Page 23 of Lyon of Scotland
“Pencil... can be erased—” she mumbled.
“Or traced over in ink.” His words were distant now. She felt him wrap her fingers around the pencil and move her hand by force.Hannaahhshe wrote. Her head felt like a whirligig and the letters on the page were a gray blur.
“Miss Gordon,” saida woman, low-voiced, calm. “Miss Gordon. Wake up, dear.”
Waving a hand for the woman to go away, wanting only sleep, Hannah opened one eye and blinked against silvery daylight. A woman stood near her, gowned in black, face veiled—or was that the dark blur of a dreadful dream? She tried to move her hand, but it was limp in her lap.
“Miss Gordon, wake up.” A man was there, too. She winced at that snide voice. His big hand shook her shoulder.
Where was she? She vaguely remembered Frederic Dove taking her somewhere in the rain. A house, pale blue, dim, quiet in the morning.
“Freddie, leave her be. She is a tiny thing. She is not drunk—there is no smell of it. Did she take a tincture? I have seen this before. She has been dosed.”
“She has a nervous disposition. Perhaps she has the habit.”
Hannah tried to say he had given her something, but her voice squeaked and failed. She peered at their looming shadows.
“Are you sure she requested that I arrange a match for her? I know you have a signed note, but look at her! She is not the most marriageable thing I have ever seen.”
“She can be quite presentable. Stop calling me Freddie.”
“If you want me to address you as a gentleman, then act like one. You are insufferable sometimes, Cousin. Tell me why I should agree to this.”
“I swear she wants to find a husband, Bessie. I gave you the note she signed.”
“She did not come to me directly. You brought her here like this. How can I honor an agreement without interviewing the girl?”
“She was afraid to approach you. You have a reputation for being formidable.”
“Tsk,” Bessie said. “She is in a dreadful state.”
“She is Scottish. That explains it.”
Hannah tried to speak again but her voice was just air. The effort brought on a wave of nausea. She burped, fighting it.
“I cannot possibly find a husband for such a girl. Move her out of here. I fear the chit will be sick all over my carpet.”
“The chit is from a good family. Father is a baronet, a portrait painter, sought after by many, albeit Scottish,” he added with a sneer. “I have the perfect groom for her.”
“I want nothing to do with this, Freddie.”
Hannah moaned. The woman sounded haughty yet more caring than Dove. He was obnoxious and cruel. This was just a nightmare and she wanted to wake up.
“Wake up,” she told herself. She burped again.
“Let her sleep this off. I will consider it when she is in better condition.”
“Bessie, this requires little effort from you. I have the husband for her and I am sure he will take her. You need do very little, and we will both make a pretty penny.”
“She does owe me a fee for the contract. She owes you money too, you say?”
“Yes. It’s complicated. Trust me.”
“I want no part of this. I should tear this up.” She waved a pale sheet of paper.
“You will change your mind when you hear who her groom is.”
“Some reprobate, as downtrodden and desperate as she is? This sordid arrangement does not suit my establishment.”
