a husband.”
“You don’t want to embarrass your daughters tomorrow, do you?” her sister chided. Beatrice glanced down at the green gown she was wearing. The color had once been as bright as an emerald, but it now resembled moss. The hem was peppered with tiny holes that were easily visible, but she’d never paid any heed to it, for how many people would actually stare at the hemline?
She was about to suggest that she borrow one of Charlotte’s, but then, she’d grown thinner over the past three years until this gown hung upon her shoulders. Her sister had generous curves, and there was no chance that any of her clothing would fit.
Charlotte sent her a sympathetic look. “Let us go and talk with Madame Benedict, at least. She may have some suggestions. Or perhaps you should keep the funds that Margaret procured. Just this once.”
Her cheeks were heated with embarrassment, for Beatrice knew her sister was right. It had been years since she’d ordered a gown for herself.
“You’ve grown so thin,” her sister said. “Now that you’re here, you should look after your own health. Try to put some flesh back on these bones. When he comes home, Henry will see how beautiful you are.”
The thought took root within her mind. Henry had never seemed to notice anything about her appearance. She’d stopped making any effort, for it hardly mattered to him. But over those years, she’d lost herself. She no longer remembered what it was to feel pretty.
“Yes,” she heard herself saying. “I’d like that very much.”
Margaret walked downstairs, her thoughts torn apart with elation and dread. So much money. She’d never dreamed of it, and yet it was appalling what they’d done. If anyone found out, it would ruin them.
And yet… the sale of the red corset had been more money than the last three gowns put together.
Her sister Amelia had penned a note, explaining to Madame Benedict that the undergarments were part of an exclusive collection, only to be sold at the highest price. She’d even invented the name: Aphrodite’s Unmentionables.
Personally, Margaret thought the corset was the most wicked garment she’d ever seen. It made a woman’s breasts bigger. And if that wasn’t scandalous enough, it was a shade of red that a harlot might wear. Not that she’d ever met any harlots, but she imagined it would appeal to them.
She entered the drawing room, her posture straight as she sank into a chair to think. Covering her face with her hands, she wondered what on earth she was going to do about this. Amelia would be thrilled by the amount of money, as would Juliette. Given their financial state, she saw little choice but to continue their secret sales.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye before I go?” came a low male voice.
Instantly, her spine stiffened, and Margaret stared over at the drapes. The nerve of that man. She thought he’d gone by now. There was no man she despised more than Cain Sinclair. If anyone was the Devil come down to Earth, it was he. He never seemed to care about manners and propriety. In fact, he appeared to enjoy making her blush. Sometimes she wished he would simply go away… but then, they needed him to deliver and sell the garments. He was a necessary evil.
“Mr. Sinclair, you have been most helpful in your services,” she said calmly. “I must ask you to return to Ballaloch and deliver the fabric you acquired. Victoria will give you more garments to sell within a fortnight.” She pointed to the reticule of coins, which she’d set upon a nearby table. “I presume you have collected your payment already.”
He inclined his head. “You can count the sum if you don’t believe me.” He emerged from behind the drapes, leaning one hand against the wall, sending her a lazy smile.
His black hair hung down to the middle of his back, as if he didn’t care enough to cut it. He was uncommonly tall, and though he wore clothes that were worn down and discolored from years of use, it did nothing to diminish his looks. The look on his face held the promise of sin, and she wasn’t about to take a bite from that apple.
“You ken why I’m helping you, don’t you?” he said, coming closer.
She gazed frantically behind her, wondering if anyone would see them. “B-because of the money. You’re well paid for what you do.”
“That’s one reason. Can’t you guess the other?” He took another step closer, resting his hands on the top of a chair.
Oh, she knew the reason well enough. Not that she wanted anything to do with him. Margaret lifted her chin. “You may keep your reasons to yourself, Mr. Sinclair. I have no need of them.”
He was watching her intently, and her cheeks burned beneath his gaze. No matter that she’d told him, time and again, that she had no interest in a man like him… he kept returning. Watching her with those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see beneath her skin. His strong jaw and firm mouth caught her attention, along with the knowing smile. The room was closing in, and he moved in abruptly until she stood before him, her face directly in front of his chest.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, lass,” he said. “I saw the corset.”
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br /> “It w-will only be the one garment,” she stammered. “Mostly dresses.”
