The Bargain. Mary Jo Putney

of knitting needles and turned his head on the pillow to see his sister’s small form silhouetted against the fading light of the lone window. He felt a rush of tenderness. Sally had come every day since his return to London, arranging her duties so that she could spend as much time as possible with her dying brother. This was so much harder for her than for him. He felt no fear, only stoic acceptance. At the end, he would find peace. For Sally there would be loneliness, and the insecure existence of a governess with no family to fall back on.

      Alert to his slightest movement, she glanced up to see if he was awake. Setting aside her knitting, she crossed the room to his bedside. “Are you hungry, David? I brought a nice beef broth from the Launcestons.”

      He knew he should try to eat for Sally’s sake, but the thought nauseated him. His stomach was one of the many parts of his body that had lost interest in life. “No, thank you. Perhaps later.” He glanced at the window. “Time for you to go, before it gets dark.”

      She shrugged her shoulders. Dressed in a plain gray gown, she was the very image of a modest governess. It saddened him to think that when he was gone, there would be no one left who would remember her as a wild little tomboy, racing him on her pony, scampering through the meadows with bare feet and shrieks of laughter. They’d been happy then, growing up in the green hills of Hereford. A lifetime ago.

      Correctly interpreting her shrug, he said sternly, “Home, Sally. I don’t want you on the streets at night.”

      She smiled, having known him too long to be intimidated by his officer voice. “Very well. I’ll dose you and be on my way.” Lifting the bottle of laudanum from his bedside table, she carefully poured a spoonful, then held it to David’s lips. He swallowed quickly, scarcely noticing the tastes of wine and spice that disguised the bitter opium that would mitigate his pain.

      Sally put an arm under his shoulders and raised his head enough so that he could sip a little water. When he finished, she gently settled him back among the pillows. It had bothered him at first that their roles had been reversed, for it had always been his task to look out for her. But pride had swiftly dissolved in the face of his helplessness, and of Sally’s calm acceptance of the sordid realities of nursing.

      “Good night, David.” She straightened the blanket over his inert body. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

      With a glance she confirmed that broth, water, and laudanum were all within his reach. The laudanum, at least would be needed before morning. Then she left, back straight and expression controlled. The room was mercifully too shadowed to show the bleakness in her eyes.

      Colors began to intensify, shapes twisted, and pain eased as the opium began to take effect. His lids drifted shut. Thank God for laudanum.

      While he wouldn’t have minded living a few more decades, he couldn’t complain. He’d had almost thirty-two years of mostly rewarding life. He’d traveled, fought honorably for his country, made friends closer than brothers. The only regrets he had were about Sally. She was a highly capable young woman, but life was uncertain. If only he could leave her enough to secure her future. If only …

      The numbing warmth of opium soothed away the pain, and he slept.

      Frowning, Lady Jocelyn glided into her drawing room, her voluminous riding habit belling around her. It was time to confide in her favorite aunt, who might have some useful insight into the situation. “Aunt Laura?”

      She was about to say more when she realized that Lady Laura Kirkpatrick was not alone. Helping herself to tea cakes was Lady Cromarty, also an aunt but definitely not a favorite. It was too late to escape, so Jocelyn repressed a sigh and moved forward, saying with patent insincerity, “Aunt Elvira. What an … an unexpected pleasure.”

      The countess smiled back with equal insincerity and an alarming array of teeth. “Since I was in town shopping, I thought I’d call to say hello. I can’t stay long since it’s a good two-hour drive back to Charlton.”

      “I am quite aware how long a drive it is to Charlton.” Jocelyn seated herself opposite the two older women. She hated thinking of her childhood home. She loved the estate deeply and had even toyed with the idea of marrying her cousin Will, heir to the earldom. Like his father, he was amiable and easily managed, and through him she would eventually become mistress of Charlton again. Fortunately, common sense always prevailed. Will wasn’t a bad fellow, but she certainly didn’t want him as a husband.

      Lady Laura poured another cup of tea and offered it to Jocelyn. “I’m glad you returned in time to join us.” As a military wife, she’d become an expert smoother of troubled waters, and where Lady Cromarty went, the waters were frequently whipped into a froth.

      As she accepted the tea, Jocelyn hoped as she had often before that she would be as handsome as her aunt when she reached her forties. Both of them had the Kendal looks and coloring, with hazel eyes and chestnut hair gleaming with red highlights, but her aunt was blessed with the serenity produced by more than twenty years of happy marriage. A blessing that Jocelyn might never know.

      Elvira, Countess of Cromarty, aunt by marriage instead of blood, was quite a different matter. Though she had not been born to a high estate, she had accepted her elevation to the nobility as proof that God was just. Today, her gaze was moving around the elegant room with proprietary interest as she devoured the cake.

      Jocelyn’s lips tightened. “Stop evaluating the furnishings, Aunt Elvira,” she said in her coolest voice. “You are not getting this house.”

      A lesser woman might have been embarrassed at such candor, but Lady Cromarty only smiled blandly. “Are you getting uncomfortable with your birthday coming so soon, and you still unwed?”

      The subject on all their minds landed in the middle of the room like a cat among the pigeons. Determined to have his own way, even after death, Jocelyn’s father had left the bulk of his personal fortune to his daughter—on the condition that she marry by the age of twenty-five. If she didn’t, most of the investments and Cromarty House, the magnificent London mansion where they were sharing tea, would go to Willoughby.

      “Why should I be uncomfortable?” Jocelyn asked with equal blandness. “I’ll admit I’m having some trouble deciding which offer to accept, but never fear. I shall certainly be married in time to fulfill the conditions of my father’s will.”

      “I’m sure you’ve had your offers, dear,” Elvira said, her tone implying she thought nothing of the kind. “But when a woman reaches your age unwed, one has to wonder …” She gestured vaguely. “So fortunate that if you prefer spinsterhood, you’ll have quite a nice little competence, enough to live in some genteel place like Bath.”

      “Since I dislike Bath, it is very fortunate that the issue will not arise,” Jocelyn said in a silky voice.

      Elvira’s polite mask slipped into a scowl. “It isn’t as if you need the money. We have five children to establish. It was quite infamous of your father to leave Willoughby scarcely enough to maintain the estates.”

      Actually, the fourth earl had left his brother ample income to support his family and maintain his lordly dignity, but the countess was the sort who could never have enough. Before Jocelyn could succumb to the temptation to point that out, Elvira shrieked. A tawny body had streaked over the back of the sofa and plopped onto her wide lap, eyeing the countess with golden eyes and a sadistic feline smirk.

      Jocelyn repressed a grin. Isis had the usual cat genius for pouncing on those people who least wanted to be pounced on. Making a mental note to order oysters for the cat’s dinner, she pulled the bell cord before crossing the room to scoop Isis from the countess’s lap. “I’m so sorry, Aunt,” she cooed. “Apparently Isis has conceived a fondness for you. Or perhaps for that cream bun in your hand. Bad Isis.”

      The cat blinked placidly, quite aware that the scolding wasn’t real. Isis had been the gift of a naval suitor who claimed to have brought her from Egypt, and her velvety, lion-colored fur and fine-boned elegance did resemble the felines seen in Egyptian temple art. The cat had far more aristocratic style than the Countess of Cromarty.