There was a moment of silence as Appleby took his measure. He'd hoped to have this particular soul in a year's time; Ravenskeep was a war hero, and therefore quite the prize. Still, having him signed and sealed, even if it was for later .... He supposed it would have to do. A deal better than not having him at all. There'd always been some doubt about Lightfoot's damnation. Best not risk it.
He resumed sitting. "Very well," he said sullenly, taking out the notebook again. "Tell me how much time you require, and I'll see what I can do. But I warn you, m'lord. You're not likely to get all you want. There are limits to how far I can be pushed!"
Adam glanced at his son. Andrew hadn't moved; the translucent skin beneath the bandage looked paler than ever. Ah, my son! I can't bear to see you this way. Yet if this thing is truly possible ...if I can truly manage to ... .
Adam's eyes moved to a small table at the far side of the chamber. On it lay a marble and onyx chess set. An excellent player, Adam had been teaching Andrew how to play. It suddenly gave him an idea.
"Appleby," he said as his gaze found the dandy's, "I've a proposal. I suggest we play a game of chess. Five years added to my current age, for every piece of yours I capture." He shrugged. "Of course, if I fail to capture any..."
"Done." Appleby smiled. Better than he'd expected. Hadn't the marquis heard? The devil was an expert gamesman!
Adam didn't like the looks of that smile. Or that he'd won this concession so readily. But most on his mind at the moment was what he liked least of all: Appleby even remotely near his son.
"Very well, then," he said, rising from his seat. "But I prefer to play in the library, if you don't mind."
"Not at all, dear boy." Appleby rose, too, as his host Bast a worried look at his son.
Again, the easy concession. Adam swore softly under his breath as he grabbed a taper to light the way. The little bastard was too bloody accommodating! He met Appleby's gaze. "I require your promise nothing will happen to Andrew until our match is over, and our bargain concluded."
"The lad will be completely safe," the dandy replied cheerfully.
Too damned cheerfully, Adam thought as he nodded and they made their way to the library down the hall. He's up to something, but damned if I—
Smothering the grim irony in this thought, Adam lit a branch from the taper as they entered the library. He led Appleby to a table near the hearth, where another chess set waited in readiness. They began to play.
Chapter 3
Caitlin trudged wearily up the stairs. The worn and splintered steps creaked when she set her slight weight upon them. Her lodgings were far from grand, but they were all she could afford. She grimaced with the thought. Her rent was due tomorrow, and she hadn't the coin to meet it.
Worry about that in the morning, she told herself as she reached her door. Fumbling amid the sodden folds of her cloak, she found her key. She'd been caught in a devilish downpour while making her way back to the shabby chamber. Now it was past midnight, and she was soaked nearly to the skin and bone-weary.
Yet it was a satisfying exhaustion, she thought, setting a worn leather bag down, just inside the door. Crossing the tiny chamber in the dark, she groped for the tinder-box beside the bed and lit a candle. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and felt herself relax.
Aye, satisfying. Up at dawn, she'd seen over a dozen of London's poor before the sun read noon. And she'd left most of them better off than when she came.
A wee tad better, she amended as she stripped off the dripping cloak. Their worst affliction was something no herbs and simples could heal: a grinding poverty that frequently led to an early grave. Yet Caitlin did what she could. Using the knowledge she'd gained under Crionna's roof, she'd become an itinerant healer. She supported herself, albeit none too grandly, as she traveled the countryside, asking for those in need.
More often than not, they had no money to pay, and she accepted other things instead: a loaf of bread, a few eggs, some roots and greens from a humble garden. Even clothing, she thought, removing the wet half boots she had from a poor country vicar's wife she'd seen through a fever.
She'd left Ireland more than six months ago. Buried her foster mother, mourned her, then set out at once for England. She couldn't say why, exactly, but she'd needed to get away. Sometimes, like tonight, when she was especially tired, an inner voice told her she was running away. She ignored it. The dreams hadn't come since she put her native soil behind her. That was the important thing.
She refused to examine the strange compulsion that had drawn her to London in early April. Heretofore, she'd traveled strictly in the countryside, for she was country-bred. But it didn't matter where she plied her skills. There were poor everywhere, and ....
