by Adele Clee
Sophia saw the devil, too. She sucked in a breath and grabbed Finlay’s forearm. Instinct had him covering her hand. Thankfully, he didn’t have time to dwell on how it felt to touch her again.
“Jessica?” he called, though a quick assessment of the person’s limping gait made him correct his assessment. “Mrs Friswell!”
The housekeeper came to an abrupt halt. She paused before approaching them and lowering her hood. “Forgive me, my lady, sir.” She was breathless despite being a slender woman of robust constitution. “I didn’t wish to cause a disturbance.”
“Where have you been at this time of night?” Finlay spoke in the stern voice he often used when consumed with suspicion. “We’re miles from the nearest house or inn.”
“To church, sir.” Arrogance tainted the housekeeper’s tone, an arrogance unbefitting a servant.
“To do what exactly?” It seemed a ridiculous question, but to detect lies and untruths he needed to engage her in conversation.
“To pray.”
Finlay studied the middle-aged woman whose complexion was as pale as a cadaver. Perhaps the heavy shadows beneath her piercing green eyes stemmed from sleepless nights tending to Jessica. And yet it was Anne—the maid with a constant case of the fidgets—who slept in Jessica’s chamber.
“Pray for whom?”
“Miss Draper. I visit the church every night, to pray she has a restful sleep.”
A benevolent gesture. So why did he note animosity?
“What is that smell?”
They all sniffed and inhaled deeply.
“I can smell nothing but herbs,” Sophia offered.
It was an earthy scent, similar to mint but not as potent.
“We were collecting herbs from the garden,” Mrs Friswell replied. “Thyme and sage.”
“Sage is what I can smell,” he said, bringing the matter to a close. Yet he knew this woman kept a secret. “That is all, unless your mistress has further need of you.”
“No, you may retire, Mrs Friswell.” Sophia’s smile held no hint of mistrust. “And I thank you for your continued prayers. Let’s hope we have a peaceful night.”
Mrs Friswell inclined her head respectfully to her mistress but threw Finlay a hostile glare. As she walked away, she left a trail of damp footprints on the flagstones. Mud clung to the hem of her cloak.
“Mrs Friswell,” he called and waited for her to turn around. “Did you go anywhere other than the church this evening?”
In her hesitation, he could almost hear her panicked thoughts.
“I know you went into the woods,” he wanted to say, but it paid to be patient, to hold his tongue.
“To the cottage to deliver Blent’s supper. He requires sustenance after taking the foxhounds out on their nightly patrol.”
“It’s a two-mile walk around the perimeter,” Sophia explained.
“Yes, we walked the length of the boundary this afternoon.” He fixed the housekeeper with a penetrating stare. “That explains why your boots are damp. Little escapes me, Mrs Friswell. You would do well to remember that. Good night.”
The woman dipped a reluctant curtsy and went on her way.
“You made it sound as if she were out cavorting with the devil,” Sophia whispered as the housekeeper’s booted steps faded into the distance. “Mrs Friswell has served me faithfully these last five years.”
“I don’t doubt it, but something is amiss.”
The housekeeper hated enquiry agents or hated interference or hated men, that much was obvious. In a few days, Finlay would be away from this house and its secrets and ghosts. When he left, he would do so knowing Sophia had nothing to fear.
“It’s late,” he said, dropping his gaze to her bare feet. “You’ll catch a chill standing on these flagstones.”
Sophia looked up at him and smiled, though it was evident these worrying events had taken their toll. “Are you concerned for my health, Mr Cole?”
“Jessica needs you well and thinking clearly.” He knew cupping her cheek was a mistake, but she looked so fragile standing amid the faint shimmer of moonlight. “You must focus, must be strong if you’re to help with this investigation.”
He almost sank to his knees when Sophia touched his hand, almost hiked up her nightgown and pressed his mouth to her womanhood.
“Then I shall try to get a good night’s rest,” she said.
He snatched his hand away before he cupped her nape, drew her closer and whispered things he shouldn’t.
