The Lass Wore Black Page 6

  Instead, she’d smiled prettily at him and walked away. She’d tossed her radiant hair and without a backward glance left him on a road in Scotland.

  Tomorrow, he would travel to Edinburgh and temporarily take up residence in Charlotte Square. Once there, he would accomplish what he hadn’t been able to finish in London.

  He would kill the woman he loved, the only woman who’d ever walked away from him.

  Chapter 7

  “I’ve received a letter,” the Countess of Denbleigh said when her husband joined her in the library.

  Jean had appropriated his desk in the last few weeks, since it was one of the few places where she was comfortable. He’d arranged a footstool for her use and she could sit at the massive desk and pen her book, the story of William Seath, Steward of Ballindair, and his contributions to the castle. When that was finished, she’d vowed to write a definitive work about the myriad ghosts of Ballindair.

  Morgan MacCraig, the Earl of Denbleigh, only smiled when she said such things, kissed her, and thereby changed the subject for a long time.

  Today, however, he was carrying a cup, which he placed in front of her. “A restorative,” he said. “Your aunt swears by it.”

  “Speaking of aunts,” she said, waving the letter in front of him, “I’ve received a letter from yours.”

  He sat beside the desk and pointed to the cup. She looked at the ceiling, then drank half of the bouillon, only making a face once.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea why I have to drink beef broth every day.”

  “Our son will thank you,” he said, staring fixedly at her stomach.

  She was round. Rotund would perhaps be a better word. She could no longer see her feet when she stood.

  “I need a hammock,” she said. “Or a sling. Something to hold my stomach up when I walk. I’m getting entirely too large.” She stared down at herself and made another grimace. “I could loop it around my neck, then place it below my belly.”

  “You look beautiful,” he said, smiling.

  She appreciated his kindness, but she didn’t feel beautiful. She felt large and ungainly.

  “It might well be a daughter,” she said.

  “Then we shall simply have to keep trying for an heir,” he said. “Now, tell me what Aunt Dina wrote. Is Catriona causing problems?”

  She frowned at him. “No, and she hasn’t ever since the accident. Well, not that kind of problem, at least.”

  Once upon a time her sister obeyed whichever rules of society she wanted, without regard to what people might think. She’d had affairs, even as an unmarried woman, the last one with Andrew Prender, a friend of Morgan’s. It hadn’t ended well. Morgan had given Catriona a choice to either go with Andrew to London as his mistress or be schooled by Aunt Dina in Edinburgh before taking her place in society.

  In one of the most intelligent decisions her sister had ever made, she chose Edinburgh. But then disaster struck, and Catriona’s life had been changed.

  “Drink the rest,” he said, pointing to the cup again.

  She finished the rest of the cup and made another face, just for good measure.

  “Catriona isn’t eating, and she isn’t seeing anyone, and she’s become a hermit in her quarters.”

  “She could come home to Ballindair,” he said.

  She looked over at him, loving him for that comment if for nothing else. Catriona had been a trial to both of them. Yet here Morgan was, offering her a home. He’d welcome her back to Ballindair without another thought, if only for her sake.

  “She won’t come,” she said. “I tried to convince her to come to Ballindair when I was in Edinburgh.”

  “Is the situation worse than it was?”

  She read from his aunt’s letter.

  I have solicited the help of a young physician with whom I am familiar. He and I have worked together in Old Town. I have expressed my concerns to him, and he agrees that Catriona should be examined. However, she has refused to do so. We are taking other steps to ensure that her health is maintained.

  “I wonder what other steps they’re taking,” Jean said, looking over the top of the letter at her husband.

  Morgan shook his head. “My aunt is an extraordinarily resourceful woman. Whatever she deems necessary, she’ll do.”

  “I do wish I could go to Edinburgh and see Catriona.”

  Before she could clarify her comment, Morgan got the most mulish look on his face. She held up her hand in an effort to forestall his lecture, but it didn’t do any good.

  “I refuse to hear of you even contemplating a journey to Edinburgh.”

  “I wasn’t, Morgan. I love my sister, truly I do. But my child comes first. At least right now,” she said, patting her stomach reassuringly.

  The mulish look vanished, replaced by a half smile. “Good, as long as you remember that. Catriona has a way of pulling you into her plans.”

  “Perhaps once,” Jean said. “But no more. She is part of my family, yes. But so are you, and so is our child. You have no need to worry that I might put her above you.”

  “I wasn’t jealous,” he said.

  “I know, dear,” she said, hiding her smile.

  Catriona walked to the door and checked the lock to ensure it was working correctly. This afternoon she’d been forced to hide in her bedroom while a workman repaired the door.

  She wouldn’t put it past the footman to break in again if she didn’t open it at his knock. He wasn’t here now, however. It was dinnertime, and he was late again.

  What was she supposed to do, wait around for him? He was the servant, she wasn’t.

  She went into the bedroom, to the vanity she rarely used, and picked up the hand mirror. Returning to the sitting room, she lit the lamp on the desk. There, enough light to see the truth.

