Some said they believed he hailed from the south, but they couldn't say where, exactly. Others swore he was a northerner. Still others maintained he'd come from the Continent. Only one thing was certain: Appleby had vanished without a trace.
Disheartened by the whole affair, Adam decided to let it rest until he caught some sleep. He was dead tired and sick with worry over Andrew. Guilt gnawed at him as he approached his chambers. He'd been so caught up in his frenzy to find Appleby, he'd left while his son was distressed and in pain. What in hell was the matter with him?
A grim smile twisted his lips. What in hell, indeed.
He entered his bedchamber, closing the door softly behind him. Light from a few candles guttering in a branch near the bed allowed him to see it clearly. He paused. The scene that met his gaze was reassuring ... and oddly touching.
The little Irish maid sat in a bedside chair beside his son, who'd edged to the side of the bed closest to her. The girl's head rested on her forearm, which lay on the mattress near Andrew's head. She was sleeping as soundly as his son. Her free hand was on the mattress, too, where Andrew clutched it, even in sleep. There was a soft smile on the child's face.
Adam must have made some sound as he approached the bed. The girl came awake with a start. Her head swung toward him, and she gasped.
"Sorry if I gave you a fright," he said, keeping his voice low. He glanced at Andrew; the child hadn't awakened.
"Oh, no, sorr—Ach! Yer lordship, I mean." Caitlin glanced down and carefully extricated her hand from the boy's. " 'Tis I should be apologizin', milord. I ... I didn't mean t' fall asleep here, d'ye see, but I was singin' the lad this lullaby, and—"
"Miss ... Caitlin, isn't it?" As she nodded, Adam ran his gaze over her. He recalled thinking her pretty. Now he realized that had been well short of the mark.
She was exquisite.
Coppery hair, burnished with fiery highlights, fell over her arms and shoulders in a wealth of shining curls. Her eyes, huge in her face, were the most incredible shade of green, not the gray he'd thought them earlier. Soft and deep, they reminded him of mossy banks along a hidden stream in summer.
Her features were soft, too, and delicate. Blinking up at him, still muzzy from sleep, she looked like a sleepy-eyed angel....
He hid a smile. "Caitlin ... the Irish Angel?" He thought he saw her blush, but the lighting made it impossible to be sure.
"Well, Caitlin," he said, allowing the smile to form at last, "there's no need to apologize. It's clear you've been a great help to my son. I'm grateful for it."
Caitlin nodded, too mesmerized to speak. His smile! It thoroughly transformed the man. Utterly, she thought, noting the answer to the thing she'd wondered about earlier. The adult version of Andrew's dimples were deep grooves bracketing his father's mouth when he smiled. The marquis was so handsome, she could scarcely look at him. Beautiful, in a dark sort of way, despite the scar on his ... .
Thoughts of the scar plunged her into the old fear. She tore her eyes from him and quickly stood, searching for something to say. Anything, as long as it banished the thing hovering at the edges of her mind.
"I made some willow bark tea for the lad," she said, gesturing at a cup on the bed stand. "If he should awaken in discomfort, ye might offer him some more. " 'Twill ease the pain, d'ye see," she added when he didn't respond. "And the leg—well, I won't lie t' ye, milord—'tis in a bad way. But I've been applyin' poultices to it"—and prayin' somethin' fierce—"which is what I did for that wound t' his head ..."
"What is it?" Adam asked, seeing her frown. Caitlin met his eyes and nearly looked away. They were beautiful eyes, now he was no longer scowling. A deep, vibrant blue and fringed with thick black lashes, just like Andrew's.
She cleared her throat, swallowed. "Odd thing, that head wound, milord. 'Twas healed remarkably at the time ye left, earlier this evenin', but ..."
"Go on," he said. Her voice had a low, husky quality to it that was at odds with her diminutive size. And then there was that lilting brogue. He thought he could listen to her speak all night and never tire of it.
"Well," said Caitlin, " 'tis healed even further now, milord. Beyond what I found earlier, I mean. Greatly beyond. There's naught but a slight reddenin' o' the skin! Lord Lightfoot, I've presided over the healin' of a great many injuries in me time, young as I am, but..." She shook her head. "I've niver seen the like!"