“Not anymore.” His hand came out to capture the back of her neck, and a liquid column of heat poured down her spine at his touch. She tried to pull back, but he held her captive. There was only a hand’s distance between them, and the air tightened in her lungs. Like a wild Highlander, he towered over her. When he spoke, his breath warmed her skin. “Your sister caused a sensation. She’ll have to make more of them, in many different colors.”
“She never should have sewn such a garment. I-I’ll speak with her about it and tell her so.”
“Don’t be spoiling her triumph with your prim ideas, Miss Andrews. You don’t even ken what that corset was for, do you?”
She tried to move away from him, but his hand threaded into her hair, loosening her topknot. “You shouldn’t speak of such things.”
“It’s for a man to look at. A lover or a husband.” His voice dropped to a deep baritone. “A man who is wanting tae watch her take it off.”
She moved far away from him, pointing toward the door. “Take your money and go, Mr. Sinclair. Our business here is finished.”
But the cocky smile he sent her said that he was far from finished.
To Jonathan’s great surprise, he wasn’t dead.
He grimaced against the pounding headache, and his mouth tasted as if it were stuffed with cotton. Dying sounded like a marvelous escape at the moment. He struggled to open his eyes, and his hands brushed against something soft.
It was a Herculean effort to turn his head, but when he opened his eyes, he saw Victoria sleeping with her head beneath his hand. Her sewing had fallen to the floor, and it looked as if she’d laid her head down for a moment and dozed off.
From this close view, he glimpsed a delicate nose and high cheekbones. Her blond hair had darker streaks in it, almost as if her locks couldn’t decide whether to be golden or brown and had settled on both.
But it was her mouth that fascinated him. The top lip was slightly smaller than the bottom, like a rosebud. He imagined taking command of that mouth, coaxing it to open for him. Victoria’s innocent shyness allured him, making him wonder what secrets lay beneath. The scent of her skin and the warmth of her body were a far greater distraction than the bullet wound he’d suffered.
As if in answer to his daydream, she snuggled closer, her hand moving up to his chest as if she wanted him to protect her. His hand slid against her silken hair, caressing the side of her face. Her cheek was warm, her eyes closed like a dormant bloom.
The gown she’d worn was the color of London fog, a shade of gray unflattering on most women. But instead of dispelling his interest in Victoria, it only intrigued him more. She was nothing like the women he’d known, those who obsessed over the latest fashions and jewels. There were no pearls or rings upon these fingers. From his vantage point, he could see the work-roughened fingers that had labored with a needle. She was utterly unsuitable for a man like him.
Perhaps that was why he liked her.
She’d kept her promise to stay at his side, despite how improper it was. And knowing she was there had made the night more bearable.
Miss Andrews had a steadiness of nerve that defied all expectations. An intelligence he admired. And she’d weathered his bad temper with a sharp tongue of her own, sewing him up with pink thread.
His thumb grazed Victoria’s temple, waiting for those gray eyes to open. It surprised him that she didn’t move when he touched her. His hand stilled, for he realized just what he was doing—taking advantage of her during her sleep. If those gray eyes opened, he’d see her fear and embarrassment.
For whatever unknown reason, he didn’t want her to be afraid of him. He removed his hand from her hair and coughed. She didn’t move, and he realized that she was truly in a sound sleep.
“Miss Andrews,” he said, nudging her head. He must’ve nudged too hard, for she slipped off the edge of the mattress and landed facedown on the carpet.
He winced at that, for he’d not intended to hurt her.
“Ouch,” she groaned. She managed to stand up, rubbing her nose as she sat back down. “I must have fallen asleep and tumbled out of the chair.”
Now was probably not the time to tell her that she’d slept beside him, her face burrowed against his chest. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded with a sheepish smile. “Aside from my wounded pride.” With a blush in her cheeks, she added, “How is your leg this morning?”
He decided to be honest. “It hurts. I’m wishing I had that pain medicine now, because it’s worse today than yesterday.”
“Are you still feverish?” Her hand came out to his forehead, but she stopped before she touched him.
In answer, he took her hand and brought it to his forehead. The cool touch of her fingers on his skin was a relief, and he lay back, closing his eyes.
“The fever hasn’t broken,” she said, her hand moving across his forehead, inadvertently stroking his hair. “You need medicine and more rest.”
