Come Midnight (5 page)

***

Jepson eyed the waiflike creature standing beside Sally Hodgkins with great misgivings. God knew, he loved little Lord Andrew as well as the rest of the staff did. The lad had a way about him. And they'd long felt sorry for him, what with that cold marchioness for a mother. Not to mention his lordship being away so much during the war, and then so brooding and distant since his return. But Sally was clearly grasping at straws here. Irish Angel, indeed! The so-called healer was little more than a child herself.

"What makes you think you can succeed where a physician and a renowned surgeon have given up?" he asked Caitlin.

Taking in the stone-faced butler's forbidding demeanor, Caitlin gathered her courage. "Perhaps that's just the trouble, sorr."

The butler arched a brow at her. "Explain yourself, miss."

"They've given up," Caitlin told him. She glanced at the housekeeper. "But Mrs. Hodgkins here hasn't, and neither should you, I'm thinkin'. Perhaps too many have given up on the lad already," she added, recalling the father who'd apparently abandoned himself to grief.

A reluctant smile tugged at Jepson's lips, though he kept it in check; he was not a man given to smiles. But the girl's words hit home. Were, in fact, what he'd been thinking himself. To hear it from the mouth of this callow lass, fresh from the Irish countryside.... Perhaps she wasn't as young and inexperienced as she looked.

Jepson sighed, and met the housekeeper's eyes, his features still unyielding. "I needn't remind you, Hodgkins, his lordship's a difficult man in the best of circumstances. Adding to that, his distress over the child, I hardly think—"

"Is he still in his chambers?" she broke in.

Jepson shook his head to the contrary. "Oddly enough, his lordship repaired to the library sometime during the night. I saw light coming from under the door when I—"

"Well, that's ideal, then!" she cried. "A blessing, in fact. The Angel here can steal in to see the boy without—"

"Beggin' yer pardon, Mrs. Hodgkins," Caitlin put in, "but I'd scarcely feel right, seein' the lad without his da knowin' it. 'Twouldn't be honest, d'ye see, and I'm that, if nothin' else."

Jepson's opinion of the girl rose another notch. Most in her circumstances would jump at the chance to make some easy money, and nothing more. He ran his eyes over her slight form. Though neat and clean, if damp from the storm, her garments were worn; they showed several patches and neatly mended tears. Another of Ireland's poor immigrants, without a doubt. Yet she scrupled to refuse a potentially lucrative engagement, as she feared it would be dishonest! Intrigued, he found himself pondering how he might persuade her to accept.

"Miss O'Brien," he said carefully, "I understand your principles entirely. And normally I would agree with you. But you must know this is not a normal situation. I collect Mrs. Hodgkins has told you of his lordship's ... ah, retreat, in the wake of what's occurred?"

"She has, sorr."

"Then, you will understand why it is impossible to secure his lordship's permission any time soon."

"And time is the very thing we don't have!" the housekeeper cried, picking up the thread. "If we wait until his lordship is approachable, Lord Andrew could ... could be—" She broke off on a sob.

Caitlin glanced from one to the other, seeing the strain on their plain, no-nonsense faces. They clearly doted on the lad. They were even willing to risk their employer's displeasure to save him. How could she, a healer, do less?

She sighed, and touched the housekeeper's sleeve. "I'm not promisin' anythin', understand, but... If ye'll be showin' me the way, I'll do me best."

Her reward was a fresh bout of weeping from the housekeeper, who hugged her. And a glimmer of a smile from the butler she'd have sworn never smiled at all.

***

A quick check revealed the marquis was still shut up in the library. But before they let Caitlin in to see the child, they urged her to prepare for the possibility his lordship might discover her. It took some persuading, but they convinced her to masquerade as a new housemaid they'd taken on. Mrs. Hodgkins even produced a proper costume, borrowed from one of the maidservants.

A short time later, Caitlin tiptoed into the bedchamber. The butler had built up the fire, which had nearly gone out, then repaired to another part of the house on some errand. The housekeeper waited outside the partially open door. Likely to keep an eye peeled for the distraught father, though she hadn't said.

On the other hand, Caitlin thought as she moved toward the great canopied bed, Mrs. Hodgkins could very well be keeping an eye on her. To make certain she did no harm. In the next instant, she dismissed the thought as uncharitable.

Reaching the bed, she let out a soft sigh as she took in the small figure lying there. A comely lad, to be sure, even with his wee features so slack and pale. Ach, the little ones are always the worst to see this way! Children should be vibrant and laughing. . . full of life and straining at the bit to embrace it!

Moving quickly and efficiently, she examined the boy. She felt for a pulse—it was thready and weak—and frowned when she laid her hand on the side of his neck: feverish. She began to lift the bandages ....

