Page 7

“I dinna like it,” Bree McEvoy, my maid, declared as I straightened, catching my breath after my last bout of coughing. “I dinna like it at all.”

“Dr. Graham said the coughing is good for me, remember,” I replied, pressing a hand to my chest. “That it’s necessary to clear as much of the grime I inhaled from my lungs as possible.”

“Maybe so. But I can tell hoo much it pains ye.” She reached for the bottle on the table nearby. “Won’t ye take some o’ the elixir he left?”

I shook my head, struggling to restrain another cough. “Not until tomorrow. As he instructed .”

“Aye,” Bree grumbled, setting the bottle back before she resumed her ministrations to my hair, pulling the brush through my damp chestnut brown locks with long, sure strokes.

A roaring fire crackled in the hearth a short distance from where I perched on an ottoman, allowing the heat to dry my thick tresses.

Several moments passed with naught but the tick of the clock and the soft scrape of the brush against my hair to break the silence, though I suspected my maid was only biding her time, waiting to voice her next whinge.

Regardless, the warmth of the fire and the soothing repetition of my maid’s ministrations were lulling me into a welcome stupor, especially after the events of the past few hours had been spinning around and around in my head.

I allowed my shoulders to droop and my back to bow.

“Mayhap ye should lie down, m’lady,” she murmured in concern.

“No,” I answered drowsily. “I need to stay upright as long as possible.” Another recommendation made by Dr. Graham. “But if my hair is dry enough, I will gladly move to the settee.”

She helped me shift to the piece of furniture upholstered in robin’s-egg blue fabric, draping a shawl around my shoulders and a rug over my lap. I sighed contentedly as I settled deeper into the corner.

“Tea?” Bree inquired, already crossing toward the bellpull.

“Yes. And then I’d like to see Emma.”

I’d wanted to see my daughter the moment we returned home, but I’d been afraid my mangled and soiled appearance would frighten her.

So I’d forced myself to wait until Dr. Graham had been summoned to examine me and Bree had helped me bathe away every last remnant of the floor collapse while my tattered gown and undergarments were swept away.

I had little hope of their being salvaged, but in the past Bree had proved to be quite a miracle worker at repairing stained and damaged clothing.

A skill that came in remarkably handy considering my and Gage’s proclivities.

As such, I knew better than to assume the garments were irredeemable.

Beyond a number of minor cuts and contusions, I had survived relatively unscathed.

Though Dr. Graham had warned me to take it easy the next few days and to send for him if I developed any new symptoms or my cough worsened.

Gage had not escaped quite so easily. The laceration on his left arm had required cleaning and a handful of stitches.

However, he was still fortunate that, under the circumstances, he’d not suffered worse.

Word had reached us a short time after returning home that Mr. Smith had succumbed to his injuries.

Apparently, Alexander Smith had been a banker by trade, but other than that, we knew little about him.

I asked our butler, Jeffers, to find out what he could about the man, so that if he had a family I might send along our condolences.

It would only be a matter of time before we learned of the fate of any other victims, I suspected, but I asked Jeffers to inquire about any serious injuries from the calamity as well.

I closed my eyes, listening to Bree bustle about the bedchamber, straightening things that didn’t require straightening.

I knew this was her way of grappling with the anxiety my returning home in such a state had caused her.

Like me, she found it easier to confront strong emotions by keeping herself busy.

Unfortunately, I was too exhausted to do more than sit, and too much movement sent me into a spasm of coughing.

I would have ordered Bree to sit, but her fretful hovering would have annoyed me.

When Gage had purchased our town house just before our wedding two years ago, he’d ordered the master bedchamber decorated in various shades of blue, knowing it was my favorite color.

From the walls and drapes to the furniture upholstery and the plush counterpane covering the large four-poster bed, all of it was dyed a different shade of blue pulled from the pattern of the carpet underfoot and accented with ivory.

Most of the furniture was constructed of a warm oak, including the fireplace mantel, and the tile surrounding the hearth, which had been specially imported from Holland, also exhibited flecks of blue glaze.

It was my favorite chamber in all the world, including my art studios, and I’d requested that our bedchamber in the dower house at Lord Gage’s estate be decorated in a similar manner.