  Returning to the table, she pulled out a chair, placed the hand mirror facedown on the table, and sat, composing herself.

  In the first weeks after the accident, she’d examined herself both in the morning and at night, telling herself that the damage to her face would fade. Gradually, she’d become the beautiful girl who’d traveled to London with such high hopes and dreams.

  She’d been like Jean, believing that good things would always happen. Gradually, she realized that she’d been right all along—people who only looked at the good side of life often got a rude shock when things didn’t turn out. As she’d told her sister once, hope was just another name for wishing. Wishing never made anything better.

  No, the best way to handle a situation was to stare it in the face.

  A year ago she’d looked at herself realistically. She hadn’t anything other than her appearance. She wasn’t exceptionally intelligent, not like Jean. She wasn’t witty. Instead of inciting men to laughter, she had the ability to make them think of lust.

  She’d come to Edinburgh, studied under Dina, learned what she needed to know, and transformed herself from a hoyden and someone who occasionally shocked others to a respectable Scottish sister-in-law of an earl. She’d learned the rules: how to address anyone, how to converse in polite and titled society, and how to comport herself so that not one person would be shocked at her behavior. She’d become proper and restrained, moral and demure.

  The Duke of Linster had paid court to her. She’d been whispered about, complimented, and courted until a night in July when the world changed.

  After the first weeks, she’d dispensed with looking at herself, knowing that nothing would change. Nothing miraculous had happened. Instead, the scars seemed to sink deeper into her skin, rivers of red and bluish lines on the land of her face.

  A strange thing had happened in the intervening months. She’d forgotten exactly what she looked like.

  Would the scarring be the same? Would she still be as monstrous as before? Or would something have changed?

  Slowly, she slid her fingers over the hem of the veil, then raised it. Without the concealing lace, the air felt cool on her face.

  For a moment she
kept her eyes closed. Stretching out her hand, she felt for the mirror, grabbed the handle and pulled it close. Pressing it against her bodice, she took several deep breaths, gathering up her courage from where it had scattered. Months had passed since she’d seen herself.

  The knock on the door saved her.

  With trembling fingers she placed the mirror back on the table and restored her veil.

  “Who is it?” she asked, hearing the quaver in her voice and hating it. Who was she to be so afraid—not of the person on the other side of the door, but the reflection in the mirror?

  An image she blessedly didn’t have to see at the moment.

  “The footman,” he said.

  She stood and extinguished the lamp before making her way to the door. She unlocked it and moved into the shadows.

  He entered the room, carrying her dinner tray. Something smelled wonderful—soup with chicken and onions?—making her realize she was hungry.

  “You’re late again.”

  “Yes.”

  That was it? A simple yes? He wasn’t going to explain?

  “Where were you?”

  “I had other duties to perform,” he said.

  “I thought your duty was to monitor my meals.”

  He didn’t answer, merely put the tray on the table. He picked up the mirror, turning to look at her. There was just enough light in the room to see his face. His handsome appearance made her feel even uglier.

  “Inspecting yourself, Princess?”

  She didn’t answer him, merely jerked the chair some distance away from him, sat, and pulled the tray over to her. The sooner she ate, the sooner he’d be gone.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She studiously ignored him, concentrating on her meal.

  He sat on the other side of the table, just as she expected.

  “Are you a drunkard?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Is that why you have difficulty being on time?”

  He smiled, and she looked away, uncomfortable with his amusement. Or perhaps it was simply that the smile made him even more attractive.

  She hated him for the power he had over her, granted him by a woman for whom she held some affection. She hated him because, once, even a man as handsome as he would have vied for her attention. She hated him more than any human being she’d ever known. She hated him more than any circumstance she’d ever endured, including her father’s death and the carriage accident that nearly took her life. She hated him because he’d come into the place she’d made her sanctuary and changed it.

  He reminded her of what she’d never have again, what would now always remain just outside her grasp. If she’d still been a maid, she would have flirted with him. In London, she would have ignored him for fear someone would think her interest shocking.

  Now, she was only a chore, a duty, and perhaps an object of derision.

  “Do you talk about me to the servants?” she asked. “Do you laugh about me?”

  His smile abruptly disappeared.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “No comments about the woman in black? The hermit in her room? The monstrosity?”

  He pulled the mirror closer to him, held it up and stared into it. “Is that what the mirror tells you? That you’re a monstrosity?”

  “What it tells me is that I don’t belong anywhere,” she said, then wished the truth back the moment she spoke it.

  “You’re only seeing a part of you.”

  How easy that was to say, especially looking as he did.

  “You cannot see a person’s character,” she said. “Or view a soul. All we have is a person’s appearance by which to judge him.”

  “Foolish, if that’s all you use. I’ve known my share of ugly saints, and beautiful sinners.”

  That’s what she’d been, once. A beautiful sinner, a woman who’d taken a lover—three, to be exact—in violation of her upbringing, society’s rules, and, no doubt, common sense. She hadn’t found herself with child, but she had discovered that she enjoyed lovemaking.