Caitlin was at a loss to explain the marquis's bitter laugh as he abruptly told her to go to bed.
Chapter 5
"Jepson, his lordship wants you!" Sally Hodgkins paused to catch her breath as she reached the servants' hall. "And he's in a temper!"
Jepson set down his dish of tea and made at once for the stairs. In a temper? In a rage, more likely! Rage seemed the only way to describe his lordship's state of mind lately. The marquis had not been an easy man to work for since his return from the Peninsula. Since the events of two nights ago, he'd become downright difficult
They were all overset about the child's leg, of course. But his lordship was taking it especially hard. Yesterday he'd had no less than three additional doctors in to examine the lad. Not to mention the Prince Regent's personal physician. After each left, sadly shaking his head, Lord Lightfoot had become further enraged. If that were even possible.
Jepson didn't understand it The child was alive. Alive, when he'd been given up for dead! One would think a parent might be grateful for such a miracle. But Lord Andrew's miraculous reprieve had only served to drive his father into the worst sort of... melancholy.
Yes, melancholy, Jepson decided as he reached the top of the stairs. He'd served the man a long time. He recognized the sad, haunted look behind the anger. A look that had first appeared after his lordship's marriage. Deep melancholy, for a certainty, though the outward show was rage.
Jepson sighed as he approached the lord's chambers. He wondered what had set him off this time.
His employer was furiously pacing the length of the Aubusson carpet when he bade the butler enter. Jepson wisely remained just inside the door; he'd wait to be told what was amiss. Doing otherwise would only earn him a measure of that wrath heaped upon his own head.
The marquis reached the edge of the carpet, pivoted, and speared Jepson with his eyes. "Are you aware of the identity of a woman named Murch?" He ground this out between clenched teeth.
"Yes, your lordship. Miss Murch is the governess her ladyship recently engaged for—"
"And were you aware she brought the creature up with her from Kent?"
Jepson hesitated, then gave a nod. He'd totally forgotten Murch. The marchioness had given the woman leave to visit a sick relative in the city, just after they arrived; he'd barely taken notice of her. He explained this to his irate employer, wondering how the governess had had the misfortune to run afoul of his lordship's temper. Not that it was a difficult thing to do these days.
"I see," said the marquis in a voice that had grown dangerously soft. "And were you aware that Miss Murch had returned this morning?"
Jepson opened his mouth to answer, but the marquis leaned forward and cut him off. "Or that," he said tightly, "having read about my wife's demise in the Post, she took it upon herself to resume her duties, first thing—by telling my son he's motherless?"
"Good heavens!" Jepson was appalled. He hadn't known of her return, yet even if he had, he couldn't imagine needing to counsel the woman as to the delicacy of the situation. He hadn't hired her, but governesses were supposed to know what they were about. "The woman must be a heartless incompetent," he added without thinking, for it wasn't his place to comment.
Adam gave him a stiff nod, trying to control his anger. He hadn't liked the last woman Lucinda had engaged. He'd found her cold and rigid, and told his wife to sack her. That she'd replaced the creature with this equally worthless bitch made his blood boil.
He'd entered his son's chambers this morning to find the child sobbing. Murch was there, and the stupid twit blithely explained wha
t she'd done. "Lady Lightfoot said I mustn't mollycoddle him," she'd informed him!
"I ...I humbly beg your lordship's forgiveness," Jepson stammered. "I ought to have been aware Miss Murch had returned. Your lordship, I take full responsibil—"
"Never mind! I've just turned her off—without a character."
The butler nodded, schooling his features to show neither approval nor the relief he felt at his own reprieve. But what of the poor child? He ventured a query. "How is Lord Andrew faring, your lordship? Does he require someone to—"
"He already has her."
"Your lordship?"
With mixed feelings, Adam thought about the first serious conversation he'd ever had with his son. He liked children, always had, and he loved his son. Yet he'd been away for a deal of the time the boy was growing past his infancy. How did one talk to a six-year-old? he'd wondered.
