A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  “They do. And they should, shouldn’t they?”

  “I—”

  “Help! Somebody help me! Quick!”

  Cayton was already on his feet, picking Addie up and passing her to Tabby. “Mrs. Higgins?”

  “Hurry! It’s Felicity!”

  He heard Catherine’s steps hurrying after his, and Lareau made it through the door ahead of him. He fumbled to a halt inside the kitchen, his eyes going wide. Felicity lay on the floor, her body convulsing.

  Lareau had fallen to her knees beside her and held her head, muttering something in Russian before barking out, “Doctor! Now! She is having a seizure!”

  He could do that. He could ring up the doctor. Though it seemed his feet wouldn’t move fast enough, he skidded his way down the hall and into his study, where the candlestick phone stood waiting on his desk. He yanked the receiver off its holder. “Operator?”

  “Good afternoon, Anlic Manor. How may I direct your call?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Dr. Fields. I need Dr. Fields.”

  It seemed to take an eternity for the lines to connect, for a voice to pick up. For the nurse to promise the doctor would be out right away.

  How soon was “right away”? Soon enough? Could he even do anything for her?

  Cayton sank onto the top of his desk. He’d promised her—he’d promised Adelaide he would always see that Felicity was taken care of. But what could he do? He hadn’t been able to protect her husband from whatever evil had found him. And this?

  “My lord?” The call echoed faintly down the hallway.

  He slid off the desk and strode back to the kitchen. “The doctor is on his way.”

  Lareau nodded from her place on the floor. Felicity lay still now—it would have alarmed him more had the rise and fall of her chest not been visible. But there was blood matting her hair, staining Lareau’s hands.

  “Did she hit her head?” Not knowing where to stand, what to do, he hovered in the doorway.

  Lareau nodded. “She must have. Mrs. Higgins is fetching the first-aid box.”

  Catherine, her face the empty one she had shown up here wearing weeks ago, stood at the side, staring down. “I don’t understand. Does she have epilepsy?”

  Lareau sent a scathing glare her mistress’s way. “This is what I try to tell you.” The Russian was heavier in her voice than usual. “Rib pain. Headache. Vision blurred. It is . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “I do not remember what it is called, but it is serious. More so now.”

  The fight went out of Catherine’s stance, and she sank to the floor on the other side of Felicity. “Will she be all right?” Her voice sounded faint, faraway, young.

  Lareau sighed. “I cannot say. My mother . . . if possible, she would recommend a doctor if this happened. The risks are high. They usually recommended taking the baby early. As soon as there was a seizure.” Her voice was more measured again, the Russian retreating. But she probed at Felicity’s stomach and shook her head. “She still has weeks yet. If it is a boy and they hurry along labor, he could have difficulties breathing. Boys always have a harder time than girls.”

  Felicity would never consent, not if it posed a greater risk to her child. He knew that without question. And didn’t really want to know how doctors might hurry along labor in a woman still weeks away from it. It didn’t sound pleasant.

  But if they didn’t? Would this happen again? Could seizures kill her or the child? He had no idea, but the thought turned him to a petrified statue.

  The Lord wouldn’t take both of them, would He? Adelaide and then her oldest friend? Please, Lord, spare her. I beg you. Spare Felicity, spare her child.

  Mrs. Higgins bustled in with a box in her hands, and she and Lareau set about rinsing the blood from Felicity’s head, examining the still-oozing wound. She made not a move, nor a sound.

  The doctor came in while Mrs. Higgins was gently rubbing a salve into the cut. He listened as Lareau described the symptoms she’d observed, his lips pressing tighter with each added one until there was a white line around them. He examined the cut, nodded, approved the bandaging. Waved smelling salts under Felicity’s nose until she groaned and rolled her head away, eyes blinking open. He rested a hand on her stomach and gently pressed.

  It was Lareau’s gaze he met. “I daresay you’re right, my dear. It sounds like eclampsia. We need to take the baby as soon as possible. If we admit her to hospital, we can perform a surgery to—”

  “No.” Felicity, still blinking, squeezed Catherine’s hand and reached for Lareau’s. “It is too early. There is too much risk to the baby.”

