In a dark alley near the London waterfront, a plain hired hack drew to a stop. The sole occupant of the coach watched through a slit in the curtain as two men approached.
'Is he dead?' the occupant asked in a low whisper.
Willie, the taller of the two men, curled his lips back. ''Course 'e's dead. We told ye we'd get rid of the toff and we did.' His beady eyes flickered with menace.
'Where is the body?'
'Facedown in a stream 'bout an hour's ride from Town,' Willie said, then gave exact directions to the location.
'Excellent.'
Willie leaned forward. 'The job's done, so we'd be likin' our blunt now.'
A hand swathed in a black leather glove reached out the window and dropped a bag into Willie's outstretched hand. Without another word, the curtain closed. A signal was given to the driver and the carriage disappeared into the night.
A satisfied smile curved the lips of the occupant of the hack.
He was dead.
Stephen Alexander Barrett, eighth Marquess of Glenfield, was finally, finally dead.
SHAPE * MERGEFORMAT
Chapter 2
Stephen was dreaming.
Hands, many hands, were carrying him, buoying him as a boat bobs along a sparkling stream. He felt weightless, like a cloud floating in a bright blue summer sky, drifting in a warm breeze. Something deliciously cool touched his brow. The scent of roses filled his nostrils. Voices surrounded him…
With an effort he dragged his eyes open. He saw a woman. A beautiful woman with shiny chestnut-colored hair. She smiled at him.
'You're safe now,' she said, gently squeezing his hand, 'but you are seriously ill. You must try very hard to get better. I'll stay right beside you until you are healed. I promise.'
Stephen stared at her, transfixed by her lovely face, her gentle touch, her soft voice. The look of deep concern in her eyes confused him. Where was he? And who was she? And why the hell did he feel so bloody awful? His head throbbed. His shoulder felt as if it were on fire and it seemed a huge boulder sat on his chest. He tried to move his arm and gave up when a blinding flash of pain sizzled through him.
The woman pressed something wonderfully cool to his forehead. The soothing sensation felt like heaven against his burning skin.
Heaven.
Of course. He must be in heaven. She must be an angel.
The welcome coolness touched his brow once more and his eyes drifted closed. He was dead, but what did it matter?
He'd been touched by an angel.
'Has his condition improved, Hayley?' Pamela's soft, feminine voice asked from the doorway.
Hayley turned toward her sister and read the concern in her eyes. 'I'm afraid not,' she reported to the pretty eighteen year old. 'His fever hasn't broken, and he keeps drifting in and out of delirium.'
Pamela crossed the room and laid a comforting hand on Hayley's shoulder. Hayley squeezed her sister's hand and summoned up a smile, hoping to erase the worried expression from Pamela's face.
'Is there anything I can do?' Pamela asked, her brow furrowed. 'Shall I take over for you? It's been a week, and you've hardly rested.'
'Perhaps later, but I would dearly love a cup of tea. Would you bring me one?'
'Of course. I'll also bring a dinner tray for you. You must remember to keep up your own strength.'
'I'm as strong as a horse,' Hayley reassured her. In truth, she felt decidedly weak at the moment, but she would never admit it to Pamela. Her sister would only worry more, and that was the last thing Hayley wanted. Pamela had only recently recovered from a stomach ailment herself. She looked much too pale and fragile for Hayley's peace of mind.
'You'll fall over if you keep this up,' Pamela warned. 'I'm going to get your dinner, and you'll eat every bit. Or else.'
'Or else what?'
Pamela leaned closer. 'Or else I'll tell Pierre you didn't like the meal he prepared.'
A genuine smile touched Hayley's face for the first time in days. 'Good heavens, not that! Such an insult to our esteemed French cook would bode very badly for me.'
'Indeed. So when I return, you shall eat. Or suffer 'zee consequences.'' After casting a warning frown in Hayley's direction, Pamela left the room, closing the door behind her.
Alone with her patient, Hayley gently bathed his face again and again with a cool cloth. His wounds were no longer life-threatening, but the fever he'd contracted was. His body felt like an inferno beneath her fingers. For the past week she had ached for him, watching him drift in and out of delirium, groaning, thrashing helplessly in the huge bed, his skin so hot, his face so pale. The doctor had paid a visit the morning after they brought him home and had left the room shaking his head.
'There's nothing you can do, Miss Hayley,' Dr. Wentbridge said, his expression grave. 'Just keep him as comfortable as possible and pray the end comes quickly. Only a miracle could save him.'
And so Hayley prayed for a miracle.
Six years ago, her mother had died in this bed giving birth to Callie. Her father had died here too. She would
Hayley continued her ministrations, reflecting on how much her circumstances had changed since her beloved Papa's demise three years ago. Sea captain Tripp Albright died a slow, agonizing death that almost killed Hayley to watch, and left her at the age of three and twenty completely responsible for her two younger brothers and two younger sisters. She was mother, father, sister, nursemaid, housekeeper, and wage earner-responsibilities she would never consider abandoning, but that often left her physically exhausted and emotionally drained.
Upon Tripp Albright's death, his sister Olivia moved in with the family to help with the children. Hayley also inherited her father's former crew-Winston, Grimsley, and Pierre-three heartbroken sailors whose love of sea adventures died along with their captain. They'd vowed that if they could no longer care for Captain Albright, they would honor their deathbed promise to him to care for his family. The men refused to be paid as servants, each insisting they had adequate savings to live on.
That turned out to be a blessing. To Hayley's dismay, she discovered she'd also inherited a veritable mountain of debts incurred by her lovable but financially inept father. Convinced she could handle the situation, Hayley kept the news to herself, unwilling to burden her grieving family with further problems.
Handling things on her own, however, proved a daunting task, and Hayley recalled how in those early months she'd often cried herself to sleep. In a heartbeat her youth was gone, replaced by an impenetrable wall of responsibility. She desperately missed her parents, their love, guidance, and support. She was left with a houseload of hungry people counting on her, and less than one hundred pounds in currency. Ninety-eight pounds, ten shillings, to be exact.
And she felt so alone. The one person she thought she could confide in had abandoned her when she needed him most. Jeremy Popplemore, her fiance, cried off rather than burden himself with her family. He'd treated himself to an extended trip to the Continent and she hadn't seen him since.
