Karen Ranney

by The Devil of Clan Sinclair

  She sniffled again. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper in check.

  “Do it today,” he said, smiling at the maid. “Just today, and I’ll find a schedule to accommodate everyone.”

  She wiped the corner of one eye, sighed dejectedly, and took herself off to the kitchen. No doubt she would whine about her new chore for as long as she had to do it.

  What did she expect him to do? Lavina hadn’t died solely to upset her schedule. Trying to find a replacement for the scullery maid had been difficult. Once likely candidates learned Lavina had died of smallpox and the household was still battling the disease, they weren’t in any hurry to work at the Countess of Barrett’s home.

  Virginia would survive. He’d been at her door many times over the past week, engaged in a battle with her maid.

  Hannah wouldn’t allow him to see her. No matter what he promised or threatened, she refused to let him inside the room.

  All he had was Hannah’s word that Virginia hadn’t been damaged by the disease.

  “She only has one or two scars on her face, Paul.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Perhaps he should dismiss Hannah as well. The girl didn’t know her place, witness her frown just before she’d closed the door in his face.

  He settled back, surveying the library, his palms smoothing over the polished arms of the chair. The desk was an attractive piece of furniture, conveying substance and power. He liked being in charge, liked the control. He’d been the force behind Lawrence, but most people hadn’t realized it.

  Had he erred in suggesting Lawrence spend as much of Virginia’s fortune as possible? He’d let loose a streak of anger in Lawrence, one that had manifested in odd and disturbing ways. Even he hadn’t realized the degree of Lawrence’s retaliation until the solicitor visited the dowager countess.

  Lawrence hadn’t been the agreeable invalid everyone thought. Virginia wasn’t the downcast and malleable woman people expected.

  Nor was he the loyal servant.

  “How is she, Hannah?” Ellice asked.

  The young girl stood outside the door of Virginia’s bedroom, just as Hannah had instructed. No one was to enter the countess’s chamber for fear of being infected. Ellice, however, came every morning to ask about her sister-in-law, standing just as she was now, draped in black, her hands twisted in front of her, her face white with worry.

  “She’s the same,” Hannah said.

  When Ellice seemed to pale even further, Hannah reached out and patted her arm in a violation of all she’d been taught. If one was in service, one did not touch an employer.

  “That’s not a bad thing,” Hannah said. “You mustn’t think it such. She’s not worsened. She’s no fever, and she’s been able to take some broth.”

  Ellice nodded, seeming to take some comfort from Hannah’s words. “Mary says Elliot seems fine,” she said. “He shows no sign of the disease.”

  “I’ve heard the same,” Hannah said.

  Ellice had aged substantially in the last two weeks. Perhaps it was the strain of being the head of the household while her mother was incapacitated, or grief for Eudora. Regardless of the reason, she had taken on a maturity greater than her sixteen years.

  “Is she truly getting better?” Ellice asked. “You’re not just saying it to keep me calm, Hannah?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “The countess hasn’t had any new pustules for four days now.”

  “You haven’t been away from her side since she became ill. I know my mother would join me in thanking you for your diligence.”

  “There’s no need,” Hannah said, feeling her face warm. She didn’t like caring for the ill, but the Countess of Barrett was a different story. Not because she was any less ill, or more delicate in her sickness. But simply because she seemed so alone and friendless that Hannah could not turn her back on the woman.

  How on earth did she tell Ellice the truth?

  Besides, in her delirium, the countess had said too many things that would’ve caused the servants to gossip. Better she had been there, than one of the other silly girls who would’ve repeated her ramblings to anyone with ears.

  “Regardless,” Ellice said, “thank you. I can only hope I inspire as much devotion as Virginia does, or someone in my service is as kind as you.”

  Hannah was tired of this room, of sickness, and worrying about Virginia, the only reason why tears spiked her eyes.

  Looking down at the floor, she said, “Thank you.”

  “I’ll come every day, then, and let you know about Elliot,” Ellice said. “Would it be all right?”

  As she studied the other girl, Hannah realized Ellice was feeling as lonely and as afraid as the rest of them. She at least had some reassurance, having had the disease a dozen years earlier and survived. The chances of her contracting smallpox again was low, if not impossible.

  Ellice must be worrying about her own health as well as her mother’s. Also, she was grieving for her sister. Eudora had been the stronger personality in this house.

  The girl needed something to do, some way to feel valuable.

  “I’d appreciate knowing about Elliot,” Hannah said. “It would save me the trip to the nursery.”

  Slowly, she closed the door, leaned back against it and studied the bedroom. When the earl died, his mother had taken his suite of rooms, leaving the countess only this small chamber. Hannah was heartily sick of the place.

  Thanks to the countess’s potpourri, all she could smell was the scent of roses. She’d opened the windows, but there wasn’t a breeze, only hot air. The room felt even more closed-in and suffocating. Hay had been put down on the street to muffle the sound of carriage wheels. But with so many black wreaths in this part of the city, there weren’t many visitors. Those who didn’t have to come to this affluent area stayed away. Even the residents remained inside their houses.

