Come Midnight (4 page)

"Excellent!" The apple vanished from Appleby's hand. In its place appeared a sheet of foolscap, which he thrust at his host. "Now, if you'll just sign—"

"What the devil is it?" Adam stared at the paper as if it might attack him. Every nerve in his body was ajangled, his muscles taut as bowstrings.

"Why, a contract, of course. This is a business arrangement, my friend, and we want no questions regarding what it entails."

Eyeing him warily, Adam took the paper and began to read. It took him only seconds. He looked up from it with a frown. "This is hardly a proper contract. It's merely the bare bones of what we discussed: my soul in exchange for my son's life. What of the details?"

"Details?" Appleby clearly didn't care for this question. "The simpler, the better, I should think! No chance for misunderstanding, that way."

But Adam was recalling a name for the devil that Appleby hadn't included among those he'd given earlier: the Father of Lies. No chance for misunderstanding? He wouldn't wager on it. Certainly not if Appleby had his way. And any misunderstanding would be at the human's expense! He must be awake upon every suit.

"Afraid I'll need to know more," he told the dandy. "How many years, for example. Exactly how many years of life will my son have, Appleby, from the sale of my immortal soul?"

Appleby looked nonplussed for the first time since his arrival. "I say, old boy, that's something that's never—"

"How many?" Adam demanded.

Appleby sighed and withdrew a small black notebook from his waistcoat pocket. "Highly irregular, y'know," he grumbled as he leafed through it. "Lightfoot ... Lightfoot, Adam ... no—ah, here we are—Andrew." His finger came to rest on a page, and he looked up at his host.

"Well ... ?"

"See for yourself,'' said Appleby somewhat sourly. He gestured at the contract.

Adam's brows rose as he spied an addition that had suddenly appeared upon the foolscap in his hand. "... a lifespan of eighty-one years," he read aloud. He shot Appleby a glance. "Acceptable, I suppose, but—"

"Acceptable! It's downright generous, "Appleby cried. "Now, if you'll just sign—"

"Sorry, but it's not enough."

"Not enough!" the dandy sputtered. "It's a damned sight more than you've a right to expect!" His hand shot out and seemed to pull something out of the air. A small knife.

Adam glowered at it. "What in hell's that for?"

"Nothing dastardly, I assure you," said Appleby. "It's merely to prick your finger." He gestured at the contract. "The bargain must be signed in your own blood, of course."

"Of course," Adam said dryly. "But I'm not quite ready to do that yet."

"And why not?" Appleby snapped.

"Because," said Adam, "I also wish to know how many years this buys me." Appleby sputtered and muttered something about impertinence, but his host ignored him. "After all," Adam went on, "what good is saving my child's life if he's to become an orphan? The boy has just lost his mother—"

"Who barely had contact with him," Appleby pointed out. "The child was left almost entirely in the care of a nursemaid, and then a governess."

"I'm aware of that," Adam said darkly. "All the more reason I should be here for him, from now on. I want to ... nurture my son, Appleby. See him properly launched into manhood. I insist upon it."

"Insist! Insist? That's quite the outside of enough, Ravenskeep!" the dandy cried. "All these demands!" He leapt from his chair. "What arrogant effrontery! And in a mere human... Why, I've never seen the like!"

The walking stick was back in his hand, and he thrust it in Adam's face. "I suggest you recall whom you're dealing with, m'lord," he said in a menacing tone. "I suggest it strongly!"

Adam's gaze remained steady, the blue eyes wintry and unblinking. "And I suggest," he said coolly, "you recall the price you're exacting for meeting my demands. I require what amounts to a matter of mere years, Appleby. You, on the other hand, can expect all of eternity to savor your end of the bargain."

There was a moment of silence as Appleby took his measure. He'd hoped to have this particular soul in a year's time; Ravenskeep was a war hero, and therefore quite the prize. Still, having him signed and sealed, even if it was for later .... He supposed it would have to do. A deal better than not having him at all. There'd always been some doubt about Lightfoot's damnation. Best not risk it.

He resumed sitting. "Very well," he said sullenly, taking out the notebook again. "Tell me how much time you require, and I'll see what I can do. But I warn you, m'lord. You're not likely to get all you want. There are limits to how far I can be pushed!"

