The Wicked Viscount

by Heather McCollum

  …

  “It is thoroughly frozen solid this far south?” Cat asked as they walked down to the docks of the Thames River. The warmth that had brought rain the week before had receded, leaving frost and fresh snow coating the London streets. A crisp wind dispersed some of the stench of humanity that wrinkled Cat’s nose. Watching for patches of dampness on the cobblestones, Cat and Nathaniel dodged the ice of late morning. The sun wasn’t yet high enough to touch all the shadows on the narrow street that snaked between tall, dark-beamed houses and shops.

  “There are some areas considered unsafe,” he said. His deep voice and the touch of his hand under her elbow warmed her more than the fur-lined cape and muffler about her neck. After the night they’d shared in her room, it was a wonder she could look at him without beaming a deep crimson. They had spent hours exploring each other. She had never guessed that pleasure could be teased out of nearly every inch of her skin.

  They reached the docks, long wooden planks running down the length of the wide river. Nathaniel pointed across where she could see a sign hammered into the ice. “That is a warning that the ice is thin beyond it,” he said. “It is also thin near the shore, but we will walk over a plank to the safe ice several yards inward.”

  She looked toward the left where she could see the masts of tall ships. “The ice must be thin down there to allow the ships in and back out to the sea.”

  “Barges break up the chunks of ice each day as the tide comes in, so the ships can maneuver in and out of London with their goods.” He nodded before them. “But here the ice is kept quite intact.”

  Set up across the center of the river were rows of canvas tents with fluttering, brightly colored flags. The sounds of laughter and fiddles floated from the merry scene set upon the flat, crystalline landscape. Off to the right, a number of festival goers had donned skates, slipping and gliding together on an area that was scraped clean of snow. The sun was trying to burn past the heavy clouds, a ray shining down here and there across the expanse of ice that wound through the center of London. “What fun,” Cat said, smiling.

  “The duchess was correct in that it was something you should not miss,” he said, and she looked up into his gaze. He wore a grin, though his forehead looked pensive, as if he was trying to decipher an intricate puzzle. “The Thames does not freeze every year.”

  A gust threatened to pluck her cap from her head, and she flopped her hand down on it at the same time Nathaniel caught his own hat by the wide brim. She laughed, looking out as a wagon rolled across the ice, pulled by two horses. Apparently, it was quite safe.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked as they neared the river’s edge.

  She lifted the edge of her petticoats to show her leather trousers under her gown. “Quite. And this is, after all, England, not the wild heaths, snow-covered mountains, and frigid, wind-swept moors of the Highlands.” She flipped her palm, wrapped in soft leather, upright. “This is practically spring comparatively.”

  “A penny to pass on the plank,” said a man in rough woolens. His nose was red, and he rubbed raw hands together before a fire built into a raised iron grate sitting along the edge of the river.

  Nathaniel dug two pennies from the small leather bag tied under his cloak and took Cat’s arm to lead her to the thick wooden slats that had been set up along the bank, leading out onto the thick ice. “Your balance may be off from your injured ankle,” he said, steadying her.

  “It is healed,” she said and held her skirts to watch her feet as she walked briskly over the planks sloping downward onto the frozen water. Cracks ran haphazardly in thick and thin lines under the dark, frozen surface, dusted with patches of snow. The shallow lochs in Scotland froze in the same manner but were perfectly safe. She’d found a number of small ponds near Loch Tay that froze solid enough for skating and spent many of her lonely winters gliding along them.

  Nathaniel walked beside her and pointed toward the row of tents. “There will be warm cider to buy and roasted chestnuts and pies. Also, trinkets if you would like to purchase any for the Roses back home. There are games as well, although most are rigged for you to lose the contents of your purse.”

  “’Tis good I have no purse then,” she said. “Do ye think any of them would sell some hot tea?”

  “I expect so,” he said.

  “Since your sisters brought tea to Finlarig, I have become somewhat addicted.” Their arms linked together, they made their way across the ice, laughing at what Cat called the slip and wiggle walk to keep themselves upright and as dignified as possible. “I would do better wearing skates on my feet,” she said.