  Still, she was better off than a great many people, even her own family. She wasn’t sick, she had a roof over her head, and a living.

  For now, she was a nurse. Virginia was weak, so she had become her guardian against the staff, all of whom were acting like children crying for their mother. She’d also stood between Virginia and Paul Henderson, whose eyes lit in a strange way when he talked of the countess. Her skin crawled in the man’s presence.

  Virginia would have to get well. The countess was going to have to protect herself, not only against enemies inside this house, but those outside as well.

  Or did she think to escape the consequences of her actions?

  Life had never been that simple.

  Chapter 20

  The hired carriage had seen rough use. The sagging leather seats needed to be reupholstered. Two of the window shades were missing, and the floor bore some stains he didn’t want to contemplate. But the driver had been available, and for a sum probably twice the amount he should have paid, was willing to cross London.

  Half the country had moved to the city it seemed, and the result was a congestion of people, carriages, and horses.

  When the vehicle abruptly stopped in the middle of the street, Macrath waited, thinking traffic delayed them. When they didn’t move, he opened the door and descended the steps.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked the driver.

  “There’s hay in the street,” the man said. “Someone be sick there. And there’s a black wreath.” With the handle of his whip, he pointed to a door across the street.

  “People get ill all the time,” he said.

  “Not like this. I’ll not get smallpox no matter how high the fare.”

  “Smallpox?”

  The man gazed at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re new to London, then? You’ve not heard of the sickness?”

  He shook his head.

  “Aye, rich and poor alike this year. It looks like one of the rich ones got it this time.”

  He paid the man the remainder of the fare. “I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he said.

  “Then God go with
you, and I hope the errand isn’t worth the death of you.”

  He didn’t bother telling the man he’d had cowpox as a boy, and such a thing seemed to carry with it some sort of immunity.

  The next block was even more worrisome, if he judged his surroundings by the driver’s fear. Three of the town houses were decorated with black wreaths.

  He stood at the base of the steps leading up to the address his solicitor had given him. This door, too, held a wreath. Dread was the father of the fear traveling from his feet to lodge in his throat. Someone had died in this house.

  It couldn’t be Virginia. He refused to believe it.

  He removed his hat, scraped a hand through his hair and replaced it. With the fingers of one hand, he tested the folds of his cravat, while the other smoothed down the front of his coat.

  Glancing down, he inspected the toes of his shoes. They were still shiny despite the dust from the hay.

  His knock was answered by a man in his shirtsleeves. “What do you want?”

  “Is this the home of the Countess of Barrett?” he asked, wondering if his solicitor had gotten the information wrong.

  “Why would you be wanting to know?”

  Macrath didn’t like making instant judgments about people, but he took an immediate dislike to the man who stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance.

  “I’d like to see her,” he said, withdrawing his card.

  The other man read the card, frowning. “A Scot,” he said, his tone leaving no doubt of his contempt.

  Macrath bit back his annoyance. He didn’t care what the idiot thought of him. He needed to see Virginia.

  “Tell her Macrath Sinclair is here to see her.”

  “She’s ill.”

  Time slowed, each minute freezing in slow motion.

  “She’s ill?” He glanced at the wreath on the door. “Is it smallpox?”

  “It’s none of your concern,” the man said, and tried to close the door in his face. Macrath slapped his hand on the door, pushed it open and entered. He was half a foot taller than the other man and angrier.

  “I want to see her. Now.”

  “She’ll not see you. She’s not seeing anyone.”

  “I’m not leaving until I make sure of that myself,” he said. He was going to find her if he had to knock on every door in this house.

  If she was sick, she’d be in her room. He strode toward the staircase, but before he could reach it, the other man grabbed his arm. He shook it off and took the steps two at a time.

  “Virginia!”

  On the second floor, a maid at the far end of the corridor door turned and stared at him, clutching toweling to her chest.

  Before he could reach her, the idiot attacked him.

  Hannah heard the shouts, and her first thought was someone else had died. Her second was that Paul had lost his mind, shouting the way he was. The third, immediately on its heels, was that retribution had come, today of all days.

  She glanced at her patient. Virginia was asleep, but this morning she’d eaten her first solid food in two weeks and perched on the edge of the bed, dangling her feet. Tomorrow, she would get her up and let her sit in the chair by the window, for a change of scenery if nothing else.

  Now, however, the wrath of Scotland was upon them.

  She hurried to the door, pressing her ear against the wood.

  Macrath turned and struck out, hearing a satisfying crack as his fist slammed into the man’s chin.

  The bastard fell, and he went after him, straddling the man’s chest, pulling him up by his collarless shirt and shaking the man until his eyes opened.

  “Where is she?” he asked, enunciating each word.

  The man rebounded like a cat, striking out with his feet and connecting behind Macrath’s knee. He stumbled, catching himself at the last moment. Enough time for the man to get to his feet, come after him like a bull and butt him in the stomach.

  The air left him in a whoosh, but he wasn’t done yet.

