Authors: Saralynn Hoyt
Goodness, what a ninny she was for even thinking the others
would turn against her. They were her family now and that is the way it will
always be. Sabrina was bursting to tell someone something. She couldn’t
possibly tell Roland or Freddy, and Mrs. Fitzsimmons was out of the question.
Delores might understand, but it was still so very inappropriate to talk about
these things within one’s own household. There was no getting around it; she
was going to have to have a private visit with Miss Blakemore. Cassie was
definitely the perfect person to talk to about such matters. She would know
whether or not Sabrina was being a fool about the man or if there really was
hope for the future. Yes, Cassie was a sensible young woman with an unusual
wisdom that belied her years. An old soul, Sabrina thought, that’s what she
was.
Later today when Cassie arrived for her daily visit with
Alice, Sabrina would pull her aside for a moment. She would ask Cassiopeia’s
advice. It made sense, since Miss Blakemore was the person who was responsible
for Sabrina being here. She would know whether or not she was being foolish, or
if she had reason to hope for something more from Ford Northcliffe. And even if
young Cassie Blakemore told her that she was the most idiotic woman in London
for falling for the classical ‘master bedding the servant’ routine, Sabrina
wasn’t going to be able to stop herself from continuing down this path. This
was it, she was in love with Ford and whatever he wanted from her he could
have. She was giving herself quite freely and no matter the consequences, she
wasn’t going to stop now. Love was funny that way. It didn’t give you choices.
This was pure torture. Ford was sitting in his laboratory
trying to concentrate on a new experiment, but his thoughts kept drifting back
to Sabrina. It was killing him that he cared so deeply for her, but he was
bound by that bloody promise to his mother. Why, oh why, had he done such a
stupid thing? The more he thought about it the worse he felt.
After about three hours and accomplishing nothing, Ford gave
up his efforts at looking for a connection between the temperature of the saline
solution and the amount of powdered kudzu root he administered. Instead he moved
to a more comfortable chair and put his feet up on the ottoman. Maybe if he
just concentrated on the situation for a few moments, an answer would come to
him. That was how he was able to come up with many of his ideas. If one just
allowed his mind to wander, sometimes the answer would just appear.
Unfortunately, the only thing he could think of was Sabrina, warm and soft in
his arms, opening up to him and giving him the sweetest pleasure he had ever
experienced. And of course, there was the thought of how he could once again
enjoy that bliss.
This wasn’t helping at all. Ford was disgusted with himself
for taking advantage of his employee, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop the
compulsion of wanting her again. He had to remove his person from the situation,
at least temporarily. Pushing himself up from the chair, he found a spare coat
and hat he kept in the laboratory, just in case he needed to get some air and
wasn’t able to find a servant, and managed to sneak out the kitchen door
without anyone seeing him leave. He walked determinedly toward his club.
Sometimes a man just needed the company of his peers to bring his life back
into focus. Even if said friends were anything but practical. Most of the chaps
Ford knew were scoundrels and gamblers and didn’t have a responsible bone in
their bodies. But that didn’t mean their company wasn’t diverting when needed.
Entering into the warmth of the establishment, Ford handed
off his outerwear to the waiting footman. He’d forgotten that he was still
recovering from his illness and the walk had tired him out more than usual. "Brandy,
please," he told the young man, "and keep it coming."
Ford found his way to the betting room and looked around to
see who would be a good candidate to help divert his wayward thoughts. Thankfully,
women weren’t allowed in this club and therefore could not be a distraction to
the gentlemen who sought its confines.
"Northcliffe," a familiar voice called from the
billiards room. "Come and give me a new challenge. Markham here is
insisting his wife needs him at home. Of course I think it’s just a convenient
excuse to leave here with money still in his pocket."
Ford wondered if O’Neill ever went home himself. He seemed
to be present every time Ford was here, and it was becoming unnerving. It was
almost as if Lord Suffolk was waiting for Ford to show up just so he could
relate another disturbing story of ghosts and romance to him.
"I didn’t bring my purse," Ford said, hoping
O’Neill would be satisfied with that excuse.
"Nonsense, Northcliffe. I know you’re good for it."