  “And too much to you, the longer we wait.” Dr. Fields patted her arm. “That is the one thing about preeclampsia and eclampsia—the symptoms vanish as soon as you are safely through the delivery. Once you have the child, you will be well.”

  Even from here, Cayton recognized the stubborn set to Felicity’s jaw. “No,” she said. “I will not put the baby at risk. I will be fine, I will stay abed, I will—”

  “You cannot guarantee that. We cannot control the risks to you. We—”

  “I said no. You’ll not cut me open to take my child. We’ll both be fine.”

  Cayton turned away. He wanted to believe she was right, prayed she was right. But too much in life was far from fine. And the Lord whispered no promises into his spirit.

  Twenty-Two

  Kira’s eyes stung, and her lungs were heavy and nearly useless in her chest. There just wasn’t enough air. But she wouldn’t gasp for it—she couldn’t let the panic claw its way forward. That would only draw attention to her.

  This wasn’t about her. As the doctor left, she sealed her lips, determined to say no more unless someone asked her a direct question. She had said enough. She had warned, she had diagnosed, and she had been charged with keeping an eye on Felicity any time she wasn’t tending Catherine.

  The weight of it pressed her down. Maybe that was what sucked the oxygen from the room. So much responsibility, and for a life she so wanted to protect. Two lives she wanted to protect.

  But she was just a ballerina. And a spy. A mistress. She wasn’t a midwife. Certainly not a doctor. How was she to help, when it was a condition with no treatment?

  Lord Cayton stood with Felicity in his arms, ready to carry her down to her and Kira’s room. Mrs. Higgins fluttered around them, obviously set to follow. Lady Pratt still knelt beside the table, staring at where Felicity had been.

  Blood pooled on the floor. Head wounds always bled so, and this one had been no exception—they just hadn’t been able to fully see it through Felicity’s curtain of hair.

  Kira touched a hand to Catherine’s shoulder. “Why do you not go and rest, my lady? I will clean this up and then check on you.”

  Perhaps the lady was too numb to consider arguing, because she actually stood and obeyed, moving woodenly out the door.

  “What was all the commotion?”

  Dorsey. The air felt even heavier. Kira stood and moved over to the drawer out of which she’d seen the cook get old rags. “Felicity had a seizure. She hit her head on the table when she fell. You can help, if you like.”

  She didn’t look up to see if he would, just pulled out the rattiest-looking rags and turned back to the dark, sticky mess.

  Dorsey was crouched down beside it, trailing a finger through the blood.

  Her stomach turned. “What are you doing?”

  “What?” He drew his hand away, a smile turning his lips. “Give me one of those. I’ll help you.”

  For a long moment she just stood there and stared at him. The tip of his finger was still red, even as he held his hand out for a towel. Her lungs were useless, and her ribs squeezed like a vise. She handed him a rag.

  By the time she knelt across from him, he had already wiped up most of it, all but a few streaks. She wasn’t sure whether to be comforted by or wary of his efficiency. But she pasted on a wobbly smile and said, “Thank you.”

  He grinned.
As if he weren’t holding a bloody cloth in his hand, as if Felicity weren’t being carried to her room, as if the air didn’t weigh like lead. “I thought we could take a walk to the village later. It’s your afternoon off, too, isn’t it? They have ice creams at the shop there on the corner.”

  Maybe it was because he hadn’t really seen Felicity. Certainly hadn’t seen her convulsing on the floor. He had no reason to be in the clutches of terror. Maybe he simply didn’t understand how much she meant to Kira, to Lady Pratt, to everyone else here. Maybe that’s why he would propose something so ridiculous.

  “I do not think I could stomach anything today, Dorsey. A walk might be nice, but . . .” She scrubbed at the streak, but it needed water. This bit had dried while they tended Felicity.

  “Of course. Here, let me finish this. You can go and clean up. I’ll wait for you outside, yeah? Maybe you can wear something pretty.”

  Something pretty? She pressed her lips together to keep from losing her temper—or her mind. Set the rag down and stood. “Thank you. It may be a while yet—Lady Pratt did not look well.”

