Marilee learned from Mr. Smyth, the butler, that the gentleman had been put in the green parlor, the lesser of the two entertaining parlors. She thanked the man, as he hurried off with papers in hand. She went in search of the solicitor. On her way, she passed a serving maid named Ella who had only arrived the day before. Marilee requested that a tea tray be brought to the parlor. Then, she entered the darkened room to find that the gentleman had not even been given the courtesy of having a fire lit to warm his bones. The room was freezing.
He was pacing on the far side of the room by the window when she entered and Marilee was surprised to see that he was much younger than she had envisioned. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, she decided. When he turned, she realized he was the same man she had spied upon, the same man who was questioning the kitchen staff about the steward. When the man noted that she was not Lady Lydia, he sighed and went back to wearing a path in the carpet.
Marilee moved about the room and lit the lamps, glancing at the man from under her lashes. Honestly, it was like this entire house lacked any sort of decency. Next, she crouched in front of the dying embers and prodded the fire back to life before adding a bit of kindling for good measure. If nothing else, Lady Lydia would appreciate the warmth of the room whenever she finally made her appearance. If she made an appearance.
The tea arrived just as Marilee completed her tasks. She stood next to the fire, glancing at it occasionally to be sure it stayed lit. Ella offered a pitying glance at the solicitor before she made a silent exit.
“Mr. Crowley,” Marilee made a sweeping gesture toward the tray. He stopped in his tracks and looked down at the offering with his mouth drawn in a tight line. Then, he turned to Marilee.
Marilee felt somewhat embarrassed and heat flooded her cheeks. This was the same young man who had happened upon her whilst spying through a door. She felt the blood rise in her cheeks when he recognized her.
“You again!” he laughed.
“So, it would appear,” she murmured.
“Spying again?” he asked.
“Of course not, and I wasn’t spying!” she argued before she could collect herself. “Not the first time, nor now,” She said as she crossed her arms.
He seemed to accept her admission but the small quirk in his grin revealed that if given the chance he might tease her for that moment further. Marilee knew she ought to be mortified but there was something in his ease, something kindred, that settled her into enjoying the jest. Smiles were rare enough in this house.
“If I had been spying,” she continued, “I would have been sure not to make the same mistake twice.”
“Trip over an ash bucket?” he laughed. “I do not see one nearby. You are quite safe.”
“That,” she agreed, “Or be seen at all.”
“Oh? Then, you are here with purpose?” he wondered aloud, to which Marilee simply shrugged.
What was she meant to say? That Lady Lydia had the full intention of wasting his time simply for spite? That she had no idea why she had been sent down here or what she was to do to occupy a stranger for an hour or more while the lady played her games?
“The lady told me to come,” she said, knowing how unusual this was.
He raised an eyebrow. “Did she say how long?” he asked without preamble. Oh, he was smart, she thought. Smart and handsome if she dared to admit. He had brown hair and watchful warm chestnut eyes that at once told her, if his words had not, that he did not miss much.
“Would you like some tea?” she continued as if she had not heard.
“How long am I to wait this time?” he asked again somewhat testily.
Marilee bit her lower lip and wondered if it would be prudent to lie. His eyebrows raised as he awaited her reply, assessing her. She sighed.
“An hour at least, I am sure,” she finally admitted. “But…”
“I didn’t hear it from you,” he interjected with a nod, and turned back to the tea tray.
Very smart, she thought. Then, as if appeased by the fact that she had shown him enough respect to be honest, he moved to sit and pour two cups of tea. Marilee remained by the fireside and watched him. Marilee had not expected two cups when she had asked the other maid for tea. The tea was for guests.
“Come,” he declared and pushed a cup and saucer toward her. “You might as well sit. I am guessing you have been tasked with the burden of my company.”
She glanced toward the door, wondering how Peggy was getting on without her and how late they would have to work to keep the pace.
“If you leave now, Lady Lydia will not receive the full pleasure of her slight,” he said with a deep chuckle. “Anyway, I’m sure tea and biscuits are not your usual fare. Sit with me and enjoy them.” He patted a seat beside him, but she had no intention of sitting so close to a man while unchaperoned, even if in this house chaperones seemed to be in short supply.