Somehow, he'd managed to dry Andrew's tears and get through the deuced difficult business of explaining the nature of death. He'd tried to be gentle, but because of his simmering wrath, he still wasn't sure he'd succeeded. He only knew he'd been grateful for getting through the entire business without once referring to heaven. Fortunately, Andrew hadn't asked if that was where his mother was. He certainly hadn't volunteered it!
The boy had seemed satisfied with what he'd told him, and Adam had been vastly relieved. Relieved, and then astonished. His tears forgotten, Andrew had promptly asked for that little Irish baggage to keep him company!
Glancing up, Adam saw the butler patiently waiting for a response. "Lord Andrew has requested that the new Irish maid attend him," he informed him.
Jepson's features rarely showed emotion, but Adam thought he detected an interested gleam in the old retainer's eyes.
"She's with him now," he added, then frowned. He didn't want to think about the warm smile Andrew had for the chit when she'd arrived. And that he himself had been unable to coax even the smallest one out of his son.
"She's to have an appropriate rise in wages," he told the butler crisply. Grabbing his hat and gloves, he strode toward the door.
Jepson looked completely at sea. "Er... appropriate, your lordship?"
Adam glanced at him before heading for the drive where his curricle waited. "Appropriate," he repeated. "I've just elevated her to governess."
***
"Caitlin, is Mama in heaven now?" Andrew looked at his new governess with worried eyes. He knew about heaven. The vicar at Ravenskeep's village church was to be his tutor one day, and he'd spoken of it And about the Bad Place. Andrew had wanted to ask his father the question he now put to Caitlin, but he hadn't. Something in Papa's eyes had told him not to.
Caitlin gave him that smile that made him feel all warm and safe inside. Andrew felt himself relax a little. Caitlin was even easier to talk to than his best friend, Jeremy.
Though she smiled, Caitlin considered carefully how she should answer him. Privately, she had her doubts about heaven for a woman who'd had no time for her son. Yet she'd cut out her tongue before voicing them to the child. Andrew needed comforting, and, by all the saints, that's what he'd have! Still, she wouldn't lie outright to the lad ....
"And where else would she be?" she replied, careful to maintain her smile.
Andrew bit his lip, pondering for a moment, then met her eyes. "Jeremy Wells said a lot of people go to the Bad Place when they die."
"Did he, now?"
Andrew nodded solemnly, looking ill at ease.
"And who is Jeremy Wells, if I might be askin'?"
"He's the vicar's son, and he's eight."
Caitlin nodded thoughtfully. "Well, now, bein' a vicar's son is nothin' t' sneeze at, o' course. And as for his bein' eight"—she gave Andrew a look that said she was properly impressed—"I suppose we must regard what Jeremy says very carefully."
Another solemn nod.
"And what else does Master Jeremy say ... about the bad place, I mean?"
"He says it's where the wicked go—straightaway!"
"Ach!" Caitlin exclaimed, pretending not to see the worried look on the boy's face. "There we have it, then!''
"We ... we do?"
"We do, indeed." The two had been sitting side by side on a window seat in the schoolroom, with Andrew's injured leg propped on a chair amid some pillows. Now Caitlin scooted off the seat and knelt before the child. She took his small hand in hers.
"Andrew," she said, meeting his anxious eyes, "ye cannot think yer mother was a wicked person, now, can ye?" She held her breath, suddenly wondering if the question were wise.
She also hoped Andrew didn't notice her let it out in relief when he shook his head and smiled at her. Smiled with his whole face. The blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and his dimples deepened, just like his—
She cut off the thought; his father was already in her thoughts more than she liked. No sense inviting the devil—Ach! The man has me worried, and no mistake! If it weren't for the lad—
Again, Caitlin throttled her thoughts. "Have we answered yer question, then?" she asked Andrew softly.
"Yes, thank you, Caitlin." Andrew looked thoughtful as she rejoined him on the window seat. "Caitlin .. . ?"
"Aye, lad?"
"Why is it all right to call you 'Caitlin'? Mama said I must call my other governess 'Miss Murch.' She said it wasn't"—Andrew paused, his brow furrowed in thought—"wasn't proper to call a governess by her Christian name."
