Antonia was in an agony of indecision whether to send for Mr. Demarest. In the end, she decided if the fever took a fatal turn, Cassie would be dead long before her father arrived. Far better to struggle on with Bella’s assistance and hope Cassie’s vigor and youth brought her through.
All the time, she prayed. She prayed until words lost meaning.
Please, God, don’t let Cassie die. Please, God, don’t let Cassie die.
In spite of Antonia’s tirade to heaven, Cassie’s strength continued to ebb. Antonia could only assume that the Deity refused to heed entreaties from a miserable sinner like her.
Ranelaw strode toward Pelham Place from the stables. He entered through the servants’ quarters. It was more convenient and he wasn’t a man who stood on ceremony when ceremony served no purpose.
During his ramshackle childhood, the servants had seemed on the same social level as the family. In fact, the more superior servants had considered themselves several steps above the disreputable Challoners. Of course superior servants tended not to linger at Keddon Hall. The disorderly crowd of children and dogs and dependents, including his father’s mistresses, didn’t constitute a well-run household.
In contrast, as he tracked through the dim hallway toward the back stairs, Pelham Place was eerily quiet. It was five days since the majority of residents, upstairs and down, had succumbed to fever. The healthy had fled, leaving the household to the sick, those paid to look after them—and the Marquess of Ranelaw, who continued to enjoy the pink of health.
Clearly the devil looked after his own.
Two days ago, his valet had become unable to continue his duties. Again thanks to his unconventional upbringing, Ranelaw was more than capable of shifting for himself until the fellow was back on his feet. Although his idea of shifting for himself differed from Morecombe’s. He glanced at his dull boots, usually polished to a shine, and a rueful smile curled his lips. Morecombe would have a fit if he could see him in his dirty boots, with his shirt open and no coat.
Ranelaw had tried to nurse the man, but Morecombe had been so horrified at the prospect, he’d suffered a relapse. So Ranelaw had retreated to what outdoor amusements he could find. He’d just enjoyed a brisk ride through the woods and now he headed upstairs to wash the dust away.
His hostess was well, but fully occupied with the afflicted, including several family members. Occasionally he encountered her, fluttering with distraction. She’d made it abundantly clear that she’d prefer he left, so the staff needn’t worry about someone capable of taking himself elsewhere.
Ranelaw pretended not to notice.
Although good sense indicated he should cut his losses and return to London. From what he’d heard, the Demarest chit probably wouldn’t survive to be ruined.
Now there was fate taking a drastic step to protect innocence.
It said something about his hopeless state that not seeing Antonia seemed considerably more important than his faltering quest for retribution. All very well to decide he’d seduce Miss Smith without compunction. He couldn’t do it while she remained day and night at her charge’s bedside.
As if to prove him wrong, he heard someone emerge from the scullery behind him. When he turned, he saw Antonia, carrying two pails of water.
“Antonia . . .” he said, for once in his life stuck for words.
“Lord Ranelaw.”
She looked equally shocked to see him. She took a shaky step back, and water sloshed from the pails onto the dusty flagstones. She didn’t just look shocked, she looked pale and weary to the point of collapse. That odd twinge in his chest made itself felt again.
Automatically he stepped forward to take her burden. “The maids should carry these.”
His comment made her mouth firm in displeasure. “The maids are nearly all sick. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed.” She cast a jaundiced eye over him. Clearly she’d had time since their last meeting to remind herself he was an irredeemable villain. “What are you doing here?”
Her sarcasm couldn’t dampen his happiness at seeing her. He’d missed her, even her censure. “I’ve just come from the stables.”
“No, why haven’t you left? You must be the only able-bodied person who doesn’t have to stay.”
He shrugged. “You’re here.”
To his chagrin, the answer was nothing less than the truth. If he expected his admission to soften her attitude, he was disappointed.
“You should go back to London,” she said flatly. “You’re in the way and the servants have enough to do.”
He laughed softly. If he was a vain man—he had many faults, but vanity didn’t count among them—she’d wound him. “At this precise moment, I’m devilish useful. Shall I carry these upstairs?”
He saw her consider insisting she could manage. Then common sense kicked in. She gave a brief nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said with a hint of irony. He turned and carried the buckets along the corridor to the servants’ staircase.
“You know your way around.” Her tone implied criticism.