She noted his smile. He was amused! At her? At Lady Lydia? Any man in their right mind would be furious at Lady Lydia’s posturing, but Mr. Crowley seemed to have expected it and decided to thwart the lady by appearing to enjoy himself. Marilee suppressed a grin. No wonder Lady Lydia did not like the man, he surely seemed unaffected by the lady’s charms and maneuvering. She would not take kindly to anyone who did not fall easily into her pocket.
Even though he had patted the settee next to him, Marilee chose a perch across from him and as far away as was possible. She thought it was prudent since the man’s very gaze seemed to rob her of sense and make her heart beat extraordinarily fast. She watched him over the rim of her cup while he picked at the biscuits on the tray and sipped his own cup of tea.
“My name is Nikolas,” he mentioned in such an offhand way, so lacking formality, that Marilee nearly spat out her tea at the unorthodox introduction. On the other hand, there was no one about to introduce them.
“And yours?” he asked.
“Err.” She stumbled over the question, and stuttered, nearly offering the man her true name. She evaluated him in that moment. She felt she could trust him, but really, could she? He watched her without guile. With purpose, she collected herself Finally, she said one word, “Kate.”
“Well, Kate,” he laughed to himself, “Lady Lydia would do better to saddle me with that crass old butler next time if she wants to punish me. You aren’t so terrible.”
Marilee raised her eyebrows in shock. It was not much by way of a compliment, but it was amusing just the same. She gave a short laugh despite herself, but stifled it immediately. “So nice to know that my countenance is likened to Smyth’s. I’ll try to be more forbidding next time,” she promised.
He chuckled heartily.
She did not know if there would be a next time, but she found the thought pleasing. She hoped there would be a next time.
“Do,” he grinned. “Perhaps leave the fire unlit. We solicitors like the cold to match the ice in our veins.”
At that Marilee did laugh aloud. Truly laughed. Perhaps it was simply the result of her dismal circumstances. There had been little enough to laugh at this past week. Still, she had almost thought she would never laugh again. She was glad that this strange young man had forced a bit of mirth from her.
As if the house itself rebelled against the sound of merriment, a blood-curdling scream rent the air not a moment later. Marilee stood up with a jolt, her eyes wide and her hand trembling.
Mr. Crowley rose to his feet as well, though more slowly. His observant gaze scanned the room, looked to the door and then, when another shriek broke forth, he looked towards the floor.
“It is coming from below,” he murmured. “From the servant’s quarters, perhaps?”
Marilee’s first thought was Peggy, and she flew toward the door in a panic. Mr. Crowley caught her by the elbow as she moved past, and he turned her toward him, concern written all over his face.
“Is everything alright?” he said in a low voice. “You can trust me.”
Oh, how Marilee wanted to tell him no, nothing is alright. She wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth, to beg him to take her from this place and never return, stranger though he was. But she did not know enough about him save that he was involved in matters of business, no matter how tenuous, with the Blackwells. She did not know if he could be trusted, or what would happen to her and, to the others, if she did speak. She made some incoherent excuse about a woman having fits and tore away. The last thing that Lady Lydia or Mrs. Cavendish would want was a strange gentleman snooping around in their business.
“Let go,” she said pulling from his grasp and hurrying towards the door. He tried to follow her, but she pushed him back into the parlor and demanded that he remain. Marilee closed the door behind her and raced for the stairs. “Please, enjoy your tea,” she said desperately. Please, please, she thought, do not allow Peggy to be hurt. The thought foremost in Marilee’s mind was that somehow, she had spilled the scalding water on herself, but as the next scream came from the area near the kitchen, she realized it was unlikely Peggy was hurt.”
“Keep your voice down, girl, or I’ll send you back out to be whipped some more,” Mrs. Cavendish growled, slapping someone beyond the door.
Marilee burst into the kitchen and came to a skidding halt by the side of the table. Across it lay the young maid with her pale back exposed and a patchwork of shallow bleeding slashes cut across it, but one cut across her shoulder was amazingly deep showing white tendons through the red meat of her shoulder-blade. Marilee clamped her hand over her mouth and willed herself not to be sick. The girl was the one who had been expelled from Lady Lydia’s room for the burn.
