he’d waited for news in the crowded receiving chamber, along with other solicitous callers, the chilling verdict of smallpox, the violent banging of his heart when he arrived to find servants draping doors and mirrors with black bunting, his stunned disbelief and then the crashing despair, his inevitable acceptance of her death when Flavia’s own nurse nervously recounted to him Flavia’s last moments.
“It was my sad duty, sir, to accompany Her Grace to the gates of her Reward. I myself closed Her Grace’s lifeless eyes and placed the pennyweights upon them... I myself closed her eyes . . .”
God Almighty! No more of it!
With a bellow of inner torment, McNeil clutched the bottle and savaged the floor with it. The bottle shattered. Splinters of glass shot into his hand. He didn’t feel it. He scarcely noticed the blood. He slumped to the bed. Numb. Exhausted. Around the bed, the water-stained walls revolved like a Dutch windmill. His leaden eyes closed.
The door creaked open. McNeil did not trouble himself to flicker an eyelid.
“Uncork it and bring it here,” he snarled. “Be quick.”
There was a light step, the brisk rustle of a gown. A bottle was slapped into his demanding palm with more force than was necessary. McNeil grasped his salvation. Greedily, he sucked in the amber fire. The acrid, memory-expunging smell of rum filled his lungs. Then, mixed with the rum aroma, came the scent of perfume. McNeil stiffened. It was not the familiar stench of the innkeeper’s wife, who divided her time between serving up and tending her flock of randy-smelling goats.
McNeil wrenched his eyes open. Red silk and a tumble of glossy black hair jarred into focus. He shut his eyes in disgust.
“Get the hell out of here, Annette.”
Unperturbed, the baroness sat upon the bed, setting the bed to rocking, and McNeil knew— knew beyond doubt—that for the first time in his life he was going to be seasick. Totally, ingloriously seasick.
He lunged for the edge of the bed, racing the rising gorge. He began to retch. With her neat little kid slipper, the baroness toed a slop jar in the general direction of his misery. As he emptied himself, she watched without a murmur of pity. When he was done, she got up, fished a towel from the room’s debris, wet it in the cracked, slow-leaking pitcher on the washstand and dropped it into his waiting hand.
“Devil take you, Annette,” he muttered by way of thanks.
She laughed her soft throaty laugh.
“You’re welcome, McNeil.”
She sat down heavily upon the bed. Again the bed rocked like a cradle. McNeil swore, gritting his teeth against the threatening gorge. He retrieved the bottle, which was two-thirds spilled, its rum soaking into the straw mattress. He drank. The rum burned its way down, a snake of acid. He choked, swallowed, choked, until the painkiller had done its work.
The baroness watched without comment. Garth glowered at her. Then, sickened at the cloying taste of rum, he flung the bottle at the wall. It hit with a crash. For a moment, a sunburst of amber appeared on the gray plaster. Then its rays dripped downward into ordinary stain.
The baroness was unflappable. She continued to study him with her dark, good-humored eyes.
“Go away!” he roared.
She shook her head.
“You stink, McNeil,” she offered cheerfully, wrinkling her nose in distaste. ‘Tell me, McNeil, do you intend to stay drunk forever? Or only until the Caroline is impounded and you are arrested for thievery?”
McNeil opened one eye. What the hell was the bed-craving bitch blathering about? The Caroline in jeopardy? Stiffly, he raised up on one elbow. A seedy alarm coursed through him. The Caroline was his responsibility. The crew depended upon him.
Finding she had captured his attention, the baroness did not mince words. In her forthright way, she stated the case bluntly.
“The duke of Tewksbury has obtained papers for your arrest. On the night of the ball, you stole two of his
“It was my sad duty, sir, to accompany Her Grace to the gates of her Reward. I myself closed Her Grace’s lifeless eyes and placed the pennyweights upon them... I myself closed her eyes . . .”
God Almighty! No more of it!
With a bellow of inner torment, McNeil clutched the bottle and savaged the floor with it. The bottle shattered. Splinters of glass shot into his hand. He didn’t feel it. He scarcely noticed the blood. He slumped to the bed. Numb. Exhausted. Around the bed, the water-stained walls revolved like a Dutch windmill. His leaden eyes closed.
The door creaked open. McNeil did not trouble himself to flicker an eyelid.
“Uncork it and bring it here,” he snarled. “Be quick.”
There was a light step, the brisk rustle of a gown. A bottle was slapped into his demanding palm with more force than was necessary. McNeil grasped his salvation. Greedily, he sucked in the amber fire. The acrid, memory-expunging smell of rum filled his lungs. Then, mixed with the rum aroma, came the scent of perfume. McNeil stiffened. It was not the familiar stench of the innkeeper’s wife, who divided her time between serving up and tending her flock of randy-smelling goats.
McNeil wrenched his eyes open. Red silk and a tumble of glossy black hair jarred into focus. He shut his eyes in disgust.
“Get the hell out of here, Annette.”
Unperturbed, the baroness sat upon the bed, setting the bed to rocking, and McNeil knew— knew beyond doubt—that for the first time in his life he was going to be seasick. Totally, ingloriously seasick.
He lunged for the edge of the bed, racing the rising gorge. He began to retch. With her neat little kid slipper, the baroness toed a slop jar in the general direction of his misery. As he emptied himself, she watched without a murmur of pity. When he was done, she got up, fished a towel from the room’s debris, wet it in the cracked, slow-leaking pitcher on the washstand and dropped it into his waiting hand.
“Devil take you, Annette,” he muttered by way of thanks.
She laughed her soft throaty laugh.
“You’re welcome, McNeil.”
She sat down heavily upon the bed. Again the bed rocked like a cradle. McNeil swore, gritting his teeth against the threatening gorge. He retrieved the bottle, which was two-thirds spilled, its rum soaking into the straw mattress. He drank. The rum burned its way down, a snake of acid. He choked, swallowed, choked, until the painkiller had done its work.
The baroness watched without comment. Garth glowered at her. Then, sickened at the cloying taste of rum, he flung the bottle at the wall. It hit with a crash. For a moment, a sunburst of amber appeared on the gray plaster. Then its rays dripped downward into ordinary stain.
The baroness was unflappable. She continued to study him with her dark, good-humored eyes.
“Go away!” he roared.
She shook her head.
“You stink, McNeil,” she offered cheerfully, wrinkling her nose in distaste. ‘Tell me, McNeil, do you intend to stay drunk forever? Or only until the Caroline is impounded and you are arrested for thievery?”
McNeil opened one eye. What the hell was the bed-craving bitch blathering about? The Caroline in jeopardy? Stiffly, he raised up on one elbow. A seedy alarm coursed through him. The Caroline was his responsibility. The crew depended upon him.
Finding she had captured his attention, the baroness did not mince words. In her forthright way, she stated the case bluntly.
“The duke of Tewksbury has obtained papers for your arrest. On the night of the ball, you stole two of his
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