Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

The wobbling grid lines arranged themselves in his mind’s eye, and the tiny figures reappeared in the little boxes.

It couldn’t be a map, with no arrows or compass points.

But it might be a sort of code, or shorthand.

His brain began arranging and rearranging the lines and figures, and then it was no use trying to sleep, because he was thinking.

He opened his eyes fully, sat up, lit the candle at his bedside, and cursed.

She’d waved it in his face and he couldn’t leave it alone.

He climbed out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and resuscitated the fire. He took up the candle and went into the large window recess. It had at some point—by the looks of it, early in the castle’s history—been fitted out with a window seat. He’d moved a bench into it, which he used as a desk.

By day, the light was more than adequate. In the evenings, it was a pleasant place to work. When it wasn’t raining or overcast—rare occasions—he could look out at the starry sky. It wasn’t an Egyptian night sky, but it was certainly one that seemed far from civilization and all of its rules and aggravations.

He looked out and swore. It was raining again.

“This wretched place,” he said.

It took a moment for Olivia’s vision to recover. The lantern flashed again, but not in her direction. She heard clanging and the sound of voices. Something thudded to the ground. Then running footsteps.

She didn’t stop to think.

She threw off the blanket and ran after them, following the flash of the lantern, its light bouncing through the courtyard and out through a gap in the wall, bypassing the entrance, and into the road.

She was aware of the chill rain, coming down faster and harder, but the lantern flashed ahead of her like a glowworm, and the light drew her after it, down the road. Then, abruptly, it was gone. No light anywhere. She looked about her. Left, right, ahead, behind.

Nothing. Darkness. Rain, icy rain, drumming on her head and shoulders, trickling down her neck.

She looked back. She could barely make out the castle, a blurry hulk in the distance, behind the sheeting rain that was soaking through her cloak and into her coat.

No light in the windows. Nothing.

No help there.

No place to take shelter here—and what good was shelter now, even if she could find it? Her gloves were soaked through, and her hands ached with the cold.

She tried to run, but her feet were like blocks of cold stone, and her clothes were heavy with wet, and if she stumbled and fell. . .

Don’t dramatize.

Move. One foot in front of the other.

She gritted her teeth against the cold, and bowed her head and trudged back to the castle.

The door to Lisle’s room in the north tower was thick. If not for the gap at the hinge—another item to add to the list of repairs—he wouldn’t have heard the sound. As it was, he wasn’t sure he’d heard it. He moved to the door, opened it a fraction, and listened.

He heard scraping and muttering.

Then a curse. Though the voice was very low, he knew whose it was.

He took up his candle, left his room, and stepped out into what used to be the castle’s drawing room, a room above the great hall, nearly as large though not as tall. It, too, boasted a large fireplace.

Olivia knelt in front of it. She was shaking, trying to raise a spark with the tinderbox.

She looked up and blinked at the light of his candle.

“Lisle?” she whispered.

He took her in: dripping hair, dripping clothes, a puddle forming on the floor about her.

“What have you done?” he said. “Olivia, what have you done?”

“Oh, L-isle,” she said. She trembled violently.

He set down the candle. Then he bent and scooped her up. She was drenched through, shivering. He wanted to roar and rage at her, and maybe that’s what he should have done. Then someone might have heard—her maid or his valet at the very least—and hurried out to help.

But he didn’t rage at her. He didn’t say a word. He carried her into his room.

Chapter 15

Lisle set her down on the rug in front of the fire. She was shaking violently, her teeth chattering, her hands icy.

Heart racing, he tore at her dripping clothes. The heavy wool boat cloak was wet all the way through the wool lining. His hands, clumsy with fear, fumbled at the button. He couldn’t get it through the hole. He ripped it off, tore the cloak off her, and threw it aside.

Underneath she wore men’s attire. That was wet, too. He wrestled the coat down from her shoulders and peeled it down, pulling her arms from the sleeves. He threw the coat aside, and swore. Unlike the time in York, she’d worn a waistcoat this time; it was wet as well, with a line of buttons that fought being unbuttoned.

He ran to the bench, snatched up his penknife, and cut them off. He pulled off the waistcoat, then went to work on the woolen trousers. A degree less wet, their buttonholes yielded to his tugging. He peeled them off her, and swore again.

She had on flannel drawers underneath—and they were damp. Layers upon layers of outer clothing and she was wet to the skin. His heart pounded with terror and rage. How long had she stood in the downpour? What was wrong with her, to do such a thing? She’d take a chill. A fever. In the middle of nowhere, miles from a proper doctor.

He didn’t even attempt to untie the drawers. He cut the drawer strings and started pulling them off her.

“W-wait,” she said. “W-wait.”

“You can’t wait.”

“I’ll d-do it.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m s-so c-cold.”

He peeled them down her legs and pulled them off. He stripped her to the skin, wrapping a blanket about her as he went, vaguely aware of some reason to cover her up but not caring what the reason was.

She only sobbed, and talked nonsense: stuttered sentences she didn’t finish, obscure phrases: something about a wager and never writing letters enough and why did she keep that rubbish but Bailey understood, didn’t she?

She was delirious.

Delirium was a sign of fever. Fever boded an infection of the lungs.

Don’t think about that.

He wrapped another bla

nket about her. He stirred the fire. She was still shaking.

“I c-can’t st-stop,” she said. “I d-don’t know wh-why.”

He rubbed the blankets against her skin, trying to encourage the blood to flow, but the wool was too rough against her skin, and she winced.

He searched the room in a frenzy. He snatched up the bathing and shaving towels Nichols had laid out for tomorrow. Lisle pulled away the blanket, uncovering one arm, and rubbed it with the towel. Then on to the other. Her hands were still icy, trembling in his.

He focused on the extremities, massaging her feet next. They were icy, too. He went on rubbing, desperately, not letting himself think, only trying to get the blood flowing faster, back into her limbs.

He didn’t know how long it went on. Panic blanketed his mind.

He massaged her shoulders and arms, her legs and feet. His hands ached, but he wouldn’t stop.

He was so furiously intent on what he was doing that it was a while before he realized that the spasmodic shaking was abating. She wasn’t talking nonsense anymore. Her teeth had stopped the ghastly chattering.

He paused and looked at her.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought I’d never be warm again. Oh, Lisle. Why did you make me so angry? You know what happens when I lose my temper.”

“I know.”

“What did I think I could do, alone? But I meant to spy only. I think. It was so dark. No light in the windows. I should have made you come with me. We balance.”

She was only half making sense, but half was enough. His heart rate slowed a degree. The skin under his hands had begun to warm at last. The shivering eased further.

His mind began to quiet.

Then he saw, clearly.

Olivia, in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket. Her clothes strewn about, in pieces. Buttons everywhere.

“Oh, Lisle,” she said. “Your hands, so warm. Your wonderful, clever hands.”

He looked down at his hands, wrapped about her lower right arm. He needed to let go.

He needed not to let go.

Instead he moved them, but more slowly, down her arm and up again. And again. And again.