The Lass Wore Black (15 page)

Today she was even more attuned to his appearance, a fact that irritated her. What was there about him that interested her? He was a handsome man, but she’d known many handsome men.

No doubt he knew his own appeal. However, men with an awareness of their own attractiveness tended to be selfish lovers.

She almost asked him that question, then remembered that she was Miss Cameron, the poor unfortunate lady struck down in her youth by tragedy. Not Catriona Cameron, tiptoeing on the edge of shocking behavior.

“Aren’t you going to speak?” she asked, turning to where he stood beside the window. “I believe the agreement was that you were going to leave me alone while I ate. I’ve eaten.”

He turned his head and studied her as if he could see through the layer of lace shielding her face. What would he say if he could see her?

Looking away was easier, toying with the hem of her veil much more preferable than wondering at the footman’s bedroom achievements, lack of them, or his thoughts.

He stacked the dishes on the tray, still speechless, honoring the agreement they’d made. She’d made him promise to be silent, and silent he was.

Why on earth had she insisted on that? She missed his conversation, and wished he would talk to her.

Was she lonely enough to want to converse with a servant?

Yes.

He left, easily opening the door with one hand while supporting the tray with another.

She heard voices and wondered if he’d engaged one of the maids in conversation. Was he flirting with one of them? Were they exchanging stories of their day? Was he as charming to them as she suspected he could be?

Standing, she moved to the door, one hand raised, fingers resting against the wood. She opened the door to find the corridor empty.

He was gone, and so was the opportunity to talk to him.

Someone screamed, the noise so unexpected that she jerked in surprise. She walked as quickly as she could down the corridor to the servants’ stair.

To her horror, Isobel lay crumpled at the foot of the steps, moaning.

Artis stood above her, her face expressionless.

“How did this happen?” she asked, passing Artis on the stairs. Because of her knee, she held on tightly to the banister, taking each of the steep curving steps with care until she reached the fallen maid.

Because of the weakness in her leg, she couldn’t kneel, but she sat on the lowest step and reached out to the young girl.

“What happened, Isobel?”

The girl’s eyes flickered open. “I fell, miss, that’s all. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

She doubted the girl was telling the truth. Isobel was cradling her arm, evidently in pain.

Looking up, she discovered that Artis had disappeared.

She hated feeling helpless. She shouted for help, hoping her aunt heard. Instead of Aunt Dina, however, the footman suddenly appeared from around the corner. He took in the scene with a glance and knelt at Isobel’s side.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” the girl said weakly. “My arm, I think.”

“Did Artis do this to you?” Catriona asked.

The footman sent her a swift look, and she bit back another question. When Isobel looked away, however, she knew the truth.

“Can you sit up?” he asked.

Isobel nodded.

He gently helped her move until she was propped up against the wall. Carefully, he unbuttoned her cuff, then pushed the sleeve up to her elbow.

Isobel cried out only once, when he touched a place on her arm that was rapidly swelling.

“I’m afraid your arm is broken,” he said. “I can help you if you’ll let me.”

Isobel nodded.

“Charm only goes so far, footman,” she said, annoyed at the worshipful look Isobel was giving him. “She needs a doctor.”

“Why?” he asked, glancing at her. “You won’t see a doctor.”

She frowned at him. “I don’t need one.”

“I don’t need one either, miss,” Isobel said, smiling at the footman. “Mark will help me.”

“Mark can hurt you,” she said. “What if your arm is not set properly? You won’t be able to use it.”

“I’ll set it properly,” he said, standing.

He bent and scooped Isobel up in his arms, her uninjured arm looped around his neck. Before Catriona could voice an objection, he’d disappeared around the corner with the maid.

She sat there for a few moments, uncertain about what she felt. Despite her objections, the footman had taken charge. Isobel was at his mercy, and he arrogantly thought he could fix the girl’s arm. Add to that her suspicion that Artis had pushed Isobel down the stairs.

The entire household was in a state of chaos. Things had to change immediately.

She stood and went in search of Aunt Dina.

