Page 3 of Ghost of the Ton

“To whom?” the minister asked.

She tilted her head to one side and Hamish caught the hardened expression in her eyes as she removed all doubt, and with it, his hopes.

“To me.”

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.