Peters sat frozen on the driver’s box, his mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes were so wide that Joan could see the whites all around.
She ignored him and climbed back into the carriage properly this time, accepting the step and trying to at least salvage some semblance of decorum to find Victoria pressed into the corner of the seat, her face pale as milk.
“Joan,” Victoria breathed as soon as the door closed behind her.
Joan stroked her sister’s hair with trembling fingers. “All is well. See? No harm done.”
Victoria’s entire body shook. “No need to worry anymore,” Joan murmured, wrapping her arms tightly around her sister. The carriage lurched into motion. Through the window, Joan could see the magnificent black carriage slowly reversing, its matched bays stepping backward. As they passed, she caught one final glimpse of the tall man standing beside his vehicle.
Then they rolled past, and he disappeared from view.
Joan exhaled shakily and closed her eyes, resting her cheek against Victoria’s hair. Her headache had intensified to a blinding crescendo, and her hands would not stop trembling.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the front entrance of the manor where a single lantern had been lit against the encroaching darkness. Peters climbed down from his perch with visible relief, no doubt grateful to have reached their destination without further incident.
Joan descended first, not waiting for assistance, and turned to help Victoria down. Her sister’s hand trembled in hers, cold despite the leather of her gloves.
“Come,” Joan said gently. “Let us get you inside and warm.”
The front door stood slightly ajar. Joan pushed it open wider and stepped into the entrance hall.
The interior was scarcely more encouraging than the exterior. Holland covers draped the furniture like shrouds. Cobwebs festooned the corners of the ceiling, and Joan could see water stains spreading across the plaster in ominous patterns.
But it was voices that captured Joan’s attention.
“—certain it was the eldest Miss Sinclair that took ill,” a woman was saying from somewhere down the corridor to the left.“Cook’s sister works for the apothecary in London, and she said there was a servant who came round buying herbs for a fever.”
“That’s not what I heard.” A second voice, said. “My cousin’s husband’s sister works in a great house near the Sinclair townhouse, and she said it was the younger miss what caused all the trouble. Some scandal with her betrothed, though she couldn’t say exactly what. Only that the wedding was called off and she left London in disgrace.”
Joan felt Victoria stiffen beside her. Her sister’s fingers dug into Joan’s arm with bruising force.
“Scandal?” The first voice sounded intrigued. “What manner of scandal?”
“Well, I couldn’t say for certain, could I? But weddings don’t get called off the very morning they’re to take place unless something terrible’s happened. Perhaps she was caught in a compromising position with another gentleman. Or perhaps she?—”
Joan strode forward, pulling Victoria with her. Their footsteps echoed on the floor, announcing their presence.
The voices cut off abruptly.
Two maids stood in the doorway of what had once been the morning room, their faces flushed with the guilty knowledge ofhaving been overheard. Both wore plain gray dresses and white aprons that had seen better days.
Joan stopped directly in front of the two maids, who immediately dropped into hasty curtsies. Joan kept one arm firmly around Victoria’s shoulders, holding her sister upright through sheer force of will.
“Good evening,” Joan said, her voice cool and measured. She paused, then allowed her expression to shift into one of delicate concern. “Oh dear. I do apologize. I fear I should have sent word ahead more clearly about my… condition.”
Before either maid could respond, Joan raised her free hand to her mouth and coughed a deep, rattling sound that she had been plagued with during a bout of genuine illness several years prior. She coughed again, bending slightly at the waist as though the force of it pained her.
The maids stumbled backward, their eyes widening in alarm.
“Miss!” the younger one squeaked. “Are you well?”
Joan straightened slowly, pressing her hand dramatically to her chest. “Forgive me. This fever has left me terribly weak. The physician in London was most concerned. He said—” She paused to cough again, this time directly in the direction of the two maids. “—he said it was highly contagious. I confess I did not entirely follow his explanation, but he was most insistent that I avoid close contact with others for at least a fortnight.”
She took a step closer to the maids, who scrambled backward so quickly that the younger one nearly tripped over her own feet.
“Contagious!” the older maid gasped, one hand flying to her throat. “Miss Sinclair, you should have said! We would have prepared—that is, we would have taken precautions?—”
“Indeed,” Joan said, her voice dropping to a tone of cold steel. She fixed both maids with a look that had once reduced a presumptuous suitor to stammering incoherence. “I do hope you will take appropriate precautions now. I should hate for my illness to spread through the household because of… carelessness.”