“Hold her down,” Mrs. Cavendish ordered, but Marilee stood frozen in the doorway “Hold her down I say! This one cut too deep and I’ve got to put a stitch in.”
“C-call the doctor!” Marilee cried. The girl was writhing on the table in agony while the housekeeper, and the footmen all attempted with varying degrees of incompetence to hold her still. Mrs. Cavendish had a needle held in her mouth and a long length of string that she clearly intended to use on the girl’s flayed back.
“There’ll be no calling for a physician,” Mrs. Cavendish snarled. “She got what she deserved and I’ll not bring any meddling fools into this house.”
“I have some medical expertise,” came a calm male voice from over Marilee’s shoulder. Marilee froze and instantly cursed her fates. Mr. Crowley had followed her despite her orders… Had followed her straight into the hellfire. She turned, staring at him.
Mrs. Cavendish’s eyes bore into hers with pure loathing and Marilee knew she would be held to blame for the gentleman’s appearance in the kitchen.
“There’s no need, sir,” the housekeeper crooned in the sweetest voice Marilee had ever heard her use. “Kate will take you back up to the parlor. We’re just dealing with this thief here. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
“Thief?” Marilee’s jaw fell open of its own accord and it was all she could do not to refute the claim. The girl was no thief and every person in the room knew it, save Mr. Crowley.
“All the same, I’m here now,” he replied with cool calm as he stepped around Marilee’s frozen form and entered the kitchen more fully.
Mrs. Cavendish threw up her hands in frustration. “Fine, let her be your problem,” she snapped. “Sew her up while I pack her things. She’s to be out of this house within the hour.” With that, the housekeeper and her two cronies left.
Marilee hastened to the crying girl and bent to brush her tear-soaked hair from her eyes. She crooned to her while the girl sobbed against her.
“What’s her name?” Mr. Crowley asked as he moved around the table and began digging through the kitchen cupboards and drawers gathering random items and finally a bottle of cooking sherry.
Marilee stared at him wide-eyed. She didn’t know. She did not even know the poor girl’s name.
“Lucy,” came a soft whimper at her side.
Mr. Crowley seemed to have noted Marilee’s silence, and her lack of introduction, but he continued his digging without speaking.
Marilee accepted a basin and cool, damp cloth from the solicitor and began to dab at the girl’s brow. When the maid had been dismissed, Marilee had only thought that she would be removed from the house. She had never expected… this. Peggy had warned her. Mrs. Cavendish had warned her. But Marilee had never truly expected that they would do such a thing.
Suddenly, her position with Lady Lydia did not seem so fortunate. Was this to be her fate? Her stomach rolled, but Marilee forced herself to keep offering encouraging words to the young slip of a girl spread across the table. The back of her dress was open but beyond that she was fully covered. Marilee wanted to pull it closed, but she knew that would only cause immense pain for the young thing. She could not bear to touch her bloodied back.
Marilee coaxed Lucy to lift her head though any arching of her back caused the girl to break out in cries of agony. She sputtered and coughed with more shrieks of pain, but eventually quieted under Mr. Crowley’s gentle hand. He took the cloth from Marilee and poured a generous helping of the sherry into a cup. “Drink this,” he said. “It will help.”
Marilee took the cup and helped her to drink while Mr. Crowley wiped the blood from her back.
“How do you know how to do this?” Marilee asked with trembling wonder.
“I’m a…have some experience. My father was a surgeon and my mother an herbalist,” he explained as he held the needle, which had previously been in Mrs. Cavendish’s mouth, over an open flame. “I have some small measure of skill. My brother and his wife are the same, in Northwick.”
Marilee dropped the cup, and it clattered to the ground spilling the remainder of the sherry.
“What?” he asked as he cleaned the girl’s wounds with a wet cloth. “I’ve been raised in it, but a third son has to find his own means. I got an apprenticeship here in London. I know a little bit about healing. Growing up as I did. The housekeeper is right. This should be stitched,” he said. “It is too deep to let be. It will hurt, but I shall be quick,” he promised.