  He hadn’t learned how to fight by the Marquess of Queensberry rules. Instead, he’d learned from the boys in Edinburgh who’d shown him a few dirty tricks. What they hadn’t known about fighting was a waste of time anyway.

  He turned his back, and when the bastard rushed him, used leverage to force him off his feet and over his shoulder. As he flew past, Macrath dug his elbow into the man’s midsection. This time when he landed, he didn’t get up fast. Instead, he slowly shook like a wet dog, rising to his hands and knees.

  Macrath planted his boot in the middle of his arse and shoved.

  “Where is she?” he repeated.

  The maid, who hadn’t moved, dropped her toweling and pointed to a door.

  He stepped over the man’s body. Feeling his ankle gripped, Macrath kicked out and freed his foot, going to the door.

  Two knocks later Virginia’s maid opened it, and upon seeing him, immediately closed it again. He heard the lock engage and shook his head.

  Nothing could be easy today, could it?

  What was her name? Sally. Sarah. Hannah.

  He knocked on the door again. “If you don’t open it, Hannah,” he said, his voice deliberately mild, “I’ll just have to break it down.”

  Seeing movement from the corner of his eye, he turned just in time to get punched in the head. A bright red flash filled his vision just before the pain hit, traveling across his forehead and down the back of his neck.

  He was getting tired of this.

  He balled up his fist, connecting with the other man’s nose, lifting him in an almost graceful arc before he crashed to the floor.

  Macrath stood there a moment, shaking his hand, wondering if the idiot was going to get up again.

  Satisfied, he stumbled back to the door.

  “Hannah, open the door.”

  A second later he heard the key turn in the lock, but she only cracked open the door a bit.

  “It’s not safe for you, sir. My mistress is ill.”

  “Is it smallpox?” he asked, hoping the answer was negative.

  “Yes, sir,” Hannah said. “She’s had a hard time of it, but she’ll live.”

  Bracing his hands on either side of the door, he wondered what would convince her to allow him to see Virginia.

  Before he could speak, she said, “You needn’t worry about the child, sir. We’ve all been very careful. He isn’t sick, and there’s no sign of illness.”

  “The child?” he asked slowly.

  He’d evidently been hit too hard. The words made no sense.

  Hannah nodded. “We check on him every day, sir. He’s a sturdy little mite.”

  He placed his hand flat against the panel of the door. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in his nursery, sir. Upstairs, on the third floor.”

  He looked back the way he came. The stairs ended at the second floor. He turned to the young maid who was still standing frozen at the end of the corridor.

  “Take me to the nursery,” he said. She only nodded repeatedly. Was he that alarming?

  A moan from the man on the floor answered that question.

  He wasn’t going to think. He wasn’t going to say anything. He wasn’t going to feel anything. He refused to render judgment until he had additional information.

  He felt encased in stone as he climbed the stairs behind the silent, trembling girl.

  On the third floor she stopped in the middle of the hall and pointed to a white painted door. She didn’t look at him, merely clutched her apron with both hands, staring at the floor.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She nodded, stepping away. He didn’t try to stop her as he opened the door.

  He saw the girl first. A young thing, merely a child, with dark brown hair caught up in a bun, she was dressed in a blue uniform with a white apron. The other woman was taller, older, and had the largest bosom he’d ever seen. She sat in a large chair and in her arms was an infant.

  “Are you the doctor?” the young girl asked.

&
nbsp; “No.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be here,” the older woman said.

  He entered the nursery, closing the door behind him, taking time with each task. A curious odor of vinegar and spices scented the air, coming from squat white pots placed throughout the room, one of which was close to the door.

  Was this their way of keeping smallpox away?

  With measured footsteps, he advanced closer, his attention not on the woman but the infant she held. Her eyes never moved from his face, almost like she thought she would stop him by a look alone.

  God Himself couldn’t stop him at this moment.

  “He’s asleep, sir.”

  The sound of her voice woke the child. His hands were abruptly raised in protest. A second later he gnawed on one fist, his eyes opening as he stared balefully at Macrath.

  In that instant he knew. This child was his. A son, a little boy who scowled at him with a face so like his own.

  Could you hate a woman you loved? Could the two emotions live side by side?

  “How old is he?” he asked softly.

  “Five months and a few days,” the nursemaid said.

  He reached out one bloodied finger and touched the infant’s cheek. How could skin be that soft?

  The baby turned his head, blue eyes fixed on Macrath.

  His next question was to the older woman. “What’s your position here?’

  She looked like she didn’t want to answer him, but after a quick glance at his bloody hands, evidently changed her mind.

  “I’m the wet nurse. Mary’s the nursemaid.”

  He nodded, turning to the girl. “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Twelve, sir.”

  “I can offer you each a salary double what you earn here. But you need to choose now.”

  Each female looked at him wide-eyed.

  “I’m leaving for Scotland with the child. Come with me.”

  “Are you stealing him?” Mary asked in a tiny voice.

  “I’m a friend of the countess,” he said. “I’m taking him somewhere safe, where there’s no disease. If you want to come with me, tell me now.”

  “Well,” the wet nurse said, “I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I? What with the countess still sick.”