  “You have skated on ice before?” he asked, looking down into her eyes.

  She nodded. “My father traveled to Edinburgh when I was a small lass and brought me back some blades he said were from a Dutch merchant. I outgrew them, but I took the blades off and fashioned a larger pair with the blades underneath.”

  “Very clever,” he said, and the compliment filled her with warmth. “I can arrange for a pair.” They stopped beside the tent flap. “Maybe after tea.”

  If someone had foreseen her sipping tea next to a noble Englishman while standing in the center of London on the surface of the Thames River, she would have called them mad. Yet here she was. No one around her thought of her as a dirty, poor orphan, pitying her for a sad past and untamable little sister, not even Nathaniel Worthington, who knew the secret of who she was. Well, not everything. He didn’t know about her desperation after her father was killed, and how she’d tried to cheer her mother. How she’d begged the woman to rise from the bed each day. She frowned over the melancholy memories that were in stark contrast to the fun and celebration right before her.

  Ducking into the tent, Cat blinked as her eyes adjusted to the low light, while the sound of men and women talking and laughing filled her ears. Even spread upon the ice, the city of London was crowded, holding more people than Cat had ever seen. Certainly, she knew that a city like London would be more populated and diverse than the small town of Killin, Scotland, but until she was shoved, yelled over, and tugged by Nathaniel to lead her to a vacant spot, she hadn’t understood how overwhelming the press of so many people could be.

  “Are you well?” Nathaniel asked, his lips just touching her ear, so she could hear him.

  “’Tis cramped inside,” she said.

  He left her for a moment and tried to return with two earthenware cups. Standing with no less than ten people between them, he tipped his head toward the exit. As she maneuvered through the throng, she heard a gasp and felt a tug on her skirt. A child, a boy from his trousers and cap, held his hand up. Blood trickled down it, a few drips landing on her cloak.

  “You thieving nipper,” said a tall man wearing a wig and feathered hat. He glared down at the lad. “And you are ruining her costume.” The man raised his cane, ready to land it directly on the lad’s head.

  “Nay,” she yelled, her word slicing through the cacophony around her. Conversations and laughter cut short as all eyes turned on the scene. Only then did Cat realize that she’d grabbed out her blade that the child had hit trying to pick her pocket. She brandished it as if ready to stab the fop with the cane, who stared wide-eyed. The child stood stone still, the blood flowing down his palm. Sliding the blade back into the pocket tied under her cloak, Cat looked around. “A handkerchief.”

  “Move aside,” Nathaniel said, his voice commanding. People shifted, squeezing together to give him room as he made his way over to her, without the cups of tea. He handed her a square of linen, which she wrapped roughly around the dirty little hand. The boy, having come out of his frozen state, tried to pull away, but she held tight. If she lost his hand, she’d likely never see him again, and the wound could become tainted.

  Two dozen sets of eyes watched her. She could feel their assessing weight and cleared her throat. “May that be a lesson to ye all. A lady can be armed as well as any man.” She looked down at the squirming lad. “So, do not stick you
r hands where they do not belong.” She pulled the boy behind her out of the tent, Nathaniel following.

  “Let go of me,” the boy said, twisting about but unable to loosen her grip. He obviously didn’t know to twist and yank at the crack between a person’s finger and thumb, the first self-defense lesson taught to Highland Roses.

  “Not until I make sure your cut is clean and bound,” she said. She leaned toward his ear, whispering, “And if ye keep thrashing about, the local magistrate will likely haul ye away to the Tower.” She had no idea what they did with pickpocketing children, but the threat had the desired effect. “That’s a good lad,” she said.

  “And I ain’t no lad.”

  Nathaniel plucked the cap from the child’s head. A flop of dirty brown hair fell down to the little girl’s shoulders. Thin, with fragile features, the child looked like a legendary fairy or elf. Although the size of a five-year-old, the hardness in her gaze showed her to be much older. She reminded Cat of her sister, Izzy. Och, she missed Izzy.

