Come Midnight (7 page)

Chapter 5

"Jepson, his lordship wants you!" Sally Hodgkins paused to catch her breath as she reached the servants' hall. "And he's in a temper!"

Jepson set down his dish of tea and made at once for the stairs. In a temper? In a rage, more likely! Rage seemed the only way to describe his lordship's state of mind lately. The marquis had not been an easy man to work for since his return from the Peninsula. Since the events of two nights ago, he'd become downright difficult

They were all overset about the child's leg, of course. But his lordship was taking it especially hard. Yesterday he'd had no less than three additional doctors in to examine the lad. Not to mention the Prince Regent's personal physician. After each left, sadly shaking his head, Lord Lightfoot had become further enraged. If that were even possible.

Jepson didn't understand it The child was alive. Alive, when he'd been given up for dead! One would think a parent might be grateful for such a miracle. But Lord Andrew's miraculous reprieve had only served to drive his father into the worst sort of... melancholy.

Yes, melancholy, Jepson decided as he reached the top of the stairs. He'd served the man a long time. He recognized the sad, haunted look behind the anger. A look that had first appeared after his lordship's marriage. Deep melancholy, for a certainty, though the outward show was rage.

Jepson sighed as he approached the lord's chambers. He wondered what had set him off this time.

His employer was furiously pacing the length of the Aubusson carpet when he bade the butler enter. Jepson wisely remained just inside the door; he'd wait to be told what was amiss. Doing otherwise would only earn him a measure of that wrath heaped upon his own head.

The marquis reached the edge of the carpet, pivoted, and speared Jepson with his eyes. "Are you aware of the identity of a woman named Murch?" He ground this out between clenched teeth.

"Yes, your lordship. Miss Murch is the governess her ladyship recently engaged for—"

"And were you aware she brought the creature up with her from Kent?"

Jepson hesitated, then gave a nod. He'd totally forgotten Murch. The marchioness had given the woman leave to visit a sick relative in the city, just after they arrived; he'd barely taken notice of her. He explained this to his irate employer, wondering how the governess had had the misfortune to run afoul of his lordship's temper. Not that it was a difficult thing to do these days.

"I see," said the marquis in a voice that had grown dangerously soft. "And were you aware that Miss Murch had returned this morning?"

Jepson opened his mouth to answer, but the marquis leaned forward and cut him off. "Or that," he said tightly, "having read about my wife's demise in the Post, she took it upon herself to resume her duties, first thing—by telling my son he's motherless?"

"Good heavens!" Jepson was appalled. He hadn't known of her return, yet even if he had, he couldn't imagine needing to counsel the woman as to the delicacy of the situation. He hadn't hired her, but governesses were supposed to know what they were about. "The woman must be a heartless incompetent," he added without thinking, for it wasn't his place to comment.

Adam gave him a stiff nod, trying to control his anger. He hadn't liked the last woman Lucinda had engaged. He'd found her cold and rigid, and told his wife to sack her. That she'd replaced the creature with this equally worthless bitch made his blood boil.

He'd entered his son's chambers this morning to find the child sobbing. Murch was there, and the stupid twit blithely explained what she'd done. "Lady Lightfoot said I mustn't mollycoddle him," she'd informed him!

"I ...I humbly beg your lordship's forgiveness," Jepson stammered. "I ought to have been aware Miss Murch had returned. Your lordship, I take full responsibil—"

"Never mind! I've just turned her off—without a character."

The butler nodded, schooling his features to show neither approval nor the relief he felt at his own reprieve. But what of the poor child? He ventured a query. "How is Lord Andrew faring, your lordship? Does he require someone to—"

"He already has her."

"Your lordship?"

With mixed feelings, Adam thought about the first serious conversation he'd ever had with his son. He liked children, always had, and he loved his son. Yet he'd been away for a deal of the time the boy was growing past his infancy. How did one talk to a six-year-old? he'd wondered.

