Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6

by Lynne Connolly

  “How’s your ankle?”

  Two of the maids looked up, taking her in with more interest. Ah, so they’d been gossiping. But then, what could she expect? “It’s fine now. A lot of fuss about nothing.”

  “Not from what I heard,” the maid next to her, a winsome girl of around eighteen called Jane, said. “Mr. Lightfoot said his lordship didn’t want to take the risk.”

  “Not for me,” she said. “His lordship was worried that one of the guests would slip.” The last thing she wanted was for her fellow workers to think she’d been treated as a special case. “That’s why I got the day off. He said I’d done him a favour, because if one of the guests had fallen there would have been hell to pay.”

  “Ha!” Jane pointed a finger at Betty on the other side of the table. “I told you there was a push for safety! Do you know at least three times yesterday I had to put guards in front of the fires? Mr. Lightfoot is meticulous about sparks. After all, that building down the street went up in flames last year. And all because of an unguarded fire, they say.”

  “Jane got a bonus for that,” Betty said. “The checking, I mean.”

  As she was finishing her meal, Mr. Lightfoot entered the room and glanced around. “Ah, yes. I have an order from Lord d’Argento. He wants someone to go up every afternoon, at about six, and clean and tidy his private rooms.” Everyone put down their cutlery and sat up straight. Joanna knew what was coming, but she did her best to look eager. “You, girl. You’ll do.”

  “Yes sir,” Joanna said, relief mingling with apprehension. He’d said he would be waiting for her. Did that mean she would have to be more circumspect? The kisses and caresses had to stop, that was for sure, at least until she knew more.

  Jane nudged her. “Promotion, you lucky thing!”

  She finished her meal, exchanging light chatter with the other servants. If arriving early meant sharing breakfast, she might do it more often, she decided as she tied on her large, white apron and made sure she was neat and tidy, with all her hair tucked under her cap and her glasses perched on her nose. Amidei was right, she could see much better without them, but they were her disguise. Foolish, considering all that had happened, but she stubbornly stuck to her decision.

  She was a maid, Joanna, and that was all. The spectacles helped to remind her of that. Upstairs, she went about her duties, helping to ready the dining room for breakfast. Most people ate at around noon, but had food informally. Few people waited for breakfast. She arranged the knives and forks daintily at a place, pleased with the precision of her arrangement, and moved on to the next. Of such small pleasures was life made, not the big ones that came more infrequently.

  “Girl!”

  Twice this morning Lightfoot had paid attention to her. He held a tray. “Take this upstairs to his lordship’s room. He called for it ten minutes ago and he hates to be kept waiting. Use the main stairs. They’re closer and he wants his coffee hot.”

  She bobbed a curtsey, walking over and taking the heavy weight in her hands. She did not have to ask which lord. Amidei was “his lordship” in the club, even though there were other lords staying there. As she turned to leave, she spotted the clock sitting on the mantelpiece. “It’s early for him, isn’t it?”

  Lightfoot lifted one shoulder in an infinitesimal shrug. “He tends to rise early, unless he has company.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. There was only one way that sentence could be interpreted. Female company. Well, the company would not be her. She would not have people gossip about her. Being a single woman with few personal resources made preserving her good name that much more difficult. She would not throw it away on a whim. Or on a traitor.

  “I suppose it takes hours for him to get ready,” she said cheekily, moving away before Lightfoot could respond. The factotum also worked as his master’s valet, although he had an assistant who made himself available when Lightfoot was about club business. No wonder he took his shoes and stockings off that night, and stretched them before the fire. He must be on his feet more than she was, and with his unfortunate condition walking and standing must surely be painful.

  Out in the main hallway, the smell of fresh carpet came deliciously to her nostrils. They had laid thin runners over the landing where she’d slipped, and the stairs down to the main hall below and up to the next floor. Not because of her, but the potential danger. The carpeting made the hall less grandiose, but she certainly felt safer carrying a tray up the stairs.