“S
he wants you gone,” Dina said, sighing. “I’m afraid she was adamant about it.”

“I don’t doubt she was,” Mark said.

They sat in the drawing room, Mark nursing a sherry because Mrs. MacTavish thought he’d looked cold when he arrived from calling on a few patients. The room was blessedly warm, as opposed to the night outside. He was surprised his skin wasn’t a shade of blue, and he thought Brody must be near frozen as well.

He paid his driver twice what he could make elsewhere, because of his odd schedule and constant travel, but money couldn’t make up for the miserable weather Brody had to endure.

“How is dear Isobel?” Dina asked.

“She’s doing fine,” he said, putting his glass on the doily on the table and leaning forward.

He laced his hands together loosely, regarding Dina with intensity.

“Her arm will heal quickly,” he said. “She’ll need to be put on light duty for a while, I’m afraid. A month, at least.”

Dina nodded. “But that’s not what you meant to say,” she said, placing her cup of tea next to his glass. “What is it, Mark?”

“I believe you have a viper in your nest of maids.”

She nodded. “Catriona thinks Artis was responsible for Isobel’s accident.”

“Isobel said that Artis was annoyed and pushed her. Whether the fall was intentional or an accident, the result is the same. Isobel was injured.”

“I shall have to do something,” she said.

He nodded. “Not everyone can be saved.”

“Regrettably, you’re right,” Mrs. MacTavish said, sighing again. “I can’t send the girl back to Old Town, and I can’t advance her, either.”

She picked up her cup again and took a delicate sip. She frowned at the fireplace, evidently in deep thought. “However, Isobel is a different matter. As soon as her arm has healed, I can go about finding another position for her.”

“Kingairgen,” he said. “My grandfather’s house. They’re always looking for staff, and the housekeeper is a kindly woman.”

He’d send her there with the proviso that the girl be warned about his grandfather’s lecherous impulses. He’d have a word with Isobel himself.

“Are you certain, Mark?” she asked, blinking rapidly.

He looked away, took a sip of his sherry, and fervently prayed she wouldn’t begin to weep.

“Reverend Michaels will be glad to know the situation has a happy ending.”

“I urge you not to tell him,” he said, concerned now.

She looked surprised. “Why ever not?”

Most of the relief given to the poor in Old Town was organized through churches. He’d managed to remain secular for the most part. A great many of his patients didn’t like being preached to as payment for a blanket or a hot meal. If Reverend Michaels believed he was a convert, the man would never leave him alone.

“I’d prefer to be anonymous in this instance.”

“You’re too modest,” she said.

“I might say the same about you.”

Mrs. MacTavish’s good works consisted of not only being excellent at soliciting donations, but in putting that money to the best use. A word to a friend over a pot of tea, and the coffers of a certain church were suddenly larger. A gathering of friends, and two maids had been hired, their prospects significantly better than a month earlier.

She waved away his comments and said, “However, perhaps it was a blessing that Artis did come here.”

At his quick glance, she smiled.

“Don’t you see? It’s Catriona. A month ago she would not have noticed the maids, let alone Artis’s behavior. Nor would she have cared.” She tapped the tips of her fingers together. “She certainly would not have demanded that you be dismissed.”

“Will I be?”

“On no account,” she said cheerfully. “I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

The very reason he should leave as quickly as possible.

C
atriona couldn’t believe it.

Not only had Aunt Dina refused to dismiss the footman, but the older woman laughed gaily when she insisted upon it.

“Oh, my dear,” she’d said. “I couldn’t possibly dismiss Mark. He’s been too valuable.”

Not only that, but she also refused to dismiss Artis.

“If what you say is true,” Dina had said, “then I need to counsel the girl.”

“You need to send her back where she came from,” Catriona told her.

Dina looked shocked.

“You can’t be serious, Catriona. That would be tantamount to a death sentence for the poor girl.”

She doubted, frankly, that things would be so dire as that. But it seemed as if Dina was determined to retrain Artis.