“I can’t sleep when my leg feels like it’s been butchered.” He eyed her.
“Do you want me to see if there’s any laudanum?” She stood from the chair, seemingly grateful for a reason to leave. He didn’t want her to. It was bad enough with his leg aching, but worse to be left alone with only four walls to stare at.
“Go and find out what happened to the woman,” he bade her, not answering the question. His leg was killing him, but when he thought of the burned woman, he was haunted by his mother’s face. It was his fault Catherine Nottoway had died. He’d been unable to save her, and no matter how he tried to atone for her death, the guilt plagued him still.
Nothing he did would bring her back. All he could do was continue to build his fortune, to somehow prove that he was worth more than his father had believed. Money meant everything to the ton. Once he’d built a fortune beyond all imaginings, it would eventually eradicate the shame upon his family’s name. The power of wealth would drown out the whispers of scandal, silencing anyone who dared to point a finger at him.
It was all he had left.
Before Miss Andrews could depart, the housekeeper returned with a covered plate. Her face was grim, her eyes red-rimmed. Without a word, she took down all the portraits in the room and opened a window.
“It’s freezing outside,” he started to protest.
“And ye want to stay here with spirits of the dead lingering, do ye?” She moved to the other window and forced it open, letting snow blow inside.
But it was Miss Andrews’s reaction that caught his attention. She moved as far away from the windows as possible, blurting out, “I have to go.” The sound of footsteps resounded upon the stairs as she fled.
Yet, the housekeeper didn’t seem at all surprised. “We’ll wait a few minutes and then when the spirits have gone, I’ll close the windows. Miss Andrews will be comin’ back then, sure enough. In the meantime, Dr. Fraser took the puir dead woman’s body out to the barn for the laying out. Her family will be with her to grieve.”
Despite the frigid air blowing inside, the housekeeper set down the food on a chair beside him and sprinkled the chair with droplets of water. “I’ve made porridge for ye, and some toast.”
Jonathan lifted the cover and saw an iron nail embedded in the toast. “And what’s this for? Were you hoping I might swallow it?”
“Don’t be foolish, lad. It’s to keep death from entering.” The housekeeper walked over to the grandfather clock and stopped the pendulum. “There won’t be any milk today, either, for I’ve poured it all out.” She brushed her hands against her apron and then went back to close the windows.
“Do you truly believe in such nonsense?” he asked.
“Well, I’m not dead yet, am I? It’s working, isn’t it?”
Jonathan removed the nail from his toast and set it aside. “I suppose.”
Lowering her voice to a whisper, the housekeeper added, “I put a wee dram of lauda
num in that tea. The doctor won’t miss it, nor will the others.”
Gratefully, he reached for the tea and drank it, ignoring the bitter flavor. Mrs. Larson departed, and within a few minutes more, Miss Andrews returned. She wore a woolen shawl over her shoulders, and glanced at the windows as if to verify they were closed.
“Forgive me,” she apologized. “I was… I was cold.” From the way she averted her gaze, he suspected there was something else she hadn’t told him, but he didn’t press the issue. Changing the subject, he said, “Some of my belongings are at my house on Eiloch Hill. I would appreciate it if you could send someone to bring clothing for me. I’d also like to know if any of my staff are still there.”
“I’ll send Mr. MacKinloch,” she agreed. Then she turned back, frowning. “Eiloch Hill, you said?”
There was a note of distress in her voice, and he wondered what else could be wrong with the house he’d acquired. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“It used to belong to the Earl of Strathland. These crofters were evicted from that land before you arrived.”
It annoyed him that Strathland would overstep his authority, when he’d already sold the land. As their new landlord, it should have fallen to Jonathan to determine the crofters’ fate.
Instead, due to the earl’s evictions, it meant that he was indirectly responsible for the suffering of these men and women. Remaining here was dangerous at best, fatal at worst.
“Will you not tell me who you are,” she asked quietly, “and why you’ve come?”
“I’m just a landowner,” he hedged. “I came to inspect the house and land, and then I’ll move on again, as I always do.” He attempted to sit up, but the moment he raised his torso, the room began to spin. From the unsteadiness in his head, he suspected the laudanum was beginning to take effect.
“Is your home in London?”
“I have many houses.” He didn’t consider any of the properties a home. They were piles of stone and brick, filled with people who would be glad to see him gone.
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