  “Don’t worry. I can wait.”

  Without another word, she stalked from the kitchen, feeling every bit as wooden as Lady Pratt had looked.

  She went downstairs first and peeked in at her own room. Lord Cayton was hovering outside of the door while Mrs. Higgins settled Felicity. He chided her gently about her need to rest, and how she was to speak up immediately if she felt anything wrong—assured her he would take care of the doctor’s fees, that he had promised Adelaide . . .

  Kira headed back up the two staircases into the guest hall.

  A sudden shrieking made her freeze a few feet from Lady Pratt’s door. A crash made her lurch forward and grip the handle.

  “Kitty, calm down! She is just a maid.”

  Another crash. Kira’s hand shook in indecision. To intervene or not? It sounded as though it were the lady throwing things, and her brother trying to soothe her. Surely he would do a better job of it than Kira—Lady Pratt actually liked him.

  “She is not just a maid! She is my friend. She is one of the only people in this godforsaken world who speaks to me as if I am a person and not a monster. She—” An enormous crash drowned her out, this one complete with the sound of breaking glass.

  Kira squeezed her eyes shut. The mirror? A window? Lord Cayton would be furious.

  He had nothing, however, on his guests.

  “Kitty! If you don’t calm down this instant—”

  “What? You’ll what? What can you possibly do to me that the curse hasn’t done already?”

  Curse? Kira’s hand fell away.

  “Don’t be absurd. You have let the warnings of that ridiculous Highlander influence you too much. There is no curse, there is no—”

  “My husband is dead! My baby is dead! Everyone I’ve loved, everything that matters—and now we come here, and what happens? My friend, the first friend I’ve ever made without lying through my teeth about who I am, is so ill she could die. It’s the curse, it’s the Fire Eyes, and I’ll not have it! Do you understand me? I’ve had enough!”

  “Stop it.” There came the sound of someone striking someone, an oomf, springs squeaking.

  Kira gripped the knob and turned it, stepped into the room.

  Lord Rushworth’s cheek was red, his eyes slitted and hard as he held his sister down on the bed while trying to stay out of reach of her clawing fingers. He looked up when Kira came in, his sneer nearly sending her running again. Until he barked, “Get over here and help me! She’s going to hurt herself.”

  She already had, it seemed. Her feet were bare, bloody. Pieces of the mirror littered the floor between the bed and the wall, some of them red-streaked too.

  Kira flew to the bed and held her down from the other side. Or tried. Who would have thought that the lady’s gaunt frame could have so much power within it? She screamed and railed, though her words were either incoherent or the English was too much for Kira’s mind just now.

  Rushworth slapped his sister’s cheek—not hard, not, it seemed, from anger. The kind of slap one delivered to rouse someone, to get their attention.

  Catherine shrieked all the louder. Curse was the only word Kira could understand.

  “Stop it! There is no curse, and even if there were, it would not be upon us. We have never even held the diamonds, Kitty—you know this. They were just rubies we had. They didn’t kill Byron, they didn’t kill Pratt, and they won’t kill this stupid maid!”

  She stopped struggling against them, though Kira wouldn’t have called it calming down. The shrieking simply turned to sobbing, the flailing to an attempt to curl into a ball. She was shattered, pulling within instead of lashing out. As broken as the mirror, jagged and torn.

  Rushworth muttered a word Kira didn’t know and stood. “Hold her down. I’ll be right back. Don’t be fooled—she could turn violent again in a moment.”

  Kira could do nothing but nod. She kept pushing against the lady’s shoulders, even though it felt useless to do so when she wasn’t struggling against her. She held her down, and she smelled the metallic scent of blood, and she heard the words hammering against her skull.

  “It’s the curse, it’s the Fire Eyes. . . .”

  “We have never even held the diamonds . . . They were just rubies we had. . . .”

  They didn’t have them. Had never had them.

  Andrei was going to be murderous.

  Rushworth slammed back into the room, a vial in hand. “Are you holding her? You’ll have to hold her—she hates this stuff.”