Somehow, he'd managed to dry Andrew's tears and get through the deuced difficult business of explaining the nature of death. He'd tried to be gentle, but because of his simmering wrath, he still wasn't sure he'd succeeded. He only knew he'd been grateful for getting through the entire business without once referring to heaven. Fortunately, Andrew hadn't asked if that was where his mother was. He certainly hadn't volunteered it!

The boy had seemed satisfied with what he'd told him, and Adam had been vastly relieved. Relieved, and then astonished. His tears forgotten, Andrew had promptly asked for that little Irish baggage to keep him company!

Glancing up, Adam saw the butler patiently waiting for a response. "Lord Andrew has requested that the new Irish maid attend him," he informed him.

Jepson's features rarely showed emotion, but Adam thought he detected an interested gleam in the old retainer's eyes.

"She's with him now," he added, then frowned. He didn't want to think about the warm smile Andrew had for the chit when she'd arrived. And that he himself had been unable to coax even the smallest one out of his son.

"She's to have an appropriate rise in wages," he told the butler crisply. Grabbing his hat and gloves, he strode toward the door.

Jepson looked completely at sea. "Er... appropriate, your lordship?"

Adam glanced at him before heading for the drive where his curricle waited. "Appropriate," he repeated. "I've just elevated her to governess."

***

"Caitlin, is Mama in heaven now?" Andrew looked at his new governess with worried eyes. He knew about heaven. The vicar at Ravenskeep's village church was to be his tutor one day, and he'd spoken of it And about the Bad Place. Andrew had wanted to ask his father the question he now put to Caitlin, but he hadn't. Something in Papa's eyes had told him not to.

Caitlin gave him that smile that made him feel all warm and safe inside. Andrew felt himself relax a little. Caitlin was even easier to talk to than his best friend, Jeremy.

Though she smiled, Caitlin considered carefully how she should answer him. Privately, she had her doubts about heaven for a woman who'd had no time for her son. Yet she'd cut out her tongue before voicing them to the child. Andrew needed comforting, and, by all the saints, that's what he'd have! Still, she wouldn't lie outright to the lad ....

"And where else would she be?" she replied, careful to maintain her smile.

Andrew bit his lip, pondering for a moment, then met her eyes. "Jeremy Wells said a lot of people go to the Bad Place when they die."

"Did he, now?"

Andrew nodded solemnly, looking ill at ease.

"And who is Jeremy Wells, if I might be askin'?"

"He's the vicar's son, and he's eight."

Caitlin nodded thoughtfully. "Well, now, bein' a vicar's son is nothin' t' sneeze at, o' course. And as for his bein' eight"—she gave Andrew a look that said she was properly impressed—"I suppose we must regard what Jeremy says very carefully."

Another solemn nod.

"And what else does Master Jeremy say ... about the bad place, I mean?"

"He says it's where the wicked go—straightaway!"

"Ach!" Caitlin exclaimed, pretending not to see the worried look on the boy's face. "There we have it, then!''

"We ... we do?"

"We do, indeed." The two had been sitting side by side on a window seat in the schoolroom, with Andrew's injured leg propped on a chair amid some pillows. Now Caitlin scooted off the seat and knelt before the child. She took his small hand in hers.

"Andrew," she said, meeting his anxious eyes, "ye cannot think yer mother was a wicked person, now, can ye?" She held her breath, suddenly wondering if the question were wise.

She also hoped Andrew didn't notice her let it out in relief when he shook his head and smiled at her. Smiled with his whole face. The blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and his dimples deepened, just like his—

She cut off the thought; his father was already in her thoughts more than she liked. No sense inviting the devil—
Ach! The man has me worried, and no mistake! If it weren't for the lad—

Again, Caitlin throttled her thoughts. "Have we answered yer question, then?" she asked Andrew softly.

"Yes, thank you, Caitlin." Andrew looked thoughtful as she rejoined him on the window seat. "Caitlin .. . ?"

"Aye, lad?"

