12

The next ten days proved to be a challenge to Elinor’s newfound determination. It wasn’t simply the daily arrival of gifts from Viscount Rohan. With no other source to turn to, she had no choice but to accept his charity, and she did so with perfect grace, as long as she didn’t have to see him. In fact, her nightmare had done her good. It didn’t matter that she refused to be a whore like her mother, dependent on the largesse of wealthy men—she’d already accepted that role the day she climbed into Sir Christopher’s bed.

Each day a new arrival of food, of firewood, of rich wool blankets and silken throws, would arrive, and she would dutifully sit down and write a polite note of thanks and promise of repayment, dispatching Jacobs with it. Each day he would return with a note in Rohan’s careless scrawl, and even her sister failed to see the impropriety of his suggestions that she might visit to further discuss methods of repayment. Ones, he said, that didn’t involve rats. Lydia had wrinkled her brow at that, but Elinor refused to explain. Besides, she’d changed her mind. She’d underestimated the danger of the King of Hell, and she wasn’t going anywhere near him again, not if she could help it. The memory of his mouth still burned. Rats would be easier to forget.

She ate the food, rich and wonderful beyond her memory, without choking, she warmed herself by the fire his money had provided, and she slept in the bed next to her sister, holding tight to the knowledge that as long as Lydia slept beside her the girl was safe.

There’d been a time, a brief time when she’d been in Rohan’s dangerous, mesmerizing presence, when she’d really believed it wasn’t her sister he wanted. When he’d touched her, kissed her, and a whole new world had opened up. Not the sunshiny bright world of true love and happy endings. Something darker, more complex, infinitely more alluring.

Common sense had returned along with daylight. If he’d had even the slightest passing interest in her it was occasioned only by her unique status as an innocent. Once he learned otherwise he would have come to his senses. Assuming he had left them in the first place.

But he’d made no effort to broaden his acquaintance with her sister, and Elinor allowed herself to relax, at least briefly. And to be grateful for the most important gift of all. Etienne de Giverney.

It wasn’t until the third day that there was a sudden knock on the door, and apprehension swept through Elinor. “Go in the bedroom, Lydia,” she said swiftly, rising from her seat by the blessed fire. “I’ll get rid of him.”

Lydia didn’t argue. She never did when Elinor used that tone of voice. She was far from naive, and she knew full well, without any vanity, that her looks brought her unwanted attention, and she slipped into their bedroom as Elinor waited for Jacobs to open the door, certain that Lord Rohan would be there, ready to claim his reward.

Instead, a husky young man stepped into the house, ducking beneath the low lintel. He was dressed immaculately, perhaps too much so, and he carried a medical bag in one hand. “Miss Elinor Harriman?” he said in the French of a native. “My name is Etienne de Giverney. I’ve been sent by my cousin, the Comte de Giverney, to provide assistance.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded for the moment. And then memory flooded back, Rohan’s absurd suggestion that she marry this young man. If she could go by the way he was looking at her out of flat black eyes, he was having none of it.

She was half tempted to see him on his way, but the visit of a real doctor was too valuable to ignore. “You’re very kind, monsieur. My mother is quite ill—if you would see if there’s anything you can do for her it would be much appreciated. But that is all we have need of.”

He didn’t bother hiding his relief. He’d walked into the room with the air of a man going to his execution, and Elinor wondered whether she should be amused or insulted. Either way it didn’t matter—she could hardly marry in order to please Lord Rohan. The comte was clearly delusional.

“I will endeavor to do my best,” he said in a stiff voice. “I’m indebted to my cousin on many levels—he paid for my education and sees to it that I’m well employed.”

“His lordship is a very charitable man,” Elinor ventured.

The doctor snorted. “You might say so, though whether he’s actually a lord is open for discussion.”

Elinor responded as he clearly meant her to. “How so, Monsieur de Giverney?”

“Another man in England holds the viscountcy, and I myself should have acceded to the title of Comte de Giverney instead of an Englishman. It was a mere accident of birth—if he were a man of honor he would have refused the title.”

Such a stuffy young man, Elinor thought, bearing his full share of grievances. “I don’t believe Lord Rohan is known for his more honorable qualities.”

His earlier sniff became a full-blown snort. “I tell you, mademoiselle, it is very difficult for me. Very difficult indeed. That I, a true de Giverney, should toil like a tradesman while he enjoys the family château, the town house, the money…”

She made all the right soothing sounds, mentally thanking God for the Harriman Nose. Even if she thought marriage was a possibility for her, she’d prefer to do without rather than end up with this pompous young man.