  Usually she would use the servants’ stairs, but Lightfoot had specifically told her to use these.

  Upstairs, she tapped gently on the door to his lordship’s private drawing room, the main entrance to his suite. Nobody answered, but she went inside in any case.

  He had a dining room, but she hesitated, not knowing where he wanted his tray.

  “In here!”

  Well, that answered her question. The bedroom it was. Steeling her nerve, she turned the other way and went through the small anteroom to the bedroom.

  Amidei was standing before the washstand. Unlike hers, which consisted of a chipped bowl and a metal jug, his was far more lavish. He was in his shirtsleeves, his powerful back on blatant display through the thin lawn, and he had a towel draped over his shoulder. He was busy scraping the last bit of soap off his chin. She stood still while he wielded the wicked blade, but he glanced in the mirror and the honed razor slipped.

  “Oh no!”

  Dumping the tray on the nearest surface, which happened to be the day bed, she rushed to him. “I’m so sorry, I did not mean to startle you!” Impulsively raising a hand to his cheek, she turned it to see the damage.

  A bead of blood welled up. As he moved away, alarm in his eyes, it smeared over her hand. He glanced at her, and grabbed her wrist, dragging it down and plunging it into the bowl of soapy water.

  She gave a shaky laugh. “It’s only a little blood.”

  “You have a scratch on your hand,” he growled at her. “It could be fatal.” Glaring at her, he said, “My blood is lethal. Only Lightfoot shaves me, or I do it because of that.”

  “I—I caught my hand on a nail this morning,” she said, her thoughts stuttering to catch up. “That’s all. Nothing serious. The breakfast tray must have rubbed off the scab.”

  “Damn it to hell! Why did you come in here?”

  “I brought your breakfast. Please let me go!” He was frightening her. She tried to pull away, but he would not let her.

  Lifting her hand out of the water, he examined the area, grabbed a clean white towel and pressed it to the tiny wound. He cradled her hand between his. “You cannot return to work. Wait here.”

  Such a fuss over a tiny hurt! Even the mark on his cheek had dried up. Why had he said his blood was lethal? How could that be true? She’d never heard of such a thing.

  Amidei raced out of the room, opened the outer door, and yelled for his factotum. Something vibrated in her head, a reverberation of sound, then was gone. She did feel a little confused, as if the world had slowed down. When she turned her head a thread of double vision confused her.

  She took off her glasses, but it didn’t make her befuddled mind any clearer. Only her eyesight.

  Amidei returned at a clip, his shirt gleaming in the light from the windows. He hadn’t even put his stockings on. “You have lovely feet,” she murmured. “Not hooves.”

  “No, my sweetheart, not hooves.” He spoke softly, seemingly back in control of himself. “I’m sorry I frightened you. I can feel it in the room. If it has happened, it has happened, and we will face the consequences.”

  She frowned. “It was only a scratch. So was yours. I overreacted.”

  He raised his hand to his face and touched the mark. “You should not have been so alarmed.”

  “I only wanted to—to help.” Her small hesitation revealed to them both what she’d been feeling. Too much, that was the truth. A servant would have come to the washstand, asked him if he required help, and handed him a clean cloth. Not rushed over
and touched him. She did not have that right. “I’m sorry. It was too forward of me.”

  “It was not.”

  When she tried to stand, a dizzy wave overtook her. Before she could regain her senses, he lifted her and laid her down on the bed. His unmade bed, the one he had only left a matter of minutes ago. Even now, with a foolish fainting fit upon her, Joanna’s body shivered in recognition of the intimacy.

  He sat on the side of the bed. “Keep your eyes open, Joanna. Look at me.” His urgent tone startled her.

  Lightfoot appeared in the doorway. He gave his master a quizzical look. “My lord?”

  “She touched me,” Amidei said. He turned his face, displaying the tiny mark on his cheek, then took her hand in his and opened it.

  Lightfoot saw the mark. He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Then we must wait.”

  “Not for long.”

