Chapter One
Gracechurch Street, London, three months earlier
“Miss Lucas, we buried your father today.”
The voice, though gentle, hammered against Mia’s senses, joining the constant throb of pain that swelled and receded with each rattling breath she drew.
“D-Doctor McIver, I-I…”
“Hush, lass, dinnae speak if it pains ye.” A shadow moved, an indistinct form looming over her against the backdrop of a blurred world, as if Death had come to claim her so that she might join Papa. But, instead, she felt a soft coolness on her forehead.
Footsteps approached, followed by the creaking of a door.
“Ye cannae enter, Mr. Sullivan,” the doctor said.
“You cannot deny me. I’m her cousin, her only living relative.”
And the sole beneficiary if she dies unmarried.
Though the last words were left unsaid, Mia heard them in her cousin’s tone, the nasal whine she recalled from when she’d first encountered him as a child—lazy, selfish, with soft, fleshy fingers that were all too likely to dip into drawers, caskets, and desks to appropriate that which didn’t belong to him.
“Yer cousin’s too ill to see anyone,” Dr. McIver said.
“Yet she’ll see you.”
“I’m her doctor.”
“And, no doubt, looking for a tidy sum to charge in lieu of your services. Her fortune may be small, but she has no right to fritter it away.”
“Whereas ye have?” the doctor said, an edge to his voice. “Ye visiting yer cousin will not expedite her departure from the world in order for ye to claim yer inheritance, which, I presume, is the only reason ye’ve come to see her.”
“How dare—”
“However,” the doctor interrupted, “it might bring about yer demise. Smallpox is highly contagious.”
Had the act of breathing not brought about a spasm of pain, Mia might have laughed at her cousin’s yelp of fear.
“P-perhaps I’ll visit another time,” her cousin said, fear tightening his voice. “Do you know the identity of my uncle’s lawyer?”
“Yer uncle’s will has already been read, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Very well, my cousin’s lawyer.”
Mia inhaled, shuddering.
“I-I’m not dead yet, cousin,” she croaked. “I’m…”
Her throat tightened in a spasm of pain and a wave of heat rippled through her veins. The doctor placed a light hand on her shoulder.
“Dinnae speak, lass, for yer own sake.” Then his voice hardened. “Mr. Sullivan, I’d advise ye to leave. The greatest service ye can do is to let yer cousin die in peace.”
Mia closed her eyes.
“So, she’ll not survive?” her cousin said.
“The chances are slight,” the doctor said. “The chances of yer survival are diminishing with every moment ye spend in this room.”
“Then I’ll bid you good day, Dr. McIver. I trust you’ll inform my lawyers when she—”
He broke off with a yelp. Mia heard a scuffle, followed by two sets of footsteps receding. Then a door slammed in the distance. She resumed her attention on the looming darkness, letting her body sink into the bed, which seemed to drift in and out of the mortal world.
The chances are slight.
Most of Dr. McIver’s patients would have preferred him to coat his diagnoses in honey, or utter falsehoods to peddle hope in lieu of a fee. But the straight-talking Scot was never a man to embellish his words with poetry or tales best confined to the nursery.
If only he had been my father, rather than…
Then Mia admonished herself. Papa had loved her, in his own way. He now lay cold in his grave and she hadn’t been able to bid him farewell.
The footsteps returned, a single set this time, and Mia caught the unmistakable scent of lavender.
“Dr. McIver, i-is he…?”
“Yer cousin won’t be visiting ye any more, lass. I’ve told Gertie not to admit him again.”
Mia opened her eyes and the doctor’s concerned face swam into view, blurred by pain and tears.
“I-I’m sorry, I…”
“Hush, lass. Here—take this. It’ll ease yer pain.”
Something cold and unyielding was pressed to her lips. Obediently she parted them and liquid slipped onto her tongue, filling her mouth with its bitter taste.
“H-how long…?”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “How long have ye got? The crisis should come within three or four days, after which…” His voice cracked a little before he continued. “I’ll make sure ye’re comfortable, lass. And Gertie will remain with ye until the end.”
“Three or four days?”
“A week, at most. Now, is there anything ye want?”
Mia nodded, then winced at the stab of pain in her neck. “I want to see Mr. Stockton. I wish to settle my affairs before—”
She broke off, unwilling to voice what must be inevitable, though she lauded the doctor for voicing it.
“Yer affairs are already settled, lass,” he replied. “That vile cousin of yers—if ye’ll permit me to speak so freely—is to inherit under rules of the entailment. There’s no way to prevent it.”
“There’s one way,” Mia whispered. She blinked, clearing her vision for a moment, and winced against the bright backdrop of sunlight from the window that silhouetted the doctor’s frame.
Then the doctor, displaying the intelligence and insight that set him apart from the rest of his profession—nay, the rest of his sex—drew a sharp intake of breath.
“Ye dinnae mean…”
“Yes, Dr. McIver,” Mia said, ignoring the agony in her throat as she voiced what was to be her last wish. “I want a husband. I wish to marry before I die.”