Sophia avoided his gaze. “Are you coming to bed?”
His stomach twisted into knots. Mother of all saints. Could she not be more careful with her words?
“No.” He swallowed numerous times. “I need to think and cannot do so upstairs.”
“You need sleep, too, Finlay.”
“Yes.”
She paused. “Well, good night.” Hesitated. “Remember, Dr Goodwin will be here tomorrow.”
“Yes.” He was keen to meet the incompetent individual. “Good night.”
Sophia left him standing in the draughty expanse of the great hall, cold and alone. Twice, she looked back over her shoulder. Twice, he prayed she didn’t say something to weaken his resolve.
He waited for a few minutes before heading out through the front door. The crisp night air brought a welcome relief from the suffocating confines of Blackborne. He looked to the inky sky and the scattering of stars and managed to breathe freely again.
As always, his thoughts turned to Sophia, but he pushed them aside and strode towards the small chapel. He’d not set foot inside a church since the day of Hannah’s funeral. A man had to direct his anger somewhere, at someone. Tonight, even his duty to the Order could not make him cross the threshold.
He might have lingered in the doorway, cursing in the dark, had he not been distracted by a light in the upper landing window. A black silhouette stood peering through the leaded panes. The light disappeared, only to return seconds later. It happened again, one burst of candlelight, then nothing.
Finlay stepped out onto the forecourt in a bid to identify the shadowy figure. For a brief second, they locked gazes before the person scampered back. Perhaps Jessica was sleepwalking. Perhaps Sophia heard him leave the house and feared he’d gone into the woods. Perhaps Mrs Friswell was making her nightly rounds.
Instinct said not.
Instinct said someone was sending a message.
A message to a stranger lurking in the woods.
Chapter 5
“Ah, good morning, my lady.”
Dr Goodwin strode into the dining room as if he were master of Blackborne. Being Sophia’s only confidant throughout Jessica’s illness, the doctor behaved more like a family member than a hired practitioner. As a gentleman, he preferred his payment delivered discreetly, which was why he ventured to the bureau at the far end of the room and slipped the folded notes into his coat pocket.
“And how has our patient been this week?” the doctor said, helping himself from the breakfast platters. He always arrived in a cheerful mood, left looking tired and world-weary.
Sophia dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “We had another sleepwalking incident.”
“Another trip to the woods?” Dr Goodwin flicked his coat-tails and sat in the seat opposite. He brushed a swathe of brown hair from his brow, looked ready to upbraid her for not moving Jessica to the hospital in Oxford. “I trust you recovered her without harm or injury?”
“Blent found her and carried her home.”
The doctor tutted as he cut into a thick slice of ham as quickly as he might saw a limb. “One more knock to the head and you will lose her for good.” He cleared his throat. “Did she say what drew her outside?”
“No, but she had regressed to a happier time when she was in love with Mr Archer. She seemed convinced she would soon marry the gentleman, and it took Blent’s soothing words to settle her.”
Dr Goodwin was about to reply, but the thud of footsteps on the stairs captured their attention. F
inlay would disapprove of the doctor eating at the dining table. Not because he had lofty notions of propriety, but because he believed she was too trusting.
She braced herself, ready to lock gazes with the man who made her heart weep and soar simultaneously. Still, nothing prepared her for the way her blood rushed wildly through her veins when Finlay entered the room.
A host of fantasies bombarded her mind. She imagined them married, him more ravenous for her than he was for his breakfast. Uncontrollable appetites would have him clearing a space on the table, lowering her down and driving so deep into her aching body she would forget they had ever been parted.
Finlay’s gaze shot to Dr Goodwin, but he gave no sign he was surprised, nor did he come to an abrupt halt and wait for her to make the introductions.
It was the doctor who dropped his cutlery, the doctor who looked so aghast one would think a vagrant had wandered in and snatched the sliced ham from the platter.
The brittle silence stretched until Finlay settled into the seat at the head of the table and reached for the coffeepot.