She led him into the bedroom where Lady Caroline lay, still and small beneath the covers. “The Spanish disease,” he said knowingly. “She is too far gone—there is nothing that can be done for her but ease her pain.” He leaned over and lifted her eyelids—her eyes were dull and glassy, though she managed a muffled and obscene curse.

Elinor could feel the color stain her cheeks. “I beg your pardon…” she said.

“It is of no consequence. In the late stages the madness is fully upon them, and very little remains of the person they once were. I’m sure your mother was a kind and generous soul before becoming so afflicted. I assume she contracted this from your father. Is he still living?” He was looking at her with slightly more approval, since she’d provided him a seemingly captivated audience.

“Alas, no. He died recently, leaving us nothing. If it weren’t for your cousin we would be quite destitute.”

His momentary warmth vanished. “I have laudanum for your mother. You’ll need to watch the dosage carefully. As her pain and agitation increase you’ll need to give her more of the tincture. If she’s still alive at the end of a fortnight I’ll return to check on her…” His voice trailed off as the door opened and Lydia poked her head in the room.

“You don’t look like the King of Hell,” she said cheerfully, and Elinor groaned.

“This is Etienne de Giverney, Lydia. He was just leaving—”

Her words were cut off as the doctor pushed in front of her, taking one of Lydia’s hands in his. “My dear lady,” he murmured. “What a trying time for you.”

Elinor blinked. Why was she surprised—most men had only to look at Lydia and fall desperately in love. The stiff-necked doctor was no different.

“Dr. de Giverney says she hasn’t much time left, and we must keep her comfortable, my love,” she said. “He was about to leave.”

“On the contrary, Mademoiselle Harriman,” he protested, not looking anywhere but into Lydia’s blue eyes. “I have yet to complete my examination, and then I will inform you and your sister exactly what you may expect. She is very ill, but that doesn’t mean she is past the point of all help. Please.” He gestured them out the door.

It could be worse, Elinor thought, ordering tea for the three of them. He was a handsome young man, if stuffy, and he even had a trade. He would make Lydia an excellent husband. Before the disease had claimed Lady Caroline’s mind their mother had had grand plans for Lydia—a title, a wealthy husband were to be expected, and there was no saying how high they might look.

All that was gone now, and Lydia had no interest in coronets or fortunes. As Madame de Giverney she would have a strong, stable husband who would give her children, keep her safe, and if Francis Rohan managed to die without reproducing, Lydia might even end up with the French title after all.

Elinor wasn’t going to think about that. Francis Rohan’s plans for procreation had nothing to do with her, and Lydia wouldn’t care if she was a French countess or a simple doctor’s wife. She smiled her sweet smile at Etienne when he came every day, listened to his lectures on modern medical practices and asked all the right questions. She could prove a helpful assistant in his surgery if he would let her, and in the meantime the stuffy young man, like so many others, was thoroughly enchanted. He would offer marriage, despite Lydia’s lack of a fortune. He was too besotted not to.

And Elinor clung to that small hope as the days passed and her newfound cousin, her only hope for rescue, still didn’t return to town.

She had no idea whether Etienne reported to the viscount, but with disconcerting suddenness his lordship stopped responding to her oh-so-polite thank-you notes. The first day that Jacobs had returned empty-handed she had paced the thick rug, expecting a messenger at any moment with the delayed missive. No one came.

The next morning there was pheasant and apples and a set of crystal wineglasses, and she sat by the fire and wrote her note, never mentioning his lack of response. For sure, she’d barely noticed, and it wouldn’t do to have Francis Rohan think he mattered in the slightest. Not to her.

There was no return note. And yes, his lordship was most definitely in residence, and had received her note, Jacobs assured her, disapproving. Apparently his lordship was caught up in plans for some grand party, and the Harrimans had little enough claim on his attention. But the food and fuel and the small gifts kept arriving each morning, and Elinor wrote her dutiful notes, telling herself she was relieved he’d forgotten about them. Delighted, in fact.

If Lydia proved amenable, then rescue was at hand. In the meantime she would forget about Viscount Rohan, even as she lost herself in the books he sent her, and pray that the slim hope fate had dangled in front of her wasn’t to be snatched away.