The thought faded as she dropped onto the room's narrow cot with a groan. She'd spent the last six hours delivering the ragman's wife of a set of twins. Healthy babes, if a bit on the scrawny side. She smiled ruefully. Her concern for the wee mites was why she hadn't the rent; she'd told the ragman to take those farthings and buy his nursing wife some nourish—
A rapping on her door had her eyeing it sharply. Who'd be after calling at this hour? She'd no friends to speak of, having been in the city but a fortnight, and—
The rapping came again, sounding urgent. Someone in need? She dragged herself off the cot and moved to the door. She may not have made any friends, but she knew word had already spread about her work. "The Irish Angel," they'd begun to call her, though she saw nothing angelic in what she did. Anyone with a few healing skills and a bit of compassion could have done the same.
"Aye?" she called through the door, not yet ready to open it. The East End was rife with footpads, cutthroats and worse; she wasn't a fool. "Who is it ye seek?"
"I was told the Irish Angel lives here," said a woman's voice. "Oh, please, miss! If you're the one they told me about, I-I'm begging-your help."
The desperation in the voice had Caitlin swiftly opening the door. "Come in, then," she said to the middle-aged woman who looked at her with imploring eyes.
"Are ... are you really the Irish Angel?" the woman asked uncertainly. The slender creature facing her looked so young! A mere slip of a girl, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Very pretty, though.
Caitlin gave her a tired smile. "Some call me that, aye. But me name's Caitlin...Caitlin O'Brien.And ye're ... ?"
"I'm Mrs. Hodgkins . .. Sally Hodgkins. You may recall my sister, for you cured her of a terrible skin rash when—"
"Ach, the shopkeeper's wife! How's she farin' these days?"
"Splendidly, thanks to you. But, Miss O'Brien, that's not why I'm here. I've come to you because ... Well, I know what you did for Jenny, and—and we've nowhere else to turn!"
The woman began to weep softly. Exhausted though she was, Caitlin couldn't ignore her. Her heart went out to the woman. "Here," she said, guiding her to the room's single chair. "Sit down and tell me about it."
Nodding gratefully, Mrs. Hodgkins complied, then mastered her emotions enough to tell of her quest. An errand of mercy, but not for herself. For a six-year-old child. The son of a nobleman in a great household where she was employed as housekeeper. There had been a carriage accident, and the child was badly injured. The physician didn't expect him to live past morning.
"But what leads ye t' think I can help?" Caitlin was shaking her head. "If this lord's own physician doesn't—"
"But you're the Irish Angel!" Mrs. Hodgkins cried. "My sister says a prayer for you each day, blessing you for her cure. You healed her of that rash that came near to driving her mad—for two years. Two years, miss! With visits to one physician after another, and none of them able to do a thing for her!"
The woman started to weep again, and Caitlin patted her shoulder soothingly, wondering what to do. She was a healer, not a miracle worker, despite what some said. Yet she was touched by this woman's request. By her compassion. She wept for a child not even her own. "Describe the injuries for me, if ye will," she said at last
Mrs. Hodgkins dried her eyes and did so. But after hearing of the crushed leg and a severe head wound that had left the child senseless, Caitlin despaired more than ever. It didn't sound good. "Ach, the poor babe," she murmured with genuine sympathy. "And his parents—they must be beside themselves with anguish!"
Stifling a sob, Mrs. Hodgkins shook her head. "But one p-parent now, Miss O'Brien. Little Lord Andrew has only his father left him. The p-poor child's mother was k-killed in that same accident."
Caitlin murmured softly and crossed herself.
"And his lordship's in a terrible state, miss! He's shut himself away in that room for hours. Won't talk to anyone ... won't sleep or take any food. And himself just home from the war, with his own wound barely healed!"
"Ach, the poor man!"
Mrs. Hodgkins nodded. "I'll be honest with you, miss. The marquis has no idea I'm here. For how could he, with him not seeing anyone? But it wouldn't matter, I'm sure, if you were to help his son. And he's a man of great wealth, Lord Ravenskeep is. Not at all the niggardly sort, either. I'm sure he'd pay handsomely for your help." She placed a hand on Caitlin's sleeve. "Oh, won't you at least try?"