Adam glanced at his son. Andrew hadn't moved; the translucent skin beneath the bandage looked paler than ever. Ah, my son! I can't bear to see you this way. Yet if this thing is truly possible ...if I can truly manage to ... .

Adam's eyes moved to a small table at the far side of the chamber. On it lay a marble and onyx chess set. An excellent player, Adam had been teaching Andrew how to play. It suddenly gave him an idea.

"Appleby," he said as his gaze found the dandy's, "I've a proposal. I suggest we play a game of chess. Five years added to my current age, for every piece of yours I capture." He shrugged. "Of course, if I fail to capture any..."

"Done." Appleby smiled. Better than he'd expected. Hadn't the marquis heard? The devil was an expert gamesman!

Adam didn't like the looks of that smile. Or that he'd won this concession so readily. But most on his mind at the moment was what he liked least of all: Appleby even remotely near his son.

"Very well, then," he said, rising from his seat. "But I prefer to play in the library, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, dear boy." Appleby rose, too, as his host Bast a worried look at his son.

Again, the easy concession. Adam swore softly under his breath as he grabbed a taper to light the way. The little bastard was too bloody accommodating! He met Appleby's gaze. "I require your promise nothing will happen to Andrew until our match is over, and our bargain concluded."

"The lad will be completely safe," the dandy replied cheerfully.

Too damned cheerfully, Adam thought as he nodded and they made their way to the library down the hall. He's up to something, but damned if I—

Smothering the grim irony in this thought, Adam lit a branch from the taper as they entered the library. He led Appleby to a table near the hearth, where another chess set waited in readiness. They began to play.

Chapter 3

Caitlin trudged wearily up the stairs. The worn and splintered steps creaked when she set her slight weight upon them. Her lodgings were far from grand, but they were all she could afford. She grimaced with the thought. Her rent was due tomorrow, and she hadn't the coin to meet it.

Worry about that in the morning, she told herself as she reached her door. Fumbling amid the sodden folds of her cloak, she found her key. She'd been caught in a devilish downpour while making her way back to the shabby chamber. Now it was past midnight, and she was soaked nearly to the skin and bone-weary.

Yet it was a satisfying exhaustion, she thought, setting a worn leather bag down, just inside the door. Crossing the tiny chamber in the dark, she groped for the tinder-box beside the bed and lit a candle. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and felt herself relax.

Aye, satisfying. Up at dawn, she'd seen over a dozen of London's poor before the sun read noon. And she'd left most of them better off than when she came.

A wee tad better, she amended as she stripped off the dripping cloak. Their worst affliction was something no herbs and simples could heal: a grinding poverty that frequently led to an early grave. Yet Caitlin did what she could. Using the knowledge she'd gained under Crionna's roof, she'd become an itinerant healer. She supported herself, albeit none too grandly, as she traveled the countryside, asking for those in need.

More often than not, they had no money to pay, and she accepted other things instead: a loaf of bread, a few eggs, some roots and greens from a humble garden. Even clothing, she thought, removing the wet half boots she had from a poor country vicar's wife she'd seen through a fever.

She'd left Ireland more than six months ago. Buried her foster mother, mourned her, then set out at once for England. She couldn't say why, exactly, but she'd needed to get away. Sometimes, like tonight, when she was especially tired, an inner voice told her she was running away. She ignored it. The dreams hadn't come since she put her native soil behind her. That was the important thing.

She refused to examine the strange compulsion that had drawn her to London in early April. Heretofore, she'd traveled strictly in the countryside, for she was country-bred. But it didn't matter where she plied her skills. There were poor everywhere, and ....

The thought faded as she dropped onto the room's narrow cot with a groan. She'd spent the last six hours delivering the ragman's wife of a set of twins. Healthy babes, if a bit on the scrawny side. She smiled ruefully. Her concern for the wee mites was why she hadn't the rent; she'd told the ragman to take those farthings and buy his nursing wife some nourish—

A rapping on her door had her eyeing it sharply. Who'd be after calling at this hour? She'd no friends to speak of, having been in the city but a fortnight, and—

The rapping came again, sounding urgent. Someone in need? She dragged herself off the cot and moved to the door. She may not have made any friends, but she knew word had already spread about her work. "The Irish Angel," they'd begun to call her, though she saw nothing angelic in what she did. Anyone with a few healing skills and a bit of compassion could have done the same.

