me, pleasantries—’ his chin lowered ‘—were much more difficult to master than a simple punch. But I think I do rather well.’
‘Is it all a pretence?’ she asked.
‘Most of it.’ His eyes challenged her to make what she would of his words.
Her gaze mirrored his. ‘For most people their pleasantries are real.’
He gave one quick head shake. ‘It’s all a game. Quid pro quo.’
She raised her brows in question.
‘You do this for me and I’ll do that for you because some day I may need something else or you may and then we’ll work together because we are both working separately for our own interests.’
‘It’s a shame your mother died when you were so young. You might have believed in goodness otherwise.’
‘I suggest you do not leave your chaperon’s sight for one heartbeat.’ Then he stepped back, nodded to her, said a goodbye and gently shut the door.
Somehow she felt she’d been thrown under the wheels of a carriage.
She turned and walked back to her mother’s room.
‘Oh, my dear, we were just going to send for you.’ Her mother looked up, her pale dress flowing softly and pooling around her slippers. ‘The physician wishes to examine you so he can see how the treatment is going.’
He stood, the look of a schooled professional in his face and the monocle in his hand.
She waited, her demeanour that of a perfect patient, yet not looking at his face. She couldn’t get Barrett from her mind. Ever so politely, he’d shut the door in her face. The beast had shut the door in her face. No wonder he did not believe in kindness. He had none in him.
The physician touched the monocle to her skin. She didn’t move at the brush of the cold glass. Barrett’s eyes had chilled her more.
‘Oh. This is amazing. Amazing.’ He peered. ‘Her skin is perfect. After only one night of treatment. She’s cured.’ He stepped back.
‘After one night?’ she squeaked out the words. Relief. Disbelief and relief again. And then a memory of their guest, who seemed to know the physician, and then that Barrett had found her alone in the room the physician had sent her to.
Her mother clasped her hands in front of her. ‘How wonderful. Wondrous. Gavin, you are a physician without compare.’
‘Odd.’ She dotted her hand over her cheek. ‘I still feel the epidemeosis.’
‘Well, you may have a lingering trace I can’t detect.’ Gavin put the monocle back in his coat pocket. ‘If you wish to sit alone in the night air a few more times, I see no harm in it.’
‘I will consider it,’ she said. ‘And I do wish to thank you for saving my life.’ She put a little too much smile into the words and he glanced away.
‘Well. I wouldn’t go that far.’ He turned to her mother. ‘But miracles do seem to follow me around.’ His back was to her. He waved his arm out, his movements so close to the same gesture she’d seen on Barrett the night before.
She shut her eyes, listening, trying to gauge a resemblance between the men.
‘Do you think there is any chance she will develop it again?’ Her mother spoke.
‘No. Not at all. Miss Annabelle is recovered. We are fortunate to say the least.’
Annie excused herself and left them as they each congratulated each other on having done such a perfect job with her.
She’d only seen Barrett in the dim lighting but still, she’d looked at him with her whole being. She’d not paid as much attention to the physician before, but now she had. They were related. She would wager a month of her epidemeosis on that.
The physician had arranged a meeting and she’d attended just as planned. And Barrett had seen, or not seen, whatever he wished and now he was satisfied not to see her again if her miraculous recovery was anything to go by.
She remembered when the physician had first visited. He’d been so genial with her parents. So caring. He’d even enquired after her father’s business and they’d talked long into the night. She’d thought it odd that the physician had been willing to stay and listen to the tedious details of her father’s different holdings.
Then, later, her father had mentioned selling one of the shops at a ridiculously low amount, but how happy he’d been to get the money just when he needed it and he’d mentioned the Viscount’s son for the first time. Her father had been happy Barrett wasn’t the viper his father was and she’d felt reassured—freed from worrying about how her father would survive after she left home.
She reached up, took a pin from her hair and put a lock back in place, then walked to the window of her room. No carriages moved along the street. Each house as perfect as the other.
Barrett must live in a house much the same, yet the house had the memory of losing his mother.
A curtain fluttered in one of the windows across the street, and she wondered if a child had been looking out at her. And she wondered if Barrett’s grandmother still lived. If she’d passed on, Annie hoped he’d not danced on that day, though she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had.
* * *
Her eyes opened into the darkness and she wasn’t sure what time it was because she could no longer hear the clock’s chimes. The lamp still burned because she’d turned the knob low instead of putting it out.
Washing her face with cool water from the pitcher woke her completely and confirmed her determination.
She worked herself into her corset, putting it on backwards, lacing it, turning it and then pulling it up a bit more. It wasn’t easy, but it sufficed.
She wound her hair into a knot quickly and the pins went in place.
Creeping downstairs, she moved to the library to look at the clock. Two thirty. Well, let the soirée begin. A man’s room. She did have her sisters’ blood in her.
But not the ghastly, simpering, hug, hug, kiss, kiss, can’t live without you sop they’d inherited.
She couldn’t bear to be a victim to such nonsense. Barrett might think her an innocent and he was right. She had no reason to lose her innocence where love was concerned. She’d seen women about the ton carrying on with tales of broken hearts and husbands gone astray and being locked in a marriage with a lout.
A bad marriage led to misery and a good marriage led to brain rot.
Her own parents truly cared for each other and sighed over each other’s perfection. Their hours of conversation about what to ask Cook to prepare could destroy an appetite.
‘Whatever you would like, dearest.’
‘No, whatever you would like, dearest.’
‘Oh,