“Good morning, Mr Cole,” she said, nerves forcing her to speak.
“Good morning.”
The doctor continued to stare.
“Dr Goodwin, allow me to introduce Mr Cole, a dear family friend.”
“And the best enquiry agent in London.” Finlay’s tone was as sharp as the bread knife. “I’m here to conduct an investigation.”
“An investigation?” Dr Goodwin coughed into his fist. “An investigation into what exactly? Not those women who practise witchcraft in the woods?”
“No, not the harmless creatures who dance beneath the moon and claim they’re free spirits.” Finlay observed the doctor keenly while sipping his coffee. “I’m here to find the man who is poisoning Jessica’s mind. The man who lures her into the woods at night. The man with devious intentions.”
“P-poisoning her mind?” Dr Goodwin shuffled uncomfortably in the chair. Perhaps he found Finlay’s manner threatening, which was why he said, “If you’re suggesting there is something unconventional about the way I treat my patient, then simply say so.”
“I will, once I have witnessed your work and made a study of your methods.” Finlay reached for the wooden board and cut a slice of bread. “Be aware. I am not a man who minces words. If I encounter a problem, Dr Goodwin, you shall be the first to hear my objection.”
Dr Goodwin’s forehead furrowed. “I’m afraid you cannot attend the session. The patient must have the confidence to speak privately. But you’re welcome to read my notes.”
Finlay’s frigid smile chilled the air like an arctic wind. “I will attend your session today, or you will leave this house and never return.”
In a move that proved shocking, a move that sent Sophia’s pulse racing and left her knees weak, Finlay Cole reached across the table and captured her hand. The sensation was akin to being wrapped in thick furs on a cold winter’s night. Comforting. Soothing. Tears pricked her eyes. Tears of joy: it felt wonderful to feel close to him. Tears of sadness: the action served to prove his point, not convey affection.
Dr Goodwin’s lips thinned as he stared at their clasped hands.
It couldn’t be jealousy she saw flitting across his features. Yes, they were on familiar terms. Yes, she might even regard Dr Goodwin as a friend, but he had given no indication he expected more. And while his sculpted jaw and confident countenance marked him as a man of some charisma, she preferred the brooding gentleman with the devilish charm.
“Let me be clear,” Finlay continued, gripping her hand so tightly heat pooled between her thighs. “Lady Adair and I agree on this matter.” He paused. “As a professional man, it must be frustrating to know Jessica has made no improvement. Considering the fact her condition worsens by the day, should you not welcome another opinion?”
Dr Goodwin took to cutting his ham vigorously again. “Man has not, or never will, fully master the workings of the human mind. And with all due respect, you’re hardly qualified to give advice.”
“What a foolish assumption,” Finlay countered.
If rapid blinking was a sign of unease, then Dr Goodwin seemed most perturbed.
“I have a wealth of experience when it comes to dealing with fragile minds,” Finlay said, no doubt referring to the criminals he’d encountered while working as an agent of the Order. He released her hand, leaving her somewhat bereft. “Your instant dismissal speaks of intolerance. Such a biased view must hinder your progress.”
With a mild huff of frustration, the doctor laid down his cutlery. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn. I sense hostility though am at a loss to know why.”
Sophia forced a light laugh. “Mr Cole is used to questioning criminals which accounts for his blunt tone.”
She had to say something to ease the tension.
“Do not speak for me, Sophia,” Finlay said. “Dr Goodwin is correct. I have numerous issues regarding his ethics.”
It was the doctor’s turn to feign amusement. “But I’ve told you nothing about my dealings with the patient.”
“Then let me provide enlightenment.” Finlay relaxed back in the chair and steepled his fingers. “For seven years, you have treated Jessica Draper. You’re so comfortable here you dine with the family, and yet you constantly refer to her as ‘the patient’. Your impersonal manner signifies an air of detachment. And so I must conclude that you have no desire to cure Jessica of her affliction.”