  Joanna had difficulty following the conversation, simple though it was. Her vision blurred and she put her hand to her face, but she’d already taken her spectacles off. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  After a glance at his factotum, Amidei sat on the bed and took her hands in his. When she tried to snatch them away, afraid for him, he held her firmly. “We’re a strange lot in this house,” he said. “You’ve seen Lightfoot’s hooves. Believe me, they cause him no problems. It is what he is. As is my blood.”

  “Sir, that will mean absolutely nothing to her,” the valet said. Moving to where the tray was balanced precariously on the padded seat, he picked it up and placed it on the table, which was where she had meant to put it in the first place.

  Amidei nodded. He had not even put his hair back, although he’d combed it. It flowed back from his head, behind his shoulders, a silvery river of silk. He looked almost—pagan. That was a strange thing to think.

  “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice firmer than the gentle one he’d used since she’d touched him. She obeyed him. Their gazes locked, mastery unmistakable in his. “Listen, Joanna. Suffice it to say my blood is tainted. It’s lethal to some people. Blood-to-blood contact is dangerous. Do you understand me now?”

  “Yes.” She did. While she had no idea why, had never heard of anything of the kind, no disease or condition, he obviously believed it. So she would believe him. Humour him, since he was so certain he was right. She tried to rise, but lassitude kept her supine. “What do we do now? Is there a cure?”

  Smiling, he shook his head. “No cure. We wait.”

  “My father—”

  “This will not take long, my lord,” Lightfoot said. “One way or another. She lives or she dies.”

  Dies? The word turned her numb.

  Whipping his head around, Amidei glared at the man. “That is not acceptable.”

  “My lord, you know as well as I do that the progress is inevitable. We could do a test.”

  His attention returned to her, brows raised slightly. “Yes. Yes, we should.”

  Lightfoot cleared his throat. “Then allow me to make the preparations.”

  “Will it hurt?” she asked, anxiety colouring her voice.

  “No,” Amidei said. He still held her hands between his, chafing them warmly.

  Light flooded the room when the factotum swept back the curtains. He pinched the candles set by the mirror over the washstand. A hiss filled the air, and then he moved quietly to the other room, returning with a glass. He filled it with water from the jug by the washstand and presented it to his master.

  Amidei nodded and released her hands. The cut on his face was gone, fully healed. It could not have been much of a nick at all. When Lightfoot handed him the razor, Amidei glanced at it, and leaned back. With a careless slice, he cut into his finger.

  With a muffled squeal and a gasp, she made to sit up, but Amidei leaned back farther. Holding his hand over the glass, he let some blood fall into the water, then took the cloth Lightfoot gave him and held it over the wound. This was far more serious than the nick to his cheek. She’d seen the deep cut and the blood that welled up and poured out.

  “Wait,” he said when she tried to sit.

  Drawing the cloth away, he held out his hand for her to see. With difficulty Joanna leaned up on one elbow and looked.

  The cut had already stopped bleeding. It sealed over as she watched, open-mouthed.

  “Your turn,” he said with a smile. “But not as much from you.”

  He dropped the razor, and lifted her hand, the one she’d marked, to his mouth. Gently, he loosened the fresh scab that had formed over the wound. Lightfoot held the glass while Amidei grasped her hand and let the few drops of blood fall into it. Their blood mingled.

  Fascinated, she watched, as if her life depended on it. The two threads swirled around each other, as if dancing, circling and teasing, startlingly complete. She had never seen blood like it before. If a drop of blood fell into water, it was just absorbed, nothing else. If it was such a small amount as she had released, it should not be detected.

  The larger thread—which must be from him, because hers was much less—curled around hers as if embracing it. When Amidei drew her into his arms, Joanna laid her head on his shoulder as if it belonged there, and watched. His warmth surrounded her, comforting her. If she was to die, if this was truth, then she would rather die here than anywhere else. She believed him. People had died from incidents as trivial as falling on a nail before. Why not like this?

  She had just assumed it would not happen to her, not for a while at any rate. “Will I die?”