And suppressed a groan. The mangled leg was bad, very bad. But someone had done a fair job of stitching torn flesh and setting broken bones. Perhaps he wouldn't lose it, though he'd surely lose the use of it. The wound to the head was another matter. This was, indeed, grave ... and likely mortal.

Yet as she'd indicated to the servants, she didn't believe in giving up. Praying silently to the Blessed Virgin for help and guidance, she withdrew some pouches from her bag. At her request, the butler had brought a kettle of water with them and set it to the boil when he built up the fire. Stirring the powders from her bag into the water, she sat down to watch. And wait.

Minutes passed, the ticking of the clock on the mantel measuring out seconds. Glancing at the bed, Caitlin bit her lip, schooling herself to patience. She must allow the exact time needed for the brew to steep, just as Crionna had shown her. Ach, but it was so hard, what with the lad lying there, still as death! At long last, she heaved a sigh. The brew was finally right Caitlin withdrew some clean rags from her bag and set about making a poultice ....

***

Quelling a shudder, Adam watched a disgruntled Appleby take his leave. He'd half expected the creature to disappear in a puff of smoke, but m'lord merely closed the library door behind him. Slammed it, actually.

Adam smiled. He'd always had an affinity for chess. No one at Eton had ever bested him. The worst he'd ever suffered at Oxford was a stalemate, and that was on a night he'd been thoroughly foxed.

Now, at the age of thirty-four, he'd lost more men than he'd ever done in a lifetime of playing. And lost the match. Yet it was the greatest victory he could imagine. Because, before losing, he'd managed to capture no less than eight chessmen from his opponent. From the devil himself.

He looked at the eight white marble pieces piled behind his side of the board. He remembered how chagrined he'd been when Appleby had won the draw for white; since white always went first, it had given Appleby the automatic advantage. Adam had felt sure it was an unlucky portent of how the match would go.

And yet he'd no complaints. Eight men! Giving him another forty years of life before the bargain was fulfilled. By the time that bloody fiend came to drag him to perdition, his son would be well launched. Andrew would likely present him with grandchildren before he ....

Thoughts of his son had him suddenly rigid with suspicion. Prior to leaving, Appleby had assured him he'd find Andrew alive and improving, yet what did that mean? He ought to have insisted on taking the little bastard back to his chamber and seen for himself. Contract or no, he didn't trust the archfiend. Not one bloody bit!

Pivoting on his heel, Adam raced from the room. On his way to his son, he absently rubbed a finger on his left hand; the tip was sore from where he'd pricked it with Appleby's knife. He dismissed it. The little reminder would soon fade. He'd give the damned business no more thought. He had no regrets. His son was what mattered, not he.

He'd been living in hell for years, anyway.

***

Caitlin shifted her weight as she knelt beside the huge canopied bed. She was fighting exhaustion, but she wouldn't give in to it. Not while she had strength enough to pray. As she saw it, prayer was the lad's only hope.

She'd done everything she could think of for the wee lord. And yet he'd not shown the slightest sign of regaining his senses. She feared ... Ach, no! That way lay certain failure. She'd not let herself fear!

"Hail, Mary, full o' Grace," she murmured for the countless time since kneeling. "The Lord is with Thee. Blessed art Thou among—"

"Mama, my leg hurts!"

A gasp from Mrs. Hodgkins at the doorway echoed in the still chamber. Caitlin's breath caught. Releasing it slowly, she raised her head. And met the clear-eyed gaze of the child on the bed.

"God be praised!" she whispered, but this was drowned out by the housekeeper's cry of wonder.

In a steady voice, the boy complained of thirst. Weeping with joy, Mrs. Hodgkins ran to fetch Jepson. Caitlin said a silent, "Hail, Mary," and helped the child sip from a cup of water she'd left on the bed stand.

"Caitlin, Are you my new governess?" the boy asked as Caitlin set the cup aside and checked him for fever. He was cool to the touch.

"No," she answered, smiling. He had the loveliest blue eyes. Like the sky on a clear summer's day, they were, and fringed with thick, sooty lashes. "Me name's Caitlin, and I'm ... a friend."

"My name's Andrew," he told her as she began to check his wounds. It was astounding... a miracle, really. Not only that he'd regained his senses, although that was astonishing all by itself. But the head wound! It had healed beyond anything she might have expected. A miracle, sure.

Andrew complained again about the pain in his leg, and she swiftly raised the blanket to check it. Murmuring words of reassurance when he began to whimper with the pain, she frowned. The leg hadn't fared as well as his head; it was still in terrible—

"Who the devil are you!"

