Come Midnight by Veronica Sattler Page B

his apprehension and knocked.
    There was a moment of silence before the door swung wide. "I'll wring your stinking—bloody hell! Jepson, I thought I told you to go to bed!" The marquis's face was thunderous, his eyes crackling with rage.
    "Beg pardon, your lordship." Jepson backed carefully away. "I ... I was just—I'm on my way, your lordship. At once, your—"
    "No, wait!"
    The butler stood absolutely still. He'd never seen his employer like this, and he'd served the household many years. The man looked crazed. Had events unhinged him? A soft whimpering from the bed told him the child was alive, thank heaven, but—
    "My son ..." Adam made a helpless gesture toward the bed. "It's his leg. He's—"
    "I understand, your lordship." Jepson's face sagged with relief: Lord Andrew's suffering had brought on this terrible anger. He took in the broken vase on the carpet, the splintered chair. Understandable . . . entirely understandable. "Shall I fetch someone to tend him, your lordship?"
    "Yes ... do that," Adam said tightly. He reached for the coat he'd slung over a chair sometime during the night. Rage still seethed inside him. He'd all he could do to keep it in check, yet he knew he must. Anger sapped the ability to think clearly, and he was having difficulty doing that right now; his emotions were bubbling over. It was why he couldn't go near Andrew. The child's pain threatened to tear him apart.
    But overriding all was the burning need to get hold of Appleby. To find that demonic piece of slime and crush him under his boot heel like the vermin he was! "Have my curricle brought round," he told the butler. He'd an idea, and the sooner he moved on it, the better.
    "At once, your lordship." Jepson paused, glanced down the hallway where the two women waited. "Ah, shall I fetch the young miss to attend his lordship? The young Irishwoman, that is, your lordship. I mean, since she's already—"
    "Yes, yes," Adam replied absently, drawing on his driving gloves and moving toward the door. His thoughts were already on his club. It was where he'd met Appleby. Someone at Brooks' ought to be able to direct him to the bastard's lodgings. Some other damned fool.
    ***
    "I've never heard anyone who talks like you, Caitlin," Andrew told her shyly. "It's quite different, d'you know ... all lovely and—and a little like singing."
    The child's smile displayed deep dimples. They made Caitlin wonder if he resembled his father in that respect as well as others. But then, she couldn't imagine that dark lord smiling, no matter how hard she tried.
    "Is it, now?" she returned with an exaggerated look of surprise. "Ach! And here I was thinkin' I'd mastered tyin' me tongue in knots and soundin' just like a proper Englishwoman!''
    The sound of Andrew's laughter was a joy. Such a far cry from the pitiful whimpering that tore at her heart when she'd first come to try to ease his pain. But the willow bark tea had done its work, and perhaps the fresh poultices she'd applied to the leg as well.
    "How's the leg, lad?" she asked with as little concern as she could muster. No sense frightening the child. "And none o' that stiff upper lip blather, me boyo!" she added, wagging a finger at him.
    He'd suffered through her ministrations so bravely, she'd wanted to cry herself. There'd been tears in his eyes, and his small square chin had trembled, but not a sound out of him. The lad was brave as they come. Not to mention sweet-tempered, and bright as a brand-new penny. Her heart had gone out to him at once.
    "It hardly hurts at all," he said, then slid a glance to the plate standing beside a glass of milk on the bed stand. "But perhaps ... " he added, eyeing her carefully, "if I had another biscuit, I'd feel even better."
    "Hmm ... ," she replied, making a great show of giving this due consideration. "D'ye really think so?"
    "Oh, yes! Cook makes the most delic—uh, the most helpful biscuits."
    Sharp as a tack, and no mistake. Caitlin handed him one of the sugared