“Ashleigh,” Violet warned.
The young woman let out a heavy sigh. “I see Mrs. Harding walking toward us, very fast. Whatever she’s learned, it can’t be good.”
Emma wondered what the headmistress could possibly want, but she sensed she was about to get the answer to her questions. She saw a maroon blur coming closer. And when the headmistress reached them, she was nearly out of breath.
“Miss Bartholomew,” Mrs. Harding said, “It seems that your stepmother has made a change in the auction date. It begins tonight.”
Chapter Five
Cormac lay inbed, his body wracked with pain and weakness. He didn’t know what had caused the onslaught of illness, but he lay in the darkness of his bedchamber. His mood grew despondent, and he gripped the edges of the sheets, wondering what in God’s name he’d done to deserve this suffering. Or his father and Finn, for that matter. The illness was utterly merciless.
His mother had voiced her own suspicions of poison, but how was that possible when he’d left everyone behind? All his servants were new—he’d hired them in London. None had connections to Ireland.
Then, too, if he were being poisoned, whoever was trying to kill him in Ireland would have done so in a single dose. No, this was different. There were days when he started to improve, when he was enjoying life, only to be followed by several more days of agonizing illness. He had no doubt that this was simply the disease that had claimed his father’s and brother’s lives.
He was supposed to be at another ball tonight, helping Miss Bartholomew. And yet, he could barely bring himself to move.
I really am going to die,he thought. He wasn’t going to have the opportunity to be a husband or a father. And the frustration and grief caught him in a morass of pity and anger at the unfairness of it all.
A soft knock came to the door. “My lord?”
“Leave me be,” Cormac muttered. “I can’t go tonight.”
Hawkins opened the door slightly, a candle in his hand. “My lord, shall I send for a physician?”
He didn’t answer, for what good would it do? The physician would only bleed him or make him drink foul potions that he would simply bring back up again.
“No,” he said quietly. “Just let me lie here and sleep.”
“Is there aught I can do to help?” his secretary asked. “Should I send word to anyone?”
Cormac was about to refuse and then thought better of it. “Aye. Send my apologies to Miss Bartholomew. Tell her it’s sorry I am that I can’t be there.”
He hated the thought of his weakness, but if he was going to die soon, perhaps it was better that she didn’t rely on him.
“Is she... going to be your wife, my lord?” Hawkins asked.
“Unfortunately, she’s already refused my proposal of marriage once.” He covered his eyes with his hand and added, “Don’t be worried about it. We have time to figure that out later.”
“But youdowish to marry her?” Hawkins prompted.
“I like her,” he admitted. “And she’d make a fine wife, to be sure. But she’s a stubborncailín,and I don’t know if I’ve time enough to win her consent. Not as sick as I’ve been.” He said nothing of dying, though he supposed his secretary suspected it by now.
“What about the auction, my lord?” Hawkins dared to ask. “Would you bid upon her?”
“It won’t come to that,” he answered, “but aye, if it did, I would place the highest bid before allowing some other gentleman to hurt her.” After that, he ordered Hawkins, “Leave me. Rest is what I’m needing now.”
Hawkins paused as if he wanted to say something more but then held his silence. “Aye, sir. I hope you feel better.”
Cormac curled on his side, fighting against the familiar pain after the door closed. He hated that he’d become such a helpless wretch.
You could go to the ball anyway,his conscience suggested. And for a moment, he thought about it. If this truly was the end of his life, the last thing he wanted was to spend it curled up, waiting to die.
Hawkins had left some dry toast on the table beside his bed. Cormac reached for it and forced himself to take a bite. He ate slowly, hoping he could keep the food down.
It did seem to ease the gnawing in his stomach. He decided to see if he was capable of walking downstairs. If he could manage it, perhaps he would try again.
The second piece of toast went down easier, and he drank a cup of cold tea with it. Cormac took several deep breaths before he swung his feet to the bedside and stood. The room swayed, but he seized the bedpost to regain his balance.