"Aye?" she called through the door, not yet ready to open it. The East End was rife with footpads, cutthroats and worse; she wasn't a fool. "Who is it ye seek?"

"I was told the Irish Angel lives here," said a woman's voice. "Oh, please, miss! If you're the one they told me about, I-I'm begging-your help."

The desperation in the voice had Caitlin swiftly opening the door. "Come in, then," she said to the middle-aged woman who looked at her with imploring eyes.

"Are ... are you really the Irish Angel?" the woman asked uncertainly. The slender creature facing her looked so young! A mere slip of a girl, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Very pretty, though.

Caitlin gave her a tired smile. "Some call me that, aye. But me name's Caitlin...Caitlin O'Brien.And ye're ... ?"

"I'm Mrs. Hodgkins . .. Sally Hodgkins. You may recall my sister, for you cured her of a terrible skin rash when—"

"Ach, the shopkeeper's wife! How's she farin' these days?"

"Splendidly, thanks to you. But, Miss O'Brien, that's not why I'm here. I've come to you because ... Well, I know what you did for Jenny, and—and we've nowhere else to turn!"

The woman began to weep softly. Exhausted though she was, Caitlin couldn't ignore her. Her heart went out to the woman. "Here," she said, guiding her to the room's single chair. "Sit down and tell me about it."

Nodding gratefully, Mrs. Hodgkins complied, then mastered her emotions enough to tell of her quest. An errand of mercy, but not for herself. For a six-year-old child. The son of a nobleman in a great household where she was employed as housekeeper. There had been a carriage accident, and the child was badly injured. The physician didn't expect him to live past morning.

"But what leads ye t' think I can help?" Caitlin was shaking her head. "If this lord's own physician doesn't—"

"But you're the Irish Angel!" Mrs. Hodgkins cried. "My sister says a prayer for you each day, blessing you for her cure. You healed her of that rash that came near to driving her mad—for two years. Two years, miss! With visits to one physician after another, and none of them able to do a thing for her!"

The woman started to weep again, and Caitlin patted her shoulder soothingly, wondering what to do. She was a healer, not a miracle worker, despite what some said. Yet she was touched by this woman's request. By her compassion. She wept for a child not even her own. "Describe the injuries for me, if ye will," she said at last

Mrs. Hodgkins dried her eyes and did so. But after hearing of the crushed leg and a severe head wound that had left the child senseless, Caitlin despaired more than ever. It didn't sound good. "Ach, the poor babe," she murmured with genuine sympathy. "And his parents—they must be beside themselves with anguish!"

Stifling a sob, Mrs. Hodgkins shook her head. "But one p-parent now, Miss O'Brien. Little Lord Andrew has only his father left him. The p-poor child's mother was k-killed in that same accident."

Caitlin murmured softly and crossed herself.

"And his lordship's in a terrible state, miss! He's shut himself away in that room for hours. Won't talk to anyone ... won't sleep or take any food. And himself just home from the war, with his own wound barely healed!"

"Ach, the poor man!"

Mrs. Hodgkins nodded. "I'll be honest with you, miss. The marquis has no idea I'm here. For how could he, with him not seeing anyone? But it wouldn't matter, I'm sure, if you were to help his son. And he's a man of great wealth, Lord Ravenskeep is. Not at all the niggardly sort, either. I'm sure he'd pay handsomely for your help." She placed a hand on Caitlin's sleeve. "Oh, won't you at least try?"

Caitlin felt buffeted by the pull on her emotions. A wee lad, given up for lost. The mother dead, the father clearly grieving for his wife, in despair over his son. It all sounded so hopeless. What could she, a mere folk healer, do?

Still, she'd never been one to quit before even trying. And there was always the power of prayer. Those she treated didn't know it, but she prayed over them as much as she plied her skills from Crionna.

And, of course, there was the matter of her rent. This lord would pay well, the housekeeper said. With a weary sigh, Caitlin slipped on her half boots, grabbed her wet cloak and turned to the bag she'd set beside the door. It held her herbs and simples. "Take me t' the lad," she said.