  If she’d waited, if she’d been as pure and virtuous as she should have been, she would never have known that.

  What man would want her, damaged and scarred as she was now?

  Did he have a great many lovers? Aunt Dina only employed three maids, and all of them were plain. Is that why he was late? Had he seduced one of them?

  She concentrated on her meal, pushing away any thoughts of the footman, annoying as he was.

  A moment later she put her fork down, blotted her lips with her napkin, then stood, walking to the door. She held it open for him, and without a word spoken, he gathered up the tray and followed her.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Is that part of your new duties? Not only to monitor my meals but to engage in conversation? I would much rather we talked about the weather than my health.”

  “Do you always limp?”

  When he didn’t leave, she brushed the air with her hand, as if to banish him. When he still didn’t move, she glared up at him, then realized he couldn’t see her expression.

  “Yes, I always limp,” she said, annoyed that she had to divulge that bit of personal information.

  Now would he leave?

  “Have you tried any liniment?”

  “Liniment? As in what you use for horses?”

  “I found it’s efficacious in certain circumstances,” he said.

  “What, you learned that from a groom friend of yours?”

  “My quarters are over the carriage house. I can’t help but learn something there.”

  That was a surprise.

  “The servants’ quarters aren’t good enough for you?”

  “Perhaps Mrs. MacTavish is worried about my proximity to the women servants,” he said.

  There was that damnable smile again.

  She grabbed his arm, conscious of two things: the material of the shirt seemed finer than most footmen would wear, and his muscles flexed at her touch.

  After guiding him out the door, she closed it, turning the lock, and hoping he wouldn’t try to test either the repairs of the door or her resolve.

  Now all she had to do was worry about tomorrow.

  Chapter 8

  Because he called on patients in Old Town every day, Mark didn’t need to give his driver instructions. Brody pulled the carriage to the side of Lothian Road as he did each morning. Certain areas of Old Town could only be traveled on foot.

  As he had all week, Brody frowned down at him when he left the vehicle.

  His driver was tall and angular, reminding him of a heron. He also walked with his long nose jutting forward as if searching for food.

  Sarah’s mission on earth was to fatten Brody up, but it didn’t seem to be working. No matter how much the man ate, it didn’t add anything to his frame. Mark had several patients like that, all of them healthy. His corpulent patients had most of the medical problems.

  “Sir, do you think it’s safe?” Brody asked.

  Last week a man had been garroted not far from there in another robbery. His attackers succeeded in strangling him, but not to death, since the man was still recovering from his injuries. Gangs of youths were also known to shoot randomly throughout Old Town. Even though they were occasionally arrested, others took their place.

  “When has Old Town ever been safe?” Mark asked.

  Crime had been on the rise lately. A certain element in Old Town preyed not only on those who strayed too close to their borders, but among themselves. The poor were often victims of the poor.

  He tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible when walking into certain areas to treat his patients. He had more than one set of clothes earmarked to wear in Old Town. Nothing fine that would immediately label him a mark.

  Handing his gold watch to Brody for safekeeping, he took what medicines he would distribute from his case and shoved them into the inside pockets of his coat, alo
ng with what diagnostic tools he’d need. He never carried his bag into Old Town. Doing so was an invitation to be robbed.

  The majority of Edinburgh society believed that the inhabitants of the slums of Old Town were poor because they wished to be. It was said that they were shiftless, addicted to drink, or simply lazy. He knew, however, from witnessing the conditions and knowing the people, that circumstances, more than inclination, kept people here.

  The family he was visiting this morning was one of those cases. Edeen MacDonald had been abandoned by her husband a year ago. Without family or prospects, she’d been forced into prostitution to support her children, at least until Mrs. MacTavish interceded. Dina had obtained a piecework job for her, where she could make lace during the day and be able to attend her daughter Christel when the girl’s medical condition warranted it.

  Still, she lived in abysmal conditions that would probably result in the death of one of her children and grant a dreary future to the other.

  He bid Brody farewell, gauging the time he’d need to visit Edeen. If he didn’t return in a timely manner, Brody would go in search of him.

  He began walking, keeping his focus on his destination and not the poor souls lying slumped against the brick walls. Gaunt faces and soulless eyes were the uniform of Old Town. The smell of cooked cabbage overlaid by the stench of urine made his eyes water, but he kept on, down into the deepest part of St. Agnes’ Close.

  Here, death waited, lurking over a slumped body nearly devoid of life. A woman cringed in the corner clutching a threadbare shawl, her face grimy and slack.

  For centuries, there had been nowhere to build but up. Consequently, Old Town was constructed of tall buildings sloping together at the top.

  A man’s worth and wealth were determined by where he lived. The poorest always lived on the ground floor, where broken sewers made life miserable. Those with some funds had their homes on the top floor, where traces of sunlight entered the windows. For a while they could forget where they lived.