The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

She gave it up, drank her tea, and just sat there, concentrating on keeping her mouth closed and listening for Mr. Mackie and the doctor.

“Yes, Isabella Oddsbottle. I did encourage her to have her name officially changed, but she refused, said she was quite fond of Isabella, it was her grandmother’s name.”

She refused to take the bait. As for Lord Chilton, he sat back in his chair, crossed his hands over his chest, and wondered at himself. He’d actually been speaking to a strange young lady—she was both unknown and eccentric—and he’d enjoyed himself thoroughly. He wondered what the devil she was up to. He didn’t believe for a minute that the Owen upstairs lying sick was her brother.

Was she eloping with him?

He was content to wait. Oddly enough, he was interested in finding out exactly who she was and who Owen was. It was late, the taproom warm, the brandy settled smoothly in his belly. He fell asleep.

Caroline stared at him. He was asleep; the man had the gall to fall asleep right in front of her.

She heard the front door of the inn open, innumerable male voices all talking at the same time, and smiled. The gentleman wouldn’t snooze for much longer, not with this approaching racket.

Mr. Mackie stood in the doorway of the taproom, bent down, naturally, since he was at least a foot taller than the portal.

“The bone masher, missie. Walt here smelled ’is breath but good and it didn’t flatten ’im. ’E can walk a straight path too, thus Old Bones shouldn’t kill yer brother.”

“Thank God for that,” Lord Chilton said, not looking up.

“’Is name’s Dr. Tuckbucket.”

“Oh no,” she said, rising. “I wonder if he hails from Mumbles. I understand that most of the Tuckbuckets do.”

She heard Lord Chilton chuckle as she left the taproom. Like his laugh, his chuckle sounded rusty.

A strange man, she thought, climbing up the narrow staircase after Dr. Tuckbucket, who did indeed appear to be walking without too much assistance from Mr. Mackie.

5

OWEN HAD COME down with a very bad cold, so bad, in fact, that Dr. Tuckbucket poured an entire bottle of his own special tonic down his throat while Caroline held him down and told him not to be such a coward while he was coughing and wheezing and telling her she was a shrew and too mean to get sick. Dr. Tuckbucket then told her in private that her brother was quite ill and must remain in bed for a good week.

She stared at him in consternation. “A week? Oh no, sir, that’s quite impossible.” She thought of Mr. Ffalkes, and said, “I haven’t the funds to keep us here for a week.”

“Pay me first, if you please, miss.”

“Oh yes, of course. Are you sure, sir? An entire week?”

“We’ll see, but it doesn’t look hopeful. He’s got a muddy look to him.”

“He won’t die, will he?”

“No, not if you nurse him and keep yourself away from Mackie’s ale.”

The thought of nursing Owen was appalling, but she managed to nod, saying in a voice as accepting as a prisoner just sentenced, “Give me all the instructions and the medicine, sir. I will take care of him.”

Saying it and doing it, Caroline quickly learned, were two vastly different endeavors. Owen thrashed about all through the night, throwing off the covers; then the fever burned him from the inside out, and he began shivering and moaning when the fever turned his blood to ice in his veins.

By four in the morning, she was sitting in the single chair, her legs stretched out limply in front of her, her hair dangling in her face, feeling so tired she didn’t want to move, just staring over at Owen, who had finally fallen into a blessed sleep, fitful, but blessed nonetheless.

“A hostage,” she said. “I took you as a damned hostage and look what you’ve done to me.”

He moaned and she forced herself to get up. She gently placed her palm on his forehead. He was cool to the touch, thank the good Lord. At least for now.

There was a light knock on the door. She froze, then shook her head at herself. There was no way Mr. Ffalkes could have any idea which way she’d come. No way at all. It must be Mr. Mackie. Actually, she thought, brightening, she could use a good swig of ale right now.

She opened the door. Lord Chilton stood there, dressed all in black, leaning against the door frame, as indolent as a cat sunning on a windowsill, his arms crossed negligently across his chest. He was giving her a look that was menacing. She smiled up at him. “It’s nearly dawn. Why are you awake?”

He frowned at her and she smiled more widely. “You might as well come in. There is only one chair and I suppose you will demand to have it since you’re a lord and I’m not.”