  Kira increased the pressure a second before Catherine tried to flail again. “No, no, no, no! Not the laudanum, Cris, please not the laudanum! I’ll be good, I’ll calm down, I’ll—”

  Lord Rushworth gripped her jaw. “Hold her forehead down.” When Kira hesitated, he growled. “Must I get Dorsey in here to help me? Are you completely useless?”

  Kira placed her forearm across Catherine’s forehead, which meant all but lying atop her to hold her limbs down. Into her ear she whispered, in French, “Easy, calm down. It is for your good. You are overwrought.”

  Rushworth poured some of the liquid from the vial into his sister’s mouth. “Swallow. Stop fighting me and swallow, Kitty. If you spit it on me again, I swear I’ll bring Dorsey in here.”

  She swallowed. Stopped flailing. And her pleading, her shrieks, turned to sobs that seemed to start in her toes and heave their way up until they erupted from her lips.

  Kira looked to Rushworth for permission to ease away. He nodded and recorked the vial, slid it into his jacket pocket. “It works quickly. She will sleep for a few hours.”

  She didn’t know what to say. What to do. How to file away this information—that they didn’t have the diamonds, had never had the diamonds. That this woman she couldn’t like was broken in ways she hadn’t imagined.

  That this world she’d thought she wanted for her own might not be worth having. What was the point of it—of the riches, the sparkle, the gilding—if it couldn’t protect one from the horrors? Death still stalked. Illness still pounced. Grief still ruled.

  And she didn’t have anyone beside her, anymore, to care if she suffered. No one to force medicine down her throat. To carry her when her knee gave out. No one to promise her all would be well.

  Just a patron ready to write her a cheque and forget she existed, after she gave him what he wanted. Which she couldn’t do.

  She eased off the bed and turned to the door.

  A hand slammed her to the wall, an arm pressed against her throat, pinning her there. Stealing the air.

  As if she’d been able to breathe in the last twenty minutes anyway. Kira didn’t gasp, didn’t choke. She just looked straight into Rushworth’s cold turquoise eyes.

  He didn’t sneer. He didn’t rant. He just said, coolly and calmly, “Breathe a word of all this to anyone, and it will be the last word you speak.”

  She could see her reflection in his pu
pils. Not afraid, but not because she had any particular bravery. Because it didn’t matter. She had nothing to lose. “The whole house would have heard the mirror.”

  He eased off only a bit. “I don’t mean the blasted mirror. Mention the diamonds to anyone, and I will kill you in your sleep. Are we clear? You will be loyal, or you will no longer be.”

  Never in her life had anyone threatened to kill her. Shouldn’t it have terrified her? Made her heart pound, her eyes weep, her limbs go weak? Yet all she could think was that dying in her sleep would be a far better option than whatever Andrei might do if she failed him. “If you are finished, I need to get the bandages and salve for her feet.”

  “I’m not just about threats. Be loyal, and there will be reward in it for you.”

  She saw no point in saying that there wasn’t enough money in all the world to make her want to stay here, with them. “Thank you, my lord. Now if you please, your sister is bleeding all over the sheets.”

  He let her go.

  She headed downstairs for the bandages, but then went down still more. Lord Cayton was still in the servants’ hall, just leaning against the wall outside her door, his eyes closed and his face a wreath of worry. Kira eased to a halt. “How is she? Resting?”

  He nodded, not opening his eyes. “What did she break?”

  It took her a moment to realize he meant Lady Pratt, not Felicity. “A mirror. Her brother sedated her.”

  “I went up—heard her shouts.” He’d pitched his voice low now, quiet. “I thought I had better come back down here before Rush saw me. You heard her too. You know, now, what this is all about.”

  She had likely known it before he did, but she just nodded. Then said, “Da,” when her tired mind noted that his eyes were still closed.

  He opened them now, and they looked as weary as she felt. “Did he threaten you?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded and pushed off the wall. “If you want to leave, I can help you get passage away. Without him knowing, I mean.”

  And go where? Back to Andrei? She shook her head. Not yet. Not with only this to report. Not with Felicity as she was. “I am not leaving.”