Caitlin smiled. She was hardly a "proper" governess. Not that that had mattered to Lord Lightfoot He'd asked if she could read and cipher. When she told him she could, he'd pronounced her the lad's new governess—just like that! Ach, he was a strange one, he was. Aye, strange . . . and he frightens me out of my wits! The child's tug on her sleeve pulled Caitlin back to the present. "Well, ye see, lad," she said, "there are all sorts o' people in the world. Some are ... Christian-name people ... d'ye know, like yer friend Jeremy..."
"He's my onliest bestest friend," Andrew put in.
She nodded. "And ithers who are family-name people ..."
"Like Miss Murch?"
"Aye, like Miss Murch ... and the bishop when he comes t' call." She wasn't certain Anglican bishops did this, but it seemed a safe bet, given the importance of Andrew's family. "Now, meself," she went on, "I'm a Christian-name sort... most o' the time, at least. That means, lad, that if I heard ye Miss O'Brienin' me, I'd likely faint dead away!"
She looked at him wide-eyed, clutching his shoulders in an exaggerated show of seeking reassurance. "And we couldn't have that, now, could we?"
He shook his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I mean," she went on with a straight face, "there I'd be, laid out on the carpet"—she gestured broadly at the floor with a sweep of her arm—"as if someone had popped me a facer!" Andrew covered his mouth as the giggle emerged. "And ye'd be callin' for a footman t' fetch the vinaigrette and hartshorn, all the day long! Well, we simply cannot have it So 'tis Caitlin, me boyo." She winked at him and grinned. "Caitlin, the live-long day!"
"Oh, Caitlin," Andrew told her between giggles, "Jeremy isn't my onliest bestest friend anymore. Now you're my bestest friend, too!"
***
Adam returned early from his club, no further along in his search for clues to Appleby's whereabouts. He'd had a throbbing headache since rising that morning. A legacy from the night before, when he'd polished off a bottle of brandy. Not that it had done any good. The confirming opinions of four highly recommended physicians, including Prinny's own, hadn't been changed by getting foxed. Andrew would never walk again, and no amount of liquor could blot that truth from his mind.
Hoping to banish his despairing mood, he headed straight for the schoolroom. The time spent with his son that morning had been the singular bright spot in his day. It had also reminded him how little he knew his only child. He vowed to remedy that—starting now.
As he drew near the room on the third floor, he heard giggles .... A child's giggles ... and a female's.
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The schoolroom door was partially ajar. As the sounds of merriment spilled into the hallway, Adam slowed and stood just outside the door. The lilting syllables of an Irish brogue rippled on the air.
"Ach, go on with ye! Six! The poor man had six fingers—all on one hand? And what o' his ither hand, then?"
Andrew's giggles didn't abate. "Just five—but he's not a poor man, Caitlin. Jeremy says he's nasty. And rich as Cro—Cro—"
"Croesus?"
"Yes, and ... Caitlin, what's Croesus?"
"Not what, but who, lad. Croesus was a very rich king who lived a long time ago, as I recall hearin' somewhere. But back t 'Jeremy's rich uncle o' the six fingers, boyo."
A smothered giggle. "His rich, nasty uncle, Caitlin!"
"Aye, that one. If the poor—er, not very poor man has the normal five fingers on one hand, but six on the ither, can ye tell me how many fingers he has alt'gither, Andrew?"
Adam's brows lifted as he caught the drift of what she was doing. The little minx was actually conducting a lesson! But had ciphering ever been taught this painlessly? He recollected his own sessions with tutors. Each with a book in one hand—and a birch rod in the other.
But did the chit's method work? All well and good to spare the rod, but—
"Eleven!" Andrew's triumphant voice rang out, and his father grinned.
"Right ye are, boyo!" Caitlin announced, giving Andrew a hug. "Ach, ye're a clever one, ye are, and that's no blarney! Why, most six-year-olds can't even count to eleven, Andrew, yet here ye are—"
"Ah, but we Lightfoots have a history of producing precocious children, Miss O'Brien." Adam saw the girl's eyes widen as he strolled into the schoolroom. So did his son's, but there was a difference: Andrew merely seemed surprised, while .... Bloody hell. The chit's afraid of me!
Andrew's giggle pulled Adam from this disturbing thought. "You're going to make her faint, Papa!" the child exclaimed.
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