  “Where are your parents?” he asked, but Cat knew the answer from looking at her.

  “Just over there,” the girl said, jutting of her pointy chin toward the crowd.

  “A lie,” Cat said. “Ye have none, do ye?”

  The girl narrowed her eyes. “Let go of me.”

  “Not until I have fixed this wound,” she said. “If ye come along calmly, ye might earn some coin.” She glanced at Nathaniel who plucked a silver shilling from his pouch and held it in front of the girl’s widening eyes. Without a word, she nodded.

  The child relaxed and turned to survey the tents. “Just have my hand cleaned and wrapped? Nothing else?”

  “Well, I might force ye to eat something,” she answered and looked to Nathaniel. “Do ye suppose there are any healers or herb sellers out here on the ice?”

  “I am sure we can find someone across there,” he said, pointing toward another set of tents. A wooden sign hung on one with a mortar and pestle painted upon it. “Shop keeps often move their wares out here during the festivals,” he said, and lifted the child up, settling her against his hip.

  “Put me down,” the girl demanded, but he ignored her, and they walked across.

  As they neared, Cat saw a familiar figure step out of the tent. It was the doctor who had tended her ankle at Hollings. “Dr. Witherspoon?” she said, loud enough for the man to catch his name on the breeze.

  He turned abruptly with a startled expression. Cat raised her hand in greeting and then realized she had blood across her white kid gloves. They neared, and although the man looked like he yearned to stride off, he waited.

  “Dr. Witherspoon,” Nathaniel said, tipping his head as he held the quiet child against him. “I did not know you were traveling from Hollings to London.”

  “Yes, actually, I had business here. A patient.” He smiled. “And how is your ankle, Lady Campbell?”

  “Much better, thank you,” she said, practicing her more proper speech on the man.

  “And who do you have here?” he asked, looking to the girl.

  There was a pause. If they said she was a thief and orphan, would the doctor report her to the local magistrate? It seemed that London would be too big a place for the law to deal with every little pickpocket, but Cat didn’t want to take any chances. “I am recruiting for the Highland Roses School. And this lovely little girl looks like someone who could learn the many skills we teach there, including how to stay clean.”

  The child gasped. “You said I just needed to clean my hand—”

  “She fell on the ice and needs her hand patched,” Cat said, tugging Nathaniel to get him moving along into the tent. “Good day, doctor.”

  “Good day,” he called back as he turned to hurry across the ice.

  “I ain’t going to any school,” the girl said.

  “Hush.” Cat gave her a fierce look that she’d successfully used on Izzy when she was younger.

  “The lady just wants to make sure you are well,” Nathaniel said, his rough voice softer inside.

  “Tinctures? Poultices? A brew for milady?” An elderly woman wobbled out of her chair near a small fire at the back of the tent. The smoke from it filtered up through a hole in the tarp, but still left a haze within. “What can I help ye with, milord? Milady?”

  “Ye are Scots?” Cat asked, easily picking out the familiar brogue. “Latha math,” she said in greeting.

  “That I am,” the woman said. “From Inverness originally, until I had to move down south to thaw me old bones.” She smiled toothily. “Where are ye from?” she asked in Gaelic.

  “Killin, Breadalbane,” she answered, looking at the many jars of dried herbs the woman had along a table to one side. She continued to speak in Gaelic. “You have quite an assortment of cures and herbs.”

  “Aye, that,” the woman said, smiling at Nathaniel. “And you have a right handsome man,” she said with a wicked grin.

  “I don’t believe I actually have him,” Cat continued in the easy language of her home.

  “Oh, not yours, lass?” She winked at him. “Then he is available.” She cackled, which turned to a cough.

  Nathaniel blinked, his brow furrowing. He had a sudden uneasy stance as if he wasn’t sure if he should retreat, though she’d never seen him run away from anything. Not a furious Highland laird, an English traitor, or a three-hundred-pound wild boar.