Caitlin felt buffeted by the pull on her emotions. A wee lad, given up for lost. The mother dead, the father clearly grieving for his wife, in despair over his son. It all sounded so hopeless. What could she, a mere folk healer, do?
Still, she'd never been one to quit before even trying. And there was always the power of prayer. Those she treated didn't know it, but she prayed over them as much as she plied her skills from Crionna.
And, of course, there was the matter of her rent. This lord would pay well, the housekeeper said. With a weary sigh, Caitlin slipped on her half boots, grabbed her wet cloak and turned to the bag she'd set beside the door. It held her herbs and simples. "Take me t' the lad," she said.
***
Jepson eyed the waiflike creature standing beside Sally Hodgkins with great misgivings. God knew, he loved little Lord Andrew as well as the rest of the staff did. The lad had a way about him. And they'd long felt sorry for him, what with that cold marchioness for a mother. Not to mention his lordship being away so much during the war, and then so brooding and distant since his return. But Sally was clearly grasping at straws here. Irish Angel, indeed! The so-called healer was little more than a child herself.
"What makes you think you can succeed where a physician and a renowned surgeon have given up?" he asked Caitlin.
Taking in the stone-faced butler's forbidding demeanor, Caitlin gathered her courage. "Perhaps that's just the trouble, sorr."
The butler arched a brow at her. "Explain yourself, miss."
"They've given up," Caitlin told him. She glanced at the housekeeper. "But Mrs. Hodgkins here hasn't, and neither should you, I'm thinkin'. Perhaps too many have given up on the lad already," she added, recalling the father who'd apparently abandoned himself to grief.
A reluctant smile tugged at Jepson's lips, though he kept it in check; he was not a man given to smiles. But the girl's words hit home. Were, in fact, what he'd been thinking himself. To hear it from the mouth of this callow lass, fresh from the Irish countryside.... Perhaps she wasn't as young and inexperienced as she looked.
Jepson sighed, and met the housekeeper's eyes, his features still unyielding. "I needn't remind you, Hodgkins, his lordship's a difficult man in the best of circumstances. Adding to that, his distress over the child, I hardly think—"
"Is he still in his chambers?" she broke in.
Jepson shook his head to the contrary. "Oddly enough, his lordship repaired to the library sometime during the night. I saw light coming from under the door when I—"
"Well, that's ideal, then!" she cried. "A blessing, in fact. The Angel here can steal in to see the boy without—"
"Beggin' yer pardon, Mrs. Hodgkins," Caitlin put in, "but I'd scarcely feel right, seein' the lad without his da knowin' it. 'Twouldn't be honest, d'ye see, and I'm that, if nothin' else."
Jepson's opinion of the girl rose another notch. Most in her circumstances would jump at the chance to make some easy money, and nothing more. He ran his eyes over her slight form. Though neat and clean, if damp from the storm, her garments were worn; they showed several patches and neatly mended tears. Another of Ireland's poor immigrants, without a doubt. Yet she scrupled to refuse a potentially lucrative engagement, as she feared it would be dishonest! Intrigued, he found himself pondering how he might persuade her to accept.
"Miss O'Brien," he said carefully, "I understand your principles entirely. And normally I would agree with you. But you must know this is not a normal situation. I collect Mrs. Hodgkins has told you of his lordship's ... ah, retreat, in the wake of what's occurred?"
"She has, sorr."
"Then, you will understand why it is impossible to secure his lordship's permission any time soon."
"And time is the very thing we don't have!" the housekeeper cried, picking up the thread. "If we wait until his lordship is approachable, Lord Andrew could ... could be—" She broke off on a sob.
Caitlin glanced from one to the other, seeing the strain on their plain, no-nonsense faces. They clearly doted on the lad. They were even willing to risk their employer's displeasure to save him. How could she, a healer, do less?
She sighed, and touched the housekeeper's sleeve. "I'm not promisin' anythin', understand, but... If ye'll be showin' me the way, I'll do me best."
