Eliza was intrigued, but shocked at the latter suggestion. “Mr. Raeburn! I have no interest in marrying your friend. I have no interest in marrying anyone.”
“Your mother could move into Tubby’s house. The place is a damned barn—room for Snow White, all her dwarfs, and the huntsman. That’s one of Sunny’s favorite stories, by the way. You’ll get sick of it if you stay here for any length of time.”
Oh no. She still hadn’t called Oliver today to check on the progress of the governess search. Would Mr. Raeburn be up to seeing people tomorrow? He couldn’t interview the women from his bed.
He was looking haggard now, stifling a yawn. Clearly the man needed to sleep. Eliza decided it must be time to go. “If you don’t need anything, I think I should let you get some rest.”
“Finally,” he muttered. “But I shouldn’t let you leave.”
“Why not?”
“It can’t be more than nine o’clock. Now that you’ve killed the clock, you’ll have to look at my pocket watch. It’s on the dressing table.”
It was chased silver, a gorgeous thing and polished to brilliance. He was, unfortunately, right about the time. To pass three more hours in his company . . .
That kiss had seemed endless, but Eliza realized it couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes. He’d already drawn her and planned out her future, mad as his scheme was.
She sat back down. “What shall we do next?”
“Not what I’d truly like—I don’t believe I have the energy.”
He gave her a look. She was beginning to recognize it—he was just daring her to be naughty right along with him. Nicholas Raeburn couldn’t seem to help himself from skirting propriety, and Eliza resolved not to fall into his trap. She would not be lured into an inappropriate conversation with him no matter how many looks he gave her.
“Don’t you want to know what that is?” he asked.
She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Not especially.”
“But you suspect something nefarious. Admit it.”
“I don’t know you well enough to discern what you are thinking, Mr. Raeburn. I’m not a mind reader,” she said with impatience.
“Do you believe in the occult, Miss Lawrence?”
“Goodness. What an odd question.”
“You’ve never been to any séances? No, of course you haven’t. A nice middle-class girl like you, daughter of an accountant, you wouldn’t accept the mysteries behind the Veil.”
Oh, what rubbish. And Eliza said so.
Mr. Raeburn threw back his head and laughed, then looked as if he regretted it. “Can you get me my tablets and a glass of water? I have a devil of a headache still.”
“Perhaps it’s the spirits with hammers and anvils,” Eliza said, unwrapping the pills from their paper.
“Very likely. Though as far as I know, no one’s died in this house. It belonged to my friend Daniel Preble. He was its first and only owner. What do you think of his collections?”
Eliza was tempted to say like Sir Thomas Featherstone, Mr. Preble must have more money than sense. He probably never passed an antique shop without buying something. But judging from his contented expression, Nicholas Raeburn was happy to be surrounded by the detritus of numerous civilizations.
“I’m not an antiquities expert. Or very versed in art, for that matter. Did he paint all the paintings in the house?”
“Oh no. Some, certainly, but most were collected on his Grand Tour and are centuries old. The rest come from artist friends of ours. One or two might even be mine, but the bulk of my work won’t arrive until next week. I told you that, didn’t I?”
“You did.” And if she was still here by next week, she would shoot herself.
“Which reminds me. I promised Daniel I’d crate his paintings and send them. Perhaps you could help me with that. If I’m confined to bed for a few more days, someone will have to.”
“C-confined to bed?” Eliza stuttered.
“According to your Dr. Samuelson, I am supposed to remain here for the foreseeable future. The sutures in my leg need a chance to heal. They’re situated in an awkward spot, and any excessive movement might rupture them.”
From the position of his hand on the bedclothes, his injury was perilously close to his manhood. Eliza went back to staring in her corner.
Days. She would be here days. Even if Oliver found the perfect governess candidate, any ordinary woman would refuse to come into a man’s bedroom to be interviewed.
“You cannot get up at all?” she asked in a small voice.
“Oh, I can. Within reason. To use the necessary if absolutely necessary.” He grinned. “To flee the building if it’s on fire. But like your poor mother, stairs are tricky for me at the moment, as I’ve found much to my regret. Don’t worry. Mrs. Daughtry will be back tomorrow to change the dressing and empty the slops and check for fever. Actually I feel a bit hot now.”
Without thinking, Eliza reached out and placed her palm on Mr. Raeburn’s forehead. It was scorching. Was his fever associated with the flu or an infection? Eliza was no nurse, and was not about to ask Mr. Raeburn to remove his pajama bottoms so she could check on his wound.
But she should. She really should. If the cut needed tending to, she’d have to call Dr. Samuelson right away.
Eliza cleared her throat, closed her eyes, and made her shocking request.
Chapter 10
The sly puss. Nick had been subject to numerous methods of seduction, but no one had ever been so direct as to ask him to simply take his clothes off.
But he really wasn’t up to anything, in any sense of the word. His head was pounding, his belly roiled, and his armpits were damp.
“Sorry, love. It seems you are a mind reader after all, but my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so to speak. I was a bit premature, although I assure you prematurity is not generally an affliction I suffer from.”