  “Do you have a poultice I could use on this child’s cut hand? And a proper bandage? I would like to clean and bind it,” Cat said, switching to English.

  “Aye,” the woman said, nodding as she waddled behind the table and pulled a wooden box from below. “One can never be too careful. A wee cut can taint and throw ye in a frosted winter grave.”

  Glancing over the table, Cat saw that she kept other herbs in bottles underneath. “What do ye have below?”

  The old woman glanced at Nathaniel, who was busy showing the girl some strange things floating in jars on the other side of the tent. “The dangerous cures,” she answered, switching back to Gaelic.

  Cat followed her. “Dangerous cures?”

  “Aye, the kind that can…” She drew a finger across her neck. “For the lass who has found herself with child or for those desperate to try a smidgeon of this or that for a cure.”

  Cat’s educated gaze fell across the dried leaves. “Wolfsbane? Nightshade and Yew?” She met the woman’s gaze. “Some powerful plants there.”

  “Aye,” she nodded, pulling out a cloth on which to smear a poultice.

  “And ye have customers for such?” Cat asked softly.

  “Ye’d be surprised,” the crone said, leaning across the table toward her. “Even lordly folk. Even some from Whitehall,” she said, her tone boastful.

  “And ye sell them poisons?” she asked, her brows raising.

  “Nay,” the crone said, frowning. “I would never say that.” She switched to English. “I am an upstanding seller of natural plants to help those who need cures.” She nodded. “I would never give anything harmful to anyone.”

  Although, her supply completely contradicted her statement. Cat smiled with a knowing nod and continued in Gaelic. “We, from the north country know how to use the plants to better our friends and family.”

  “Aye that,” the woman agreed and seemed to relax. “’Tis ready,” she called, beckoning Nathaniel and the girl over. “Put out your hand.”

  The girl did, and Cat caught it, wiping it free of blood and grime from the melted snow the woman had on hand. The slice from her blade was thankfully shallow. “I have a number of blades on me,” she whispered to the girl. “And no purse whatsoever.”

  “But you look rich, milady,” the girl said. “And Michael said to go for the rich ladies.”

  Cat glanced over her head to Nathaniel, whose face had taken on a hard cast. She looked back to the girl and then down at her small hand as the woman applied a comfrey paste.

  “Comfrey for healing and water lobelia for the pain,” the healer said, bendi
ng over her task.

  Cat placed her hand on the girl’s back to steady her, and she jumped, a grimace tightening her face, which was quite pretty under the dirt. “My name is Cat. What is yours?”

  “Like a kitten?” she asked as Cat moved the girl’s hair to one side, peeking at the gap about her grimy neck. The edge of a bruise showed. Anger blossomed inside her, but she forced a smile into her voice as she whispered conspiratorially. “People tend to get scratched when they tangle with me.” She met the girl’s wide eyes with her own mischievous glance and looked knowingly back and forth to the girl’s cut hand.

  “You always carry knives?” the girl asked.

  She nodded. “I have been taught to use them to protect myself. At this school up in Scotland.”

  “By the devil. Scotland?” the girl said, and the old woman chuckled at her curse. It did sound humorous coming from such a dainty little thing. Evelyn would have been knocked over with the vehemence the child had spat with the words. “’Tis leagues away,” she added.

  “Ah,” the crone said. “But it smells sweet up there in the Highlands, child. Not smoky and full of filth like the streets of London now.” She sighed. “I think come spring, I may head back home.” She looked at Cat. “Hearing ye has given me a yearning for it.”

  The woman might need to retreat even sooner from London if anyone decided that the king was poisoned.

  Leaning closer to the girl, Cat spoke gently as she tied her hand with the strips of yellow cloth the woman had. “I will be returning to the Highland Roses School for ladies, probably within a week. If ye have no one here to keep ye, I would like to bring ye home to it. Ye could learn to stop anyone from laying a hand on ye again.” She met her gaze without wavering. “This Michael won’t know anything about where ye have gone,” she whispered.

  The little girl frowned, her bottom lip protruding a bit. “Michael takes care of me.”