“Aren’t all women a little dangerous?”
Markham shoved his hands in his pockets. “This one nearly killed the baby. That child is all that’s left of Colin.”
His cousin’s uncle was a lot of things, mostly evil, but he’d do anything for Colin. The woman might truly be a danger. He’d sort things out eventually.
“Busick Strathmore, the Duke of Repington, you’re still in your prime. You should be courting the socialites of London, not out here in the country with a baby. You and Colin both were popular with the ladies. A child will get in the way.”
“Courting is not currently on my schedule.”
Yes, that was an appropriate salve to Busick’s ego, as opposed to the coddling or repulsion he’d face with his present injuries. He’d never saddle a woman with a sick husband. He’d never turn a wife into a nurse. “Finish your cravat. Leave Hamlin with some dignity. And shame on you trying to deflower a servant.”
“She’s a comely nanny, but her mood changed unexpectedly. But trust me, the flower has been off the bloom of that woman for years.”
Markham folded his arms, making his bottle-green waistcoat appear more wrinkled. “See, nephew. We can get along like old times. We—”
“I’m not your nephew. And I’m done playing games. I found you. I’ll find Mrs. Jordan.”
“But, Duke, your cousin’s creditors are also mine. They’ve expectations. I spent all my money hiring a staff to care for Lionel. Surely some generosity is warranted.”
“I’m sure you’ll explain everything to your debtors when they catch you. Perhaps they’ll be moved, but not me. Go. Follow your staff—”
“Auug. Help! Help!”
The high-pitched scream came from the hall.
Busick grabbed his crutch. A lady was in trouble. Could his men have found Mrs. Jordan?
He pushed past Markham and went into the hall.
Standing under the grand chandelier, he peered up to the second landing and saw a woman swinging a poker, screaming.
Gantry started up the stairs. “You there, be careful.”
“A ghost! It’s a ghost. I saw him this time.” The young woman tossed the iron but kept moving backward.
Busick charged the stairs, his gaze switching like a pocket scope from how close her foot was to the first tread, then back to the drawing room door. Markham hadn’t followed.
The girl teetered, then lost her balance, flipping and flopping all the way down the burgundy carpeted steps. She rolled and stopped at Busick’s crutch.
The viscount ran down and picked up her arm.
Markham appeared. He moved quickly and crouched beside her. “Mrs. Kelly, revive, woman. This is the nanny.”
Gantry released the nanny’s wrist. “She’s alive. I feel the blood coursing.”
The breath Busick held in his chest began to flow. Powering backward to give the fallen girl air, he pointed his fingers to his troops, summoning two of his men. “Go investigate. More conspirators may be afoot.”
Two soldiers marched up the stairs.
Busick glanced down at the woman as Gantry helped her sit. Her eyes had a glow. Some of the girls of the Season used belladonna to add highlights to their eyes. In large doses, it could make a person subjective. Was Markham up to his old tricks?
Mrs. Kelly’s wits returned, and the petite blond bolted up.
“What happened?” Markham asked. “Are you much hurt?”
She clutched the man’s waistcoat. “I saw it this time. Not just noises or strangeness. I saw it with my own eyes. It looked like a shrouded man. In the shadows. My own eyes. I saw my late husband’s ghost. He’s sorry for all I’ve lost.”
Markham put an arm about her, but she swatted away.