Smiling, Lord Suffolk set up the balls and handed Ford a cue stick.
"I haven’t seen you in over a week," O’Neill
commented as he circled the table. "Been working on that cure of yours?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Ford said, taking a
long drink of his brandy. "I think I’ve found it, but—"
"But?" Lord Suffolk asked, raising one dark brow
in question. "I would think this was good news."
"It is, except," Ford hesitated. Should he tell
his friend about the problem with his cure? O’Neill was a reasonable man, he
might understand. "It’s an ancient Chinese herbal remedy that I’ve tweaked
a bit."
"So?" O’Neill knocked a ball into a pocket waiting
for Ford to continue.
"So—real physicians don’t use silly Chinese potions.
Real physicians use modern medical serums."
"Ah, I see your problem." O’Neill finally looked
up after knocking another ball into one of the table’s side pockets. "You
don’t want to be laughed out of the Royal Academy."
"Precisely," Ford said, wondering if he was even
going to get a turn at the table the way Suffolk was knocking the balls in. "The
old chaps are so intoxicated with the new scientific methods, they’ve forgotten
that the Chinese, and some other ancient cultures, like the Egyptians, have
been curing diseases for centuries. I’ve simply refined a few of the tonics
from the old textbooks and made them viable for current ailments."
"How mind-numbingly dull, Northcliffe," O’Neill
said with a wave of his hand. "You forget, I’m not a member of your Royal
Academy and I haven’t the head for science. But I wonder why any of this
matters to you at all. You have a fortune, so why bother with working yourself
so hard? Why not just enjoy the fruits of your ancestors’ labor? I know it’s
how I intend to spend my life."
Ford couldn’t help but smile at O’Neill’s simplistic view of
life. If only he could forget about the suffering of people, especially the
children. He signaled the footman for a refill on his brandy. It was time to
try to dull some of his discomfort.
"There’s something else wrong, isn’t there?" Lord
Suffolk asked, watching as his friend downed a third glass of brandy. "Out
with it, Northcliffe. The whole story, and leave nothing out."
Ford wasn’t about to discuss his personal feelings for
Sabrina with O’Neill, even if the man was a good friend. But it couldn’t hurt
to run his predicament by the man, after all, he might have an idea of what
could be done. Besides, the brandy was calming him and making him more willing
to talk.
"Well, it all started with my mother dying," Ford
said, taking another sip of his drink. "She had this crazy idea that if
she didn’t wring a promise out of me to marry Luella, that I might not ever
bother with starting a family on my own. You know how parents are about
carrying on the family name, and all that rubbish."
"Please," O’Neill laughed. "I am a living,
breathing example of just how persistent they can be. Mama actually sends me a
letter once a week listing all of the most suitable young ladies in the realm.
Can you imagine?"
"Yes, I believe I can." Ford was thoughtful for a
moment, remembering the last conversation he’d had with his mother as she lay
in her sickbed. "Mother said she picked Luella because she was the
daughter of a respected friend and had some connections to the Duke of
Fairfield. A cousin, maybe? Anyway, it was Mother’s choice and since I didn’t
have a preference at the time, I promised her I would indeed marry Miss
Ellison."
"At the time?" O’Neill was a very observant man
and caught the nuance immediately. "So, you’ve found someone more to your
liking since then, I take it."
"Unfortunately, yes." Ford was now working on his
fourth brandy and becoming noticeably tipsy and nearing drunkenness with
alarming speed.
"Why would that be unfortunate?" Lord Suffolk
asked, finally finishing his one man game of billiards by knocking the last
ball in. "You should be thrilled you’ve found a woman to your liking. I
mean, it isn’t as if you actually proposed to Miss Ellison, have you?"
"Well, not ‘zactly," Ford said, surprising himself
with his inability to pronounce such a simple word. "I told Luella what
Mother had asked of me and she said she would ‘cept my proposal, but not until
after she’d had a year to go on a full tour of the continent."
"Hmmm, not exactly a proposal, but a promise none the
less. Hard to break, but not impossible. Besides, Miss Ellison is quite a catch
and any number of men would be happy to take her off your hands." O’Neill
leaned against the billiards table with a satisfied grin. "Problem solved."