Eliza frowned at him, an expression he was familiar with from most of the governesses he’d had growing up. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m afraid I cannot perform in any manner that might suit you. Not just yet. Give me a day or two and then—”
“What—why, you ridiculous, odious man! I want to check your bandages, not anything else! If your cut is inflamed or filled with pus, we must call Dr. Samuelson back immediately.”
Well, he’d misread those signals, hadn’t he? Nick wasn’t usually such a cloth-head. He’d chalk up his stupidity to his optimism and call it good.
“Forgive me. I’m just slightly delirious and cannot think straight. I’m so confused.” He moaned for effect.
“You, sir, are a very bad actor. Really, did you think I wanted you to lift your nightshirt to—to—well, you know.”
She was rosy cheeked again. Really, she was adorable.
“I don’t know anything right now. My head, you know. Anvils. Hammers.” He shut his eyes because it was pretty much true.
Eliza took a deep breath. “With your permission, I’ll check your thigh. If you would be good enough to cover your—cover your—you know.”
He did know, and it was imperative Eliza did not judge him in his current state. With fumbling fingers, he lifted one side, making sure the bedclothes covered his privates.
“You’ll have to lift your—you know. I can only see the bottom of the dressing.”
Nick lifted his bum and felt a quick tug, cool air rushing to his thigh. He shivered.
“I’m just going to peel this back a little bit,” Eliza said, sounding as if she were talking herself into marching to Pretoria on stilts. Her fingertips touched his thigh and he shivered again. She wrestled with the knot of gauze tape holding the dressing in place and was so quiet, Nick had to open his eyes. She was biting her lip again, a look of concentration on her downturned face. If she remained on Lindsey Street, she might have no lip l
eft.
It was clear she didn’t want to stay, and who could blame her? His home had turned into one of those plague houses they used to mark with an X during olden times. No entry allowed. Eliza Lawrence had been thrust into the thick of everything—sick servants, sick child, sick master—and when it came down to it, she was a complete stranger who had been forced to sit at his bedside. Every proper inch of her must be in rebellion at her current circumstances.
“I think it looks all right. There’s some dried blood around the edges, but nothing else.” She took a deep sniff. “Smells clean, too. So your fever originates from your illness, thank goodness.”
“Wonderful. Dr. Samuelson won’t be cutting off my leg, then.”
She retied the tape. “Don’t be flippant, Mr. Raeburn. You are a very fortunate man.”
“So I am. And you didn’t faint on me again, Miss Lawrence. I’m proud of you.”
“You should have seen yourself last night—you would have fainted, too.”
“Nay. You forget I have two brothers. We were always up to some mischief or other, and a good bit of blood was involved on numerous occasions.”
“Are you close to them, your brothers?”
Nick shrugged. “I’ve been away a good long while. My oldest brother Alec thinks he always knows best, so it was a treat to get out from under his thumb. Evan has a temper, though he works hard to keep it under control. He wasn’t so judicious when we were growing up. I have more scars than this trifle on my thigh. You don’t have siblings, I collect.”
She shook her head. “I sometimes wish I did have someone to share the burden with. Not that I’m resentful at all of my mother—she is goodness itself. Never asks for anything. But, as I said, I worry.”
“All the more reason for you to marry Tubby and manage his assets. He won’t mind a mother-in-law in the attics—he’s hardly ever home.”
“Then he hardly sounds like a satisfactory husband.” She sounded almost playful.
“What do you think of his idea?” Nick asked. He thought the artists’ cooperative had genius possibilities. Not that he’d give up his own atelier, but he thought of the young starving fellows in garrets who could use a hot meal and some encouragement.
“Would something like that work? All those mad creative people vying for attention?”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head. What’s needed is someone practical who would not be swayed by temperament. There would have to be lists, schedules, all sorts of bor—I mean, highly organized tasks that might appeal to you.”
“But . . .” There went that tooth into her lip again.
“But what?”
“I’m a woman.”
“And you have a penchant for stating the obvious. So?”
“While I appreciate your confidence in me after only such a short acquaintance, most people do not take women seriously. We’re meant to be seen and not heard.”
Nick chuckled. “I thought that was children.”
“What’s the difference? Most men of your class infantilize women. A well-bred female is not expected to tax her brain—preparing a menu is the most that can be expected. One is supposed to be helpless and rely upon the man in her life for the important things. Father. Brother. Husband. As if we’re inferior in some way. It’s humiliating.”
“I agree with you.”
Eliza looked surprised. “You do?”
“Of course. Why should an extra seven or eight inches make one superior?”
“Exactly. A difference in height should not matter.”
He wasn’t referring to height, although he wasn’t going to explain himself to her. It seemed most unfair to win life’s lottery just because one had the accidental good fortune to be born a male with the necessary equipment. Things were bound to change in this new century, but not soon enough to suit Eliza Lawrence, or himself for that matter. He hoped by the time Sunny was grown, she’d have every road open to her.