Her reward was a fresh bout of weeping from the housekeeper, who hugged her. And a glimmer of a smile from the butler she'd have sworn never smiled at all.
***
A quick check revealed the marquis was still shut up in the library. But before they let Caitlin in to see the child, they urged her to prepare for the possibility his lordship might discover her. It took some persuading, but they convinced her to masquerade as a new housemaid they'd taken on. Mrs. Hodgkins even produced a proper costume, borrowed from one of the maidservants.
A short time later, Caitlin tiptoed into the bedchamber. The butler had built up the fire, which had nearly gone out, then repaired to another part of the house on some errand. The housekeeper waited outside the partially open door. Likely to keep an eye peeled for the distraught father, though she hadn't said.
On the other hand, Caitlin thought as she moved toward the great canopied bed, Mrs. Hodgkins could very well be keeping an eye on her. To make certain she did no harm. In the next instant, she dismissed the thought as uncharitable.
Reaching the bed, she let out a soft sigh as she took in the small figure lying there. A comely lad, to be sure, even with his wee features so slack and pale. Ach, the little ones are always the worst to see this way! Children should be vibrant and laughing. . . full of life and straining at the bit to embrace it!
Moving quickly and efficiently, she examined the boy. She felt for a pulse—it was thready and weak—and frowned when she laid her hand on the side of his neck: feverish. She began to lift the bandages ....
And suppressed a groan. The mangled leg was bad, very bad. But someone had done a fair job of stitching torn flesh and setting broken bones. Perhaps he wouldn't lose it, though he'd surely lose the use of it. The wound to the head was another matter. This was, indeed, grave ... and likely mortal.
Yet as she'd indicated to the servants, she didn't believe in giving up. Praying silently to the Blessed Virgin for help and guidance, she withdrew some pouches from her bag. At her request, the butler had brought a kettle of water with them and set it to the boil when he built up the fire. Stirring the powders from her bag into the water, she sat down to watch. And wait.
Minutes passed, the ticking of the clock on the mantel measuring out seconds. Glancing at the bed, Caitlin bit her lip, schooling herself to patience. She must allow the exact time needed for the brew to steep, just as Crionna had shown her. Ach, but it was so hard, what with the lad lying there, still as death! At long last, she heaved a sigh. The brew was finally right Caitlin withdrew some clean rags fro
m her bag and set about making a poultice ....
***
Quelling a shudder, Adam watched a disgruntled Appleby take his leave. He'd half expected the creature to disappear in a puff of smoke, but m'lord merely closed the library door behind him. Slammed it, actually.
Adam smiled. He'd always had an affinity for chess. No one at Eton had ever bested him. The worst he'd ever suffered at Oxford was a stalemate, and that was on a night he'd been thoroughly foxed.
Now, at the age of thirty-four, he'd lost more men than he'd ever done in a lifetime of playing. And lost the match. Yet it was the greatest victory he could imagine. Because, before losing, he'd managed to capture no less than eight chessmen from his opponent. From the devil himself.
He looked at the eight white marble pieces piled behind his side of the board. He remembered how chagrined he'd been when Appleby had won the draw for white; since white always went first, it had given Appleby the automatic advantage. Adam had felt sure it was an unlucky portent of how the match would go.
And yet he'd no complaints. Eight men! Giving him another forty years of life before the bargain was fulfilled. By the time that bloody fiend came to drag him to perdition, his son would be well launched. Andrew would likely present him with grandchildren before he ....
Thoughts of his son had him suddenly rigid with suspicion. Prior to leaving, Appleby had assured him he'd find Andrew alive and improving, yet what did that mean? He ought to have insisted on taking the little bastard back to his chamber and seen for himself. Contract or no, he didn't trust the archfiend. Not one bloody bit!
Pivoting on his heel, Adam raced from the room. On his way to his son, he absently rubbed a finger on his left hand; the tip was sore from where he'd pricked it with Appleby's knife. He dismissed it. The little reminder would soon fade. He'd give the damned business no more thought. He had no regrets. His son was what mattered, not he.
Come Midnight Page 4