Though it was common among society for husbands and wives to sleep in separate bedchambers, Gage and I preferred to share the same bed.

As such, the adjoining bedroom was merely used by Gage for his ablutions and to dress.

Even now, I could hear the low rumble of his voice and an occasional cough as he conferred with his valet, Anderley.

A short time later, there was a brief rap against the connecting door before Gage entered.

Finding me clothed and settled comfortably, he left the door open a crack, inviting Anderley to join us once he’d finished his tasks.

Gage’s golden curls were still damp from his bath, and his cravat was tied loosely around his neck beneath his merlot red dressing gown.

I wondered if the laceration which had required stitches might be paining him, but he gave no indication of it.

Instead, he paused before the low tea table to gaze down at me, a gentle smile softening his features.

“You look as if you were but a breath away from slumber.”

“Just resting my eyes. I can only imagine mine are as red and bloodshot as yours.”

Dr. Graham had said it might be several days before our corneas recovered from the irritation all the flecks of debris had caused them.

Gage sank into the chair opposite, hooking the ottoman I’d sat on before the hearth with one of his long legs and drawing it toward him so that he could prop his feet up. “You rang for tea?” he asked Bree.

She ceased her fidgeting with the contents littering the surface of the dressing table and turned to face him. “Aye.”

Gage nodded, settling deeper into the chair, but I could tell Bree had something else she wished to say.

Her cheeks were flushed, a not uncommon occurrence given her coloring.

A few strawberry blond curls brushed the sides of her softly freckled face, having escaped her efforts to tame them in the heat of the bath she’d assisted me with.

Her hands were clasped tightly before her, holding herself in check, but I could see the agitation sparkling in her whisky brown eyes.

“?’Twas an accident?” The words burst from her mouth just as Anderley appeared in the open doorway.

Gage looked up at her in surprise.

“The floor collapsin’ like it did,” she clarified as Anderley crossed the room to stand next to her. “?’Twas a mishap?”

“Undoubtedly,” Gage replied before glancing at me. “I don’t see how it could be anything else.” He searched Bree’s fretful features. “Do you think differently?”

“Nay. ’Tis just…” Deep furrows formed in her brow. “Ye have the verriest luck.”

So consumed was she by apprehension that she didn’t pull away as she normally did when Anderley reached for her hands in front of us.

Though their relationship had endured more than its fair share of challenges, I’d been relieved to see over the past few months that they seemed to have found a more even keel.

Though I couldn’t help but wonder how much that had to do with the fact we hadn’t taken on any major inquiries.

After all, cases like Lady Pinmore’s missing brooch weren’t exactly strenuous or life-threatening.

If Gage had enlisted his valet’s assistance, it would have been to do little more than gently probe members of the staff or tradesmen, people whom he felt would confide more to Anderley.

Anderley was certainly an engaging fellow.

With his coal black hair and brown eyes, he served as a dark foil to Gage’s golden good looks.

He was tall and charming, and he possessed a pleasing voice and a twinkle in his eyes that many found disarming.

Luckily, he was also steady and fiercely loyal to Gage and Bree, and consequently me, otherwise the aforementioned might have gotten him into trouble.

“We were more fortunate than many,” I pointed out. “Definitely than poor Mr. Smith.”

Gage’s voice was solemn. “Any word on the other wounded?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting toward the crackling fire.

“Hoo could such a thing have happened?” Bree demanded to know after a few moments of silence, evidently still struggling to reconcile with it all.

“Careless workmanship most likely,” Anderley suggested.

“Some of the homes at that end of New Town were built at a staggering pace.” He tipped his head toward the eastern wall.

“Or so Murdoch next door claims. Says the builders must have neglected something. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Remember the incident in Kirkcaldy.”

I gave a small gasp. “I’d forgotten about that.”

About half a decade earlier in Kirkcaldy—a small village lying almost due north of Edinburgh across the Firth of Forth—a section of the gallery of a church had collapsed as its congregants gathered for the evening service one Sunday.

“How many people were wounded that day?” Bree asked.

“If I recall rightly, more than two dozen were killed and countless were injured,” I answered.