“When I’m well enough, I’ll send for Tubby and you two can discuss his project. He needs someone like you who won’t brook any nonsense. Will speak her mind. He does tend to get carried away, but his heart’s in the right place.” Nick felt the beginnings of a yawn and covered his mouth with smudgy fingers. How he craved a bath, but it wasn’t to be for a while.
Wouldn’t it be something if Tubby fell in love with his governess? Well, more likely in lust. Poor Tubby. His friend had an unnatural yen for discipline. Nick could easily see Eliza wearing a stern expression and wielding a crop, not that she would ever consent to such a thing.
“Shall we write those letters we talked about last night?” Eliza asked.
For a moment, Nick drew a blank, but then he remembered he was going to notify his friends he was ill and they might soon follow. He nodded and sent Eliza to the flimsy little desk in the corner for paper, pen, and ink.
“I can probably write myself, but I’ll bet your handwriting’s better,” Nick said, leaning back against the pillows. “Shall I dictate? One message will do for the three of them—you’ll just have to copy it twice and change the names. Their addresses are in the tooled leather diary you’ll find upstairs in my studio.” The pages were mostly empty, but that would soon change. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“I’m a secretary. This sort of thing is my job.”
She settled back in the chair, using a book picked up from his bedside table he hoped she wouldn’t open to write on. If his kiss had flustered her, the events described in the novel would give her conniption fits. But perhaps she couldn’t read French.
“‘Dear Tubby’—no, make that Tom—and the next letters will be to Peter and Marcus—‘I hope this finds you well. Unfortunately, that condition may not last long. My household has come down with a mild form of influenza, which my doctor tells me can be contagious.’ I say! You’re not going to get sick on me, are you?”
Eliza looked up in confusion. “Is that for the letter or are you speaking to me?”
“To you, of course. Rotten luck if you do fall ill. We’ll get someone to take care of you, don’t you worry. Word of a gentleman, even if you don’t think I am one. ‘Best to keep away from me for a while. All the best, Nick.’ And as a postscript to Tubby, thank him for coming to my aid last night and add that I’ve found him the answer to his prayers.”
“Mr. Raeburn! I cannot write that.”
“Change the wording to suit yourself. You should at least listen to his plan. If you can tame Tubby, the world’s your oyster.”
Eliza wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I don’t care for shellfish.”
“What! Then you’ve never had a proper lobster, dipped in butter. I could show you how to open the little bug—uh, little beasts. When we were children, our mother took us to Dunoon, where we acquired quite a taste for ripping the creatures apart, as only bloodthirsty boys can do. That’s a seaside town in Scotland, you know, very fashionable now but it was early days then. I hear one has to buy a ticket to walk on the promenade and show off one’s bonnet.”
“That seems silly—to pay to walk about.”
“Indeed. And you’d have to have a much nicer hat than the one you wore here to compete,” Nick teased. Really, that hat was atrocious.
“There’s nothing wrong with my hat,” Eliza said.
“There’s nothing right with it, either. An attractive girl should not hide her light under a bushel.”
“I am not trying to attract attention, Mr. Raeburn. As I said, men pay little enough mind to women in business as it is. If I were to dress inappropriately, no one would ever hire me.”
“Well, you’ve got a job already, don’t you? Buy yourself a pretty hat. Or maybe I’ll buy one for you—I know just the thing.”
“I cannot allow you to do so.” She went on a tirade about how it was entirely improper to accept gifts from a gentleman who was not a fiancé or husband or f
amily member, and his mind wandered.
Lord, but she was predictable. Nick would bet she’d never stepped an inch out of line her whole life. But he didn’t have the energy or time to seduce her, and his eyelids were growing heavier by the second.
Somewhere downstairs a clock chimed. Nick nodded, agreeing with everything she said. When he failed to speak up for himself and his hat-buying prowess, she copied the letters and went upstairs for his appointment diary. She poked him with it when she returned to ask where he kept his stamps, rousing him from his twilight thoughts, and told him she’d post the letters first thing in the morning.
It was easier, he thought, not to fight with her. Nick may have spent his formative years arguing with his brothers and defending his ideas in artistic circles, but Eliza Lawrence had worn him right down.
Or perhaps it was the flu or the fever and all the excitement. Whatever the reason, Nick finally slipped into sleep under her watchful blue eyes, not registering the gentle closing of the door.
In his dream he was climbing the ruined castle walls in Dunoon, overlooking the Firth of Clyde. Paddle steamers chugged away in the distance, their smoke drifting up to the clouds. The old pier jutted into the water, and far below was a neat female figure in white. Nick couldn’t see her face beneath the meringue confection of her hat until she lifted a lace-gloved hand and tossed it away in the wind. The sun shone on her golden head, and she raised her face to it, risking freckles. Nick wanted to sketch her against the gray-green bay, but when he reached into his pocket, he found only a broken stick and a piece of dirty string. Damn, his brothers had stolen his things again. It wasn’t fair, being the youngest. Someday he’d show them . . .
Chapter 11
Eliza had not planned to sleep late. She never did, not even after a difficult night with her mother.
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