Lucy’s sobs had subsided to hiccups, and she nodded as Marilee refilled the cup with more sherry. The girl bit her lip as he worked quickly on the worst of the cuts. It was clear she was terrified of Mrs. Cavendish, but calmed somewhat under Mr. Crowley’s gentle ministrations.
Marilee held Lucy’s hand and hushed her while Mr. Crowley worked with quick sure hands. He had rolled his sleeves up to keep them from being bloodied by the girl’s wounds, and a fine spattering of light hairs shown against his pale skin. Marilee found her eyes fixed on his skin, as she did not want to look at the girl’s flayed back.
The warmth of a blush filled her face. She had never in her life seen so much of a man’s skin; his sleeves rolled past his elbows. She brought her eyes to his face which was tense with concentration as he stitched Lucy’s wound with deft care. She moaned once and then was silent. Marilee wasn’t sure if the girl had swooned or if the sherry did its job.
Marilee pulled herself away from her musings as she marveled at Mr. Crowley’s ministrations. This man was from Northwick. Who was he? “But your surname…” Marilee murmured as she tried to make sense of the knowledge, he had unknowingly shared. He paused for a long moment before speaking, and when he did speak, he did not look at her.
She supposed all of his attention was for his patient.
“It was Harding as a boy, but I changed it to Crowley when I took over the solicitor’s business,” he explained. He barked, a short laugh. “Well, one client at least. There was no reason to change the shingle. Needless expense. We kept the business name Crowley.”
“Daniel and Martha Harding,” she whispered, bemused. Now that she looked at him closely, she could see the resemblance, albeit much younger than the doctor who only a short while ago had provided her the emetic for Miss Caroline. How long had it been? It seemed ages; years even but it had only been perhaps a week or two.
He tied off the last stitch and then he stopped short. He stared at her as if with new eyes. “You know them?”
Marilee realized her mistake too late. She rushed around the table and clasped at his shirtsleeve. “You cannot tell anyone. Pretend I never said it. Promise me.”
He shook his head. “So, you’re from Northwick, right? Who is your family?”
Both her hands curled into his lapel and she pulled him to face her with all the pleading in her eyes that she could muster. She whispered, “Promise me. No one in this house can know; who I am; where I come from...”
“Kate…” he shook his head, speaking rather loudly. “What is going on here?”
She hissed at him and covered his mouth with her hand. The recitation of her fake name brought home just how much danger lurked always nearby. “Do you want to get me killed? Or, both of us?” She realized how inappropriate her hand on his mouth was. Beneath her fingers she could feel the swell of his lips, his soft breath. She yanked her hand away from his person and wrapped her hands together as if she could wipe away the feel of his breath on her palm. Her heart was beating at an impossible rate and she felt warm all over as if fevered.
His brows drew together, but he remained silent as he began to clean up the mess of bloody rags.
“Do not go asking questions you do not wish for answers to,” she hissed. “And for Gawd’s sake you mustn’t tell anyone what you saw tonight.” She gestured at the prone Lucy. “No, magistrate. Do you understand?” Good heavens. She thought of Miss Caroline. What if tonight’s actions got her lady killed? She couldn’t bear the thought. “Please. Promise me.”
“Kate,” he whispered and placed a hand on her forearm, looking straight into her eyes, demanding honesty. “Are you alright?”
Marilee couldn’t answer. No, she wanted to scream. No, I am not, but she could not tell him the truth, nor could she bear to utter the lie. So badly she wanted to escape, but this was not that moment. There were too many other girls in this house that would be left to their deaths if she acted rashly, and more than that, she did not know what had become of Miss Caroline. Would she be murdered?
Surely countless others, like Peggy and Ella and Lucy would be if there was even a whisper that something was off in this house. It would be easy to get rid of the evidence, even if that evidence were people. She had to remember these villains had killed a duke. Offing a few servants would barely raise an eyebrow. Marilee moved around the table so that it was once more between them. She could not get caught up in feelings for this man. It meant nothing. It could mean nothing. She nodded to the unconscious girl.