Sophia stared at Finlay, impressed by his level of insight, ashamed the important fact had eluded her, surprised by the depth of his vehemence.
Dr Goodwin’s cheeks flamed. “We are taught to detach personally from our patients in order to approach the illness objectively.”
“Showing compassion would reap better results.” Finlay spoke with supreme confidence in his opinion. “Were you to dine with Jessica and engage her in conversation, you would learn a damn sight more about her condition.”
As uncomfortable as it was, Sophia watched the exchange with interest. Finlay was right, to a certain extent, but his animosity toward the doctor seemed irrational.
“Are you medicating her?” Finlay asked sharply.
“Of course. She cannot sleep and is plagued by recurring nightmares.”
“You’re giving her a tincture of laudanum?”
Dr Goodwin narrowed his gaze. “And a paregoric elixir to calm the nerves.”
Finlay gritted his teeth. “Have you ever gone for a period without force-feeding her medicine?”
Sophia covertly nudged Finlay’s foot beneath the table. Now she knew why his friends called him Raven. The birds were ruthless protectors, capable of warding off perceived threats. They attacked without compunction. And yet she felt there had to be an underlying reason for his savage assault.
“May I speak to you for a moment, Mr Cole?” she said, lest Dr Goodwin grab his medicine bag and storm from the house, never to return.
“Can it wait?”
Sophia forced a smile. “I’m afraid not.”
“Very well.”
He followed her to the drawing room.
“Close the door, Finlay.” She lowered her voice. “I do not want Dr Goodwin to hear our conversation.”
Annoyance punctuated her tone. What in heaven’s name was he about? She was in no position to hire another doctor.
But it was Finlay who struggled to control his frustration. He swung around as soon as the latch clicked. “I cannot believe you let that man dine at your table when he cannot bring himself to say Jessica’s name. Have you ever sat with him when he examines your sister?”
Seven years’ worth of anxiety surfaced. “Do not dare reprimand me for the way I’ve handled things here,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “None of us know how to help Jessica, but Dr Goodwin has tried his best to reach her. And yes, I have observed his methods. I do not claim to understand how one deals with a fractured mind. What else can he do but follow the science?”
She exp
ected him to appear contrite, but he seemed more irate than ever. “Men of science care about theories, not people. They ply their patients with mind-numbing drugs until the poor souls have no hope of rousing a coherent thought.”
“That is like saying all watchmen take bribes. Yes, some physicians rely on medicine as a form of treatment, but you cannot presume they all lack principles.”
Finlay huffed and dragged his hand through hair as black as his mood. “Trust me. Dr Goodwin is drugging Jessica to collect his weekly fee. He has no interest in her recovery. I know enough about wicked men to recognise something isn’t right.”
Sophia stepped closer, intrigued by his impassioned objection. “What is this really about? Is it the fact I consider Dr Goodwin a friend?” She saw him as a mere acquaintance but was determined to get to the root of Finlay’s problem.
“If you consider that man a friend, then you’re the one who needs a dose of laudanum.” His voice was tight with disapproval. “He’s a fraud. A charlatan. I have dealt with his kind many times.”
“Yes, in the rookeries, no doubt. But your—”
“Not in the rookeries. At home.” His mood altered dramatically. A weary sigh left his lips and his shoulders sagged. “I have dealt with the likes of Dr Goodwin more times than I care to count.”
At home? What on earth did he mean?
All anger and frustration dissipated. Sophia closed the gap between them and touched his upper arm— though she knew she shouldn’t—but he did not pull away or mutter a curse.
“Were you ill with a sickness of the mind?” she said, concerned.
It was hardly surprising after the horrors of Leuven.
He gave a derisive snort. “I’ve been ill since the day I discovered you’d married Lord Adair, but I accept there is no cure.”
She suffered from the same heart sickness. There was a cure, but Finlay preferred to thrash and writhe about in misery.
“But I am not speaking of myself,” he added.
“Then who?” His parents died years ago, and he had no kin as far as she knew. “Are you referring to Hannah?”