"Luella isn’t ‘zactly the problem here," Ford said
with an exasperated sigh. "It’s Mum who I can’t get to change her mind."
"Wait, isn’t your mother dead?"
"Yes, that’s the problem."
"I’m lost, Northcliffe. She’s gone, how can she be a
problem?"
"I made a—" Ford flailed his arms, searching for
the words. "You know—a—a deathbed promise."
He slumped into his chair, feeling as dejected as he looked.
"I see," O’Neill answered, scrunching his forehead
in thought. "Well, what about this woman you prefer? Could you be happy
with her as a mistress?"
"I don’t have the energy for both," Ford signed
with resignation. "Besides, Sabrina is the only woman I want to be with. I
would feel as if I was cheating her, not Luella."
"Sabrina. Is that her name?" O’Neill asked
casually. "Do I know her?"
"You were talking about communicating with ghosts the
last time I was here," Ford said, deftly changing the subject. "How
does one go about that again?"
Lord Suffolk let out a shout of laughter, causing some of
the gentlemen present to lower their papers and scowl at them. "I thought
it was all ‘poppycock, and balderdash’. That’s what you told me the last time I
tried to bring the subject up, anyway. Well, if you’re really interested, you
should come around to my house Saturday just before midnight. I’m having a
séance."
"Well, I’m not sh—sh—certain, if I do believe in that
nonsense." Ford finally set his glass down. He was seeing double. Out of
the corner of his eye he thought he saw the shoeshine boy and his twin hiding
behind the coat rack, or racks as the case seemed to be. But of course there
was only the one boy and he was in quite a hurry as he ran out the front door. "But
assss a scientist, I should at leass essplore the workings of the essperiment."
O’Neill chucked again. "Good, then we’ll see you there.
I personally can’t wait to meet this Madame Lou."
"You’ve never even met her?" Ford was surprised by
that bit of information.
"No, but I knew I had to when all of this marriage
nonsense started happening. I feel quite certain that the old hag is somehow
responsible, and I fully intend to put a stop to it. But since I’m going to
have her there performing her tricks, we might as well make a party out of it."
Lord Suffolk examined his manicured fingernails before standing to approach
Ford.
"Let me help you home, old boy." He put out his
arm. "You are quite tossed."
Ford shoved the proffered hand away. "I’m quite capable
of finding my own way home." He proceeded to stand then quite promptly
stumbled into O’Neill’s outstretched arms. "Sorry, pardon. Oh, bloody
hell."
Lord Suffolk didn’t even blink an eye as he helped the
footman get Ford into his greatcoat and hat.
"Juss, point me in the right direction and I’ll be
fine," Ford protested as O’Neill followed him out onto the street.
"I won’t be leaving you to the cutpurses and local riff
raff," O’Neill insisted. "I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you this far
into your cups, Northcliffe. I must say, it is quite amusing."
"Harumph," was all Ford could manage as a response
for the moment. He couldn’t remember a time he’d drunk so much either.
Normally, he didn’t have a need for strong drink, other than a glass of fine
brandy from time to time. But getting drunk, no that wasn’t at all in his
nature. By the time he stumbled up to his front door, Ford had managed to throw
up twice. Once in an alley and once in his neighbor’s bushes. He could still
hear O’Neill laughing as he all but fell into Roland’s arms.
"Good evening, sir?" Roland was obviously shocked
by his employer’s inebriated condition.
"Can you help me to bed?" Ford asked, feeling
ridiculous. "I don’t think I can make the stairs on my own."
"Certainly, sir," Roland said with all the calm of
a man who was used to his employer coming home completely soused. "And
I’ll get you one of Mrs. Dixon’s special toddies. She makes ‘em for Mrs.
Fitzsimmons from time to time when the old gel is ailing. It’ll make the
morning go a bit better for you, or so I’ve heard."
"Essellent," Ford said just before swaying
dangerously. "Less go."
Roland pulled Ford’s arm over his shoulder and wrapped his
own around his master’s waist, practically dragging him up to his room. Halfway
up, he sent Freddy off to the kitchen. Once they reached the bed, Roland pushed
Ford to sit and began undressing him.