"Why is it all right to call you 'Caitlin'? Mama said I must call my other governess 'Miss Murch.' She said it wasn't"—Andrew paused, his brow furrowed in thought—"wasn't proper to call a governess by her Christian name."

Caitlin smiled. She was hardly a "proper" governess. Not that that had mattered to Lord Lightfoot He'd asked if she could read and cipher. When she told him she could, he'd pronounced her the lad's new governess—just like that! Ach, he was a strange one, he was. Aye, strange . . . and he frightens me out of my wits! The child's tug on her sleeve pulled Caitlin back to the present. "Well, ye see, lad," she said, "there are all sorts o' people in the world. Some are ... Christian-name people ... d'ye know, like yer friend Jeremy..."

"He's my onliest bestest friend," Andrew put in.

She nodded. "And ithers who are family-name people ..."

"Like Miss Murch?"

"Aye, like Miss Murch ... and the bishop when he comes t' call." She wasn't certain Anglican bishops did this, but it seemed a safe bet, given the importance of Andrew's family. "Now, meself," she went on, "I'm a Christian-name sort... most o' the time, at least. That means, lad, that if I heard ye Miss O'Brienin' me, I'd likely faint dead away!"

She looked at him wide-eyed, clutching his shoulders in an exaggerated show of seeking reassurance. "And we couldn't have that, now, could we?"

He shook his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I mean," she went on with a straight face, "there I'd be, laid out on the carpet"—she gestured broadly at the floor with a sweep of her arm—"as if someone had popped me a facer!" Andrew covered his mouth as the giggle emerged. "And ye'd be callin' for a footman t' fetch the vinaigrette and hartshorn, all the day long! Well, we simply cannot have it So 'tis Caitlin, me boyo." She winked at him and grinned. "Caitlin, the live-long day!"

"Oh, Caitlin," Andrew told her between giggles, "Jeremy isn't my onliest bestest friend anymore. Now you're my bestest friend, too!"

***

Adam returned early from his club, no further along in his search for clues to Appleby's whereabouts. He'd had a throbbing headache since rising that morning. A legacy from the night before, when he'd polished off a bottle of brandy. Not that it had done any good. The confirming opinions of four highly recommended physicians, including Prinny's own, hadn't been changed by getting foxed. Andrew would never walk again, and no amount of liquor could blot that truth from his mind.

Hoping to banish his despairing mood, he headed straight for the schoolroom. The time spent with his son that morning had been the singular bright spot in his day. It had also reminded him how little he knew his only child. He vowed to remedy that—starting now.

As he drew near the room on the third floor, he heard giggles .... A child's giggles ... and a female's.

The schoolroom door was partially ajar. As the sounds of merriment spilled into the hallway, Adam slowed and stood just outside the door. The lilting syllables of an Irish brogue rippled on the air.

"Ach, go on with ye! Six! The poor man had six fingers—all on one hand? And what o' his ither hand, then?"

Andrew's giggles didn't abate. "Just five—but he's not a poor man, Caitlin. Jeremy says he's nasty. And rich as Cro—Cro—"

"Croesus?"

"Yes, and ... Caitlin, what's Croesus?"

"Not what, but who, lad. Croesus was a very rich king who lived a long time ago, as I recall hearin' somewhere. But back t 'Jeremy's rich uncle o' the six fingers, boyo."

A smothered giggle. "His rich, nasty uncle, Caitlin!"

"Aye, that one. If the poor—er, not very poor man has the normal five fingers on one hand, but six on the ither, can ye tell me how many fingers he has alt'gither, Andrew?"

Adam's brows lifted as he caught the drift of what she was doing. The little minx was actually conducting a lesson! But had ciphering ever been taught this painlessly? He recollected his own sessions with tutors. Each with a book in one hand—and a birch rod in the other.

But did the chit's method work? All well and good to spare the rod, but—

"Eleven!" Andrew's triumphant voice rang out, and his father grinned.