Caitlin swung sharply about, saw a tall man charging through the doorway.

"And what the hell are you doing with my son?"he demanded in a furious voice, hovering over her with clenched fists.

Caitlin blanched, and hurriedly crossed herself. It was the man with the scar. From her dream.

Chapter 4

Heart slamming against her chest, Caitlin stared mutely at the irate lord. Dark ... uncommonly handsome, despite the scar ... imposing, he was the exact image of the man in her dream. The one who watched as she played chess with—

"Answer me, damn it!"

His demand jerked her mind from that chilling image. Caitlin licked lips suddenly gone dry, trying to gather her wits. "I ... I'm the new—"

"M'lord, is it true?" The butler's excited voice rang from the doorway. "Is his lordship awake?"

Adam tore his eyes from the red-haired girl and darted an irritated glance over his shoulder. Jepson hovered in the doorway, backed by several murmuring servants clad in nightclothes. All were straining for a glimpse of the bed. Swearing softly, Adam swung his gaze to it... .

He wanted to sob and shout for joy at the same time.

He'd done it! He'd saved his son. Andrew's eyes ... his own eyes ... looked back at him from his son's small face, their gentian depths lucid and focused.

"Andrew...," he murmured thickly, "I—" His voice cracked, and he fell silent, trying to master his emotions.

"Papa," the boy whimpered, "it h-hurts! My leg ..."

A sudden movement beside him drew Adam's attention. The stranger he'd surprised at the bedside was reaching for his son.

"Keep your bloody hands off him!" he snarled, shoving her away.

"Your lordship!" Jepson rushed into the room as Caitlin recoiled from the marquis's angry hands. "Please don't blame the girl, your lordship," the butler implored. "She's the one who worked this miracle. She's—"

"Explain yourself, man." Adam wanted to laugh at the biting irony of Jepson's words. No miracle had brought his son's cure. Far from it! But he worried the red-haired chit was somehow tied to Appleby. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the creature try to withdraw. He clamped a hand on her shoulder and speared his butler with an angry gaze. "Now, Jepson! Or I'll let the magistrate deal with this intruder."

Mrs. Hodgkins hurried forward. "B-begging your pardon, your 1-lordship, but she's no intruder. She—she's the Irish Angel, and she—"

"She's what?"

Jepson coughed discreetly and set a hand on the housekeeper's arm. "Ahem, actually, your lordship, she's a new housemaid we've hired." He glanced at Hodgkins. "But those who ... where she was formerly employed, ah, sometimes called her the Irish Angel." The staid butler looked almost comical as he tried to summon an explanation that would satisfy his employer.

"Ah ... for her extraordinary healing skills, your lordship."

"Indeed." Adam offered the word coolly, running his eyes over the trembling girl in the silence that followed. Satisfied Appleby had kept his word regarding Andrew, he considered the odd coincidence of the girl's appearance.

His gaze moved to a poultice applied to his son's brow. That hadn't been there before. Someone had made a clumsy attempt of some kind ....

His eyes returned to the girl, and he gazed at her thoughtfully. The servants' claims were all rot, of course. But he all at once saw the advantage in letting them stand. He'd be saved unwelcome speculation about Andrew's otherworldly recovery.

"What's your name, girl?" It was a command, though he tried to soften the tone somewhat. With a growing awareness, he noted the chit was young ... and inordinately pretty.

"C-Caitlin, sorr—I mean, yer lordship." Caitlin was still dealing with the shock of recognition. And the fact that he still had her pinned by the shoulder wasn't helping her composure. "Caitlin O'Brien," she added, summoning the bravado to raise her chin a notch.

"The Irish Angel?"

Caitlin bristled. The mockery in his voice was subtle, perhaps meant to go over a poor Irish peasant's head, but she hadn't missed it. She forced a nod, not trusting her voice. It wasn't just his tone that angered her; the child was hurting, and he stood here asking questions!

"Very well, Caitlin." The marquis released her shoulder. "I collect I am obliged to you for my son's .. . miraculous recovery."

Adam's gaze shifted to his two upper servants. "She's to have a rise in wages," he told them, then gestured at the doorway. "Now remove everyone at once. I wish to be alone with my son."

"Oh, but yer lordship!" Caitlin pulled her gaze from the softly fretting child and looked up at him. "I cannot leave the lad yet! He's hurtin', and I've some willow bark in—"

The marquis's quelling look stopped her cold. "Remove everyone, Jepson," he said dismissively, and he turned to the bed.

Caitlin opened her mouth to protest, but a look from the butler froze the words in her throat. Mrs. Hodgkins placed a hand on her arm, and the two upper servants led her hurriedly from the chamber.