“It’s not just me,” she said softly gesturing to the prone girl on the table. “Please. Do what I ask.”
He nodded. “What do we need to do?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing just now.”
Marilee looked at him with narrowed eyes. He saw the books. He had to know what was going on here. He was not ignorant for all he appeared to be. But he had helped Lucy. Perhaps he was not as much of a villain as she had first surmised, but she could not bring herself to trust him. She had already told him too much. If he went to Lady Lydia with that news, all was lost. She covered her face with her hands thinking of the massive blunder she had caused. If she got Miss Caroline killed, she would never forgive herself.
“Kate,” he said softly. “You can trust me.”
But of course, she couldn’t.
Mr. Crowley looked at her with questions in his eyes. She was kind, and stalwart and the last thing he wanted to do was leave her alone in this house, but she had been alone for weeks, possibly months, and he knew there was villainy here. He knew. In fact, he was a part of it. But he had come to believe lately, that there were more than stolen items of value involved in the villainy at Blackwell House. He was not sure, and could prove nothing. Furthermore, his inquiries had been met with resistance, and he had to remember that Lady Lydia held his purse strings. He begged Kate to trust him, but she did not. Moreover, she was right to distrust him. He was not a trustworthy man. His own actions had proven that. He should have gone to the authorities straight away, but he did not.
It took all of his resolve to walk out the front door not knowing what would befall Kate in the future. Kate. His Kate.
Not long after he left Blackwell House, Lady Lydia came to visit his humble abode. That in itself meant she was worried about his silence. Mr. Crowley assured her that nothing had changed between them. He knew she held him by the short hairs. He could not speak out against her without implicating himself, and he knew, that she would blame all on him. With feigned nonchalance, he told Lady Lydia that she could treat servants in her employ as she wished, and certainly what happened to thieves at the house was not his business.
“Yes, thieves,” she said thoughtfully, making Mr. Crowley think that Lucy was not a thief at all. “She shall be dismissed, of course.”
“Of course,” Mr. Crowley agreed. “Without references.” The thought made him realize that even though a number of maids and footmen had left the Blackwell’s employ, he had seen no letters of recommendation among the papers, either for hiring or for reference when the employees left. The realization brought a horrible thought to his mind.
Perhaps Blackwell house was not dealing in stolen goods alone, but in stolen people. Surely not. The beautiful woman before him could not be so evil. Certainly, something even more sinister than he thought was taking place at Blackwell House, but what? Why would Lucy not just leave before something so drastic was done? And what about Kate?
“I should have chucked her out the door already,” Lady Lydia said pacing the small space of his office.
Who? He wondered momentarily and then realized she meant Lucy. “It would be a mercy to allow her to remain until morning,” he urged, but he thought, Lady Lydia was not a woman prone to merciful dealings. Instead, he changed his tack reminding her that some might know that Lucy was in her employ. He hoped he convinced Lady Lydia that Lucy might die of her wounds, and a maid dead in her employ would elicit more questions than she wanted to answer. Every word she uttered made him more sure that the people were being kept there against their will. Kate was being kept against her will. What hold did she have on Kate? Was it debt that kept her imprisoned, as he was?
“Tomorrow, then,” Lady Lydia said reluctantly. “She will be out of the house at first light.”
Out where? He wondered, and what could he possibly do to help Lucy without stretching his own neck and perhaps putting Kate in danger?
After Lady Lydia left, Mr. Crowley buried himself in his work, mixing herbs and making potions and tinctures. As the night wore on and the candle burned down, he realized he was mixing herbs for wounds such as the ones Lucy sustained; salves for the hurts and potions to drink for the pain. He had ground an inordinate amount of willow bark for pain, but perhaps they would need it. When he filled the last bottle, he found his bed, but he could not close his eyes. He knew Kate was supposed to keep him from interfering, and she had not. He had caused her to be in more danger than previously. He was sure of it. He resolved that he would visit on the morrow and stay to speak with Lady Lydia. He would get both Lucy and Kate out of that house by whatever means necessary.