"Right ye are, boyo!" Caitlin announced, giving Andrew a hug. "Ach, ye're a clever one, ye are, and that's no blarney! Why, most six-year-olds can't even count to eleven, Andrew, yet here ye are—"

"Ah, but we Lightfoots have a history of producing precocious children, Miss O'Brien." Adam saw the girl's eyes widen as he strolled into the schoolroom. So did his son's, but there was a difference: Andrew merely seemed surprised, while .... Bloody hell. The chit's afraid of me!

Andrew's giggle pulled Adam from this disturbing thought. "You're going to make her faint, Papa!" the child exclaimed.

Caitlin tore her gaze from the handsome face with its ominous scar as the child tugged on her sleeve. "What is it, lad?"

"Papa just Miss O'Briened you!" Andrew chortled. "Shall we ring for the vinai—vinai—"

"Vinaigrette, t' be sure!" Caitlin exclaimed, thrusting her fears aside for the moment. She slapped her hand comically on her chest. "Ach, I'm feelin' feint already!"

Despite his ugly mood of minutes before, Adam felt oddly buoyant. His headache was gone. Laughter welled up inside him, drawn by his son's infectious giggles. "Would someone"—he chuckled, looking from his son's delighted face to the diminutive, grinning redhead—"please tell me what's going on?"

Andrew explained about "Miss O'Briening," and when Adam promised to call the governess only Caitlin from then on, they all laughed.

At length, the marquis grew serious. "Andrew ..." His eyes moved to a table bearing a chess set, and he strode over to it and carried it to the window seat.' 'While I have a chat with Miss, uh, with Caitlin, would you set up the men as I showed you, son?"

The boy grinned, complying at once, while Adam drew Caitlin aside. "How's his leg?" he murmured. "Any pain?"

"Look at him, milord," she whispered. "Does he look as if it hurts him?"

Adam looked, and heard his son humming as he carefully set up the chessmen. He shook his head. "No, of course not. But. .. it's just that the physicians said—"

"Physicians don't know everythin', milord," Caitlin sniffed. The one who'd attended the Prince Regent was the most arrogant man she'd ever met. He'd taken one look at her poultices and pronounced them quackery, she later learned. That was after the numbskull sought her out and told her to go back to her Irish bogs!

"I'm aware," said Adam, "of the rudeness of His Highness's physician toward you, and I'm sorry for it, Caitlin."

Still speaking in a low voice, he had to bend to reach her ear, because of her diminutive stature, and Caitlin felt herself flush. It wasn't so much because of the incident he cited as it was the man's nearness. He was so close, she could distinguish the tiny white lines fanning his eyes, where the sun hadn't bronzed his skin. And the scent of him. He smelled. .. masculine, she supposed it was, but in the nicest sort of way. Of horses, and leather, and a faintly spicy scent that might have come from the soap he used.

Then he smiled at her, and her breath caught. It was only a smile, but bestowed on her this close, it—Sweet Holy Mary! Her reaction went clear to her toes.

"Suffice it to say, Caitlin," he went on, "my son requested the restoration of your poultices the moment the man left."

As she stepped back a pace and nodded, Adam noted a charming blush stealing over her face, and the light sprinkling of freckles dusting her pert little nose. With those wide green eyes, she was all innocence, and purity itself. He'd forgotten there were such females in the world.

The thought made him frown. If she knew what was good for her, the innocent Miss Caitlin O'Brien would run from this place. From him—and never look back! Blood and ashes, he felt filthy just looking at her.

"Take an hour for yourself, Caitlin," he said curtly. "I require some time alone with my son. You'll be summoned when his chess lesson is over."

Adam watched hurt and confusion cross her face at his tone, and he wondered at the stab of regret he felt.
Silly chit!
he admonished silently as she curtsied and scurried out.
You should be thanking your stars I've any charity left in me.

He made a mental note to see Vanessa that evening. The clever Cyprian was just what he needed. Just the thing, in fact: a damned whore for his damned soul!