  He turned his head and gazed at her, meeting her anguish head-on. “I cannot promise anything. But if that happens you will not go alone.” His mouth firmed. “I will not be responsible for any more deaths.”

  She gasped. “You can’t die because of me.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t. But I have worked hard, and I’m tired. I’ve outlived most of my contemporaries, and maybe it’s time I thought about moving on.”

  An expression of peace entered his eyes. When he was agitated, or in a passion, they gleamed silver, but now they seemed darker, more like the colour of a dove’s wing. “I’m content to accept whatever fate brings us.” He cradled her cheek in his hand, his touch gentle.

  She couldn’t let him give up like that. So many people relied on him. Did he even realise that?

  Lightfoot cleared his throat. “My lord.”

  At the summons, Amidei paused and lowered his head, dropping a gentle kiss on her lips. He held her gaze for a moment, and then, with a small smile, turned to see the glass.

  It was clear, no sign of any blood. Just as it should be, except it was perhaps a touch too clear. It sparkled in the spring sunlight.

  With a laugh, Amidei hugged her close. “Nobody will die today,” he pronounced, as if he had any say in the matter.

  “Someone will,” she pointed out.

  “But it won’t be us.”

  He laid her back down, and got to his feet, smiling at his valet. “Can you arrange for a fresh tray of food, Lightfoot?”

  The factotum glared pointedly at the bed where she lay. “What do I tell them downstairs about Miss Spencer?”

  “Nothing. If anyone asks, say you sent her on an errand. She can hardly go about her duties today.” He lost the smile. “Even though we will live, we have quite a day ahead of us. Send a message to Lord Wickhampton, will you, and let him know I will not be riding this morning. If he is alone, you may tell him what has happened.”

  Lord Wickhampton? Joanna furrowed her brow, trying to recall the name. “Is that the guest who arrived yesterday?”

  “That’s the one,” Amidei said. When Lightfoot left the room, he sat on the bed and took her hands again. “We must make you more comfortable, sweetheart. You have quite an ordeal ahead of you.”

  He kept calling her that. Her befuddled mind tried to cope with the turn of events, but she had to give up. “I don’t understand.” She tried to sit up, but again her head swam and she was forced to sink back against the blessedly soft pillo
ws.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But first, we need to get your stays off, or at least loosen them.”

  When he put his hands on her bodice, she slapped them away. She wasn’t that far gone. She’d eaten breakfast downstairs. Had she taken in more than she’d imagined at the time?

  What about the accusations Patrick Gough made? Was he telling the truth, and if so, had Amidei found out and ordered her food drugged?

  “What did you give me?” She recalled the notorious case of Mary Blandy, who murdered her father, claiming that her lover had given her the powder to put in her father’s food.

  “Nothing.” Blanching, he moved away and got to his feet. “Why would you think that?”

  “What other explanation is there? If you’d wanted to ravish me, you only had to ask!” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’d have done it too. You fooled me completely. Do you mean to kill me now?”

  “No.” He turned around, one hand on the edge of the table by the bed. He gripped it so hard his knuckles turned white. “That is not what is happening here. Coming into contact with my blood will send you into a fever. The fever is short, and harsh.” He spread his hands wide, lifting his arms away from his body. “I’ll stay here. I won’t touch you, unless you need me to.”

  “A fever?”

  “A result of the contact between us. There will be other changes too.” He took a pace, his toes sinking in to the luxurious rugs laid on the polished floor. This room even smelled costly, of cologne and polish, the faint scent of coffee lingering from the tray that Lightfoot had removed.

  They were still in the same positions when Lightfoot returned with a fresh tray. He laid it gently on the table. It was set for two. “I set it myself,” he said. “Nobody knows Miss Spencer is up here. They think she’s gone to the chandler’s with a shopping list. After that, I’ll send her to the bookseller’s.”

  “Thank you, Lightfoot.” The outer door closed softly behind the man, and Amidei lifted the coffeepot. “Do you drink coffee?”