The maid’s new task was to inventory and clean the attic, a duty that evidently didn’t please her at all. One morning, she opened her door to find Artis arriving with her tray. The maid slammed it down on the sideboard, scowled at her, and stomped off.

The footman had treated Isobel adequately enough. Her arm was bandaged well and she wore a sling made of soft yellow flannel. The girl spoke of him in a rapturous voice, her eyes misting and an otherworldly smile on her lips.

It was exceedingly annoying, especially since the footman was still bringing her meals, but maintaining his silence. He wouldn’t even look at her, but left the moment she finished eating.

Yes, it was exceedingly annoying.

What a strange household they had—misfit maids, an arrogant footman, a too kind employer, and a woman who dressed in black from head to toe.

Perhaps she was the oddest of all of them.

Tonight, the trees stood stiffly beneath the mantle of snow like a forest of guards. The wind snapped at her veil and iced her face. Her lips were nearly numb, but she pressed on, intent on her walk. Her knee protested, stiff with cold, but she determinedly placed one foot in front of the other, wrapping her arms around her waist beneath the cloak.

As soon as she turned the corner, she wouldn’t be walking into the full force of the wind. All she had to do was continue a few more steps, twenty at most.

Where was the footman tonight? Was some other woman cooking for him?

She began to count. Numbers were preferable to thoughts of that odious man.

A minute later she’d reached the corner. In spring the trees, with their lush growth, provided a leafy and cool canopy. Now, the icy branches clicked at her like a dozen disapproving maiden aunts.

The night was moonless. The gas lamps had been allowed to go dark, or hadn’t been lit this evening. Only a few lights dotted the square, and she wondered what kept people awake.

Did they, too, have servant problems?

As she rounded the next corner, she could see the carriage house. The window of the footman’s room was dark. Was he standing there, watching her?

Did he know she was thinking of him? Had Aunt Dina told him that she wanted him dismissed?

“Why can’t you simply ask one of your friends to hire him?” she’d asked. “If he’s so adept at his tasks, surely he could find another position?”

He had to leave.

Must she be forced to be around him? Must she truly be subjected to his presence? He made her remember things she needed to forget. If she was to live in this new world of hers, she must put away all thoughts of the past, including those earthy pleasures she’d once enjoyed.

What man would have her?

Did men ever consider such things? Did an ugly man ever think that a woman wouldn’t have him? Or was a man so blessed simply being a man that the thought never entered his mind?

In London, a fortune went a long way toward making a man attractive.

She had some money put by.

She stumbled to a halt, staring at the darkened window.

To do something like that would truly be forbidden. Scandalous was the word for it, or even wicked. She would be reverting to the foolish, improvident, outrageous girl she’d once been.

What would he say if she offered him money to love her?

Would he tell anyone? Would he send her away? Or take pity on her? She wouldn’t accept his pity, but she’d pay for his passion.

Could she do such a thing?

The girl she’d been would have, and laughed at the idea of shocking the world. Now? She hadn’t been that girl for a very long time. A year, perhaps, but it seemed like a decade, the distance measured by experience more than time.

Still, the thought beckoned her, taunting her to do the forbidden.

A
ndrew moved into position, the better to see Catriona on her walk. From where his house was located, he could only view a corner of the square, necessitating that he move to an area where someone might see him. His pulse raced, his stomach rolled, but his smile wouldn’t be dampened.

Poor darling Catriona, veiled and hidden from the world. Had the accident ruined her face? He’d tried to find out in London, but no one would talk about her.

If she had been rendered ugly, killing her would be a mercy. She’d no longer have to mourn her looks, and he wouldn’t have to endlessly recall her.

She’d be dead, one of those regrets of his life he remembered when he’d had a glass or two of wine. One of those memories that flitted into his life just before sleep. Whatever happened to . . . ? Oh, yes, Catriona. She died.

The rifle was barely concealed beneath his long coat. Anyone studying him would see he walked awkwardly. But no one, except for the two of them, were foolish enough to be in the square on a frigid midnight.

Correction, there were other people present, a laughing group that emerged from a town house on the other side of the square. Andrew kept his gun carefully hidden.