Because You're Mine Page 11

  She donned her clothes and arranged her hair, pinning it into a tight coil at the nape of her neck. She managed to leave before Mrs. Florence rose for the day, and took a hackney to the theater.

  The theater company seemed unusually lackluster, the practice rooms and workshops much quieter than usual. Discovering that the morning rehearsal had been canceled, Madeline went to the costume shop and was immediately enlisted by Mrs. Lyttleton. “It seems as if half the company is ill,” the heavyset woman said breathlessly, her needle flashing as she basted a seam. “A dozen people have sent word that they won't be coming in. But my work has to be done as usual, and I've practically no help.”

  Madeline worked in the costume shop for most of the morning, grateful for the temporary reprieve from seeing Mr. Scott. It was only when Mrs. Lyttleton commanded her to fetch some costume sketches from the duchess's office that Madeline wandered reluctantly into the main theater building. As she approached the office, she heard an unfamiliar male voice mingling with Julia's light, clear tones. Madeline stopped just outside the doorway, reluctant to intrude on the scene.

  “It's enough,” the man was saying. “I told you to stay away from this damned theater.”

  “There's too much to be done,” Julia replied. “Just one more day, darling. Perhaps two. I can't leave with so many things unfinished—”

  “Your health means more to me than anyone or anything in this entire place.”

  “I promise you, I'll be fine.”

  “Come home, Julia.”

  “First I have to pack some things.”

  “I'll send a servant later to fetch whatever you desire.”

  “You're being unreasonable—”

  There was a long pause, followed by a muffled sound that Madeline couldn't quite decipher. Then the man spoke softly. “Are you still going to argue with me, Julia?”

  “No.”

  Madeline had never heard such a meek tone from the duchess, who was usually so firm and authoritative. Gingerly she peeked around the corner and saw the duchess standing in the middle of her office, being thoroughly kissed by a dark-haired man. The Duke of Leeds, Madeline thought, her interest immediately sparked. He lifted his head, revealing a lean, exotically handsome face as he stared at his wife with loving exasperation. Evidently sensing that they were not alone, he glanced in Madeline's direction with alert gray eyes.

  Blushing, Madeline came forward at once. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude—”

  “That's all right, Maddy,” Julia said, her cheeks pink as she disentangled herself from her husband's arms. She introduced them, and Madeline sank into a respectful curtsy.

  “A pleasure,” the duke murmured with a friendly glint in his eyes. “Miss Ridley, I would appreciate your efforts to help the duchess gather any necessary papers and books, as she is leaving immediately.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Julia rolled her eyes and sighed. “It seems I have no choice. Maddy, please tell Mr. Scott that I need to speak with him at once. He's been in his office all morning, trying to rearrange the schedule to accommodate the absences in the company.”

  Although Madeline dreaded having to face Mr. Scott, she nodded resolutely. The duke and duchess resumed their conversation as she left, both of them seeming to take great pleasure in a new bout of verbal sparring.

  Madeline reached Scott's door and hesitated, listening for signs of activity inside. The office was jarringly silent. Hoping that Scott wasn't there, she lifted her hand and knocked softly.

  “I'm working,” came a threatening rumble from within.

  Madeline twisted her hands together and stared at the door. Gathering her resolve, she finally spoke in a calm, controlled voice. “Mr. Scott, the duchess wishes to speak to you.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You,” he said in an unfriendly tone.

  “I believe the duchess wishes to tell you that she is leaving, sir. The duke has come to take her home.” Madeline was greeted with more silence. “It's not wise for her to stay at the Capital in her condition. I'm certain you would agree that with all the people who have succumbed to the fever—”

  “Good riddance to her. Now get away from my door.”

  Madeline complied gladly, but after the first few steps, she paused. There had been something odd in his voice, a strain that touched her. He sounded tired. No wonder, she thought, with so much of the company absent: In spite of his orders to stay away, and her own hurt and embarrassment, she was driven to return to the door. “Mr. Scott, is there something I can do? Would you like some tea?”

  “Just leave,” he muttered. “I have work…no mood for distractions.”

  “Yes, sir.” But still she couldn't go. She was filled with the growing conviction that something was wrong. It was so quiet inside the room. It wasn't like him to keep his door closed at this hour, barring himself from the rest of the company. Placing her hand on the worn brass doorknob, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If her suspicions proved to be false, Scott would most likely take her head off.

  As Madeline entered the room, Scott seemed not to notice her until she was at his side. He sat at his desk amid a pile of blotted and crumpled paper, dragging a sleeve across his forehead before picking up a pen. He wore no coat or waistjacket, and shivers chased down his back as the cold air in the room sank through the thin linen shirt. He smothered a violent cough, dropping the pen and scattering drops of ink over the desk.

  “Sir,” Madeline said quietly.

  Scott's head turned toward her, revealing a flushed face and glazed eyes. It seemed as if he watched her through a dense fog. Without thinking, Madeline reached down to touch the damp ruff of his hair and smooth it gently. Her fingers brushed against his forehead, detecting the dry heat of a raging fever.

  “Let me help you,” she said as he twisted away with a muffled curse.

  “I have to finish the new schedules.” Doggedly he groped for the discarded pen.

  “You have a fever, Mr. Scott. You must go home and rest.”

  “I'm not sick. I never—” He jerked as she touched his hot forehead once more, and then his eyes closed. “Your hand is so cool,” he said hoarsely, catching at her fingers. “Christ, my head is pounding.”

  Madeline was wrenched with worry. Was there no one to care for him, to look after his welfare? Frozen in indecision, she stared down at him while he shook with tremors.

  “You must go home, sir,” Madeline said firmly, and repeated it over his objections until Scott fell silent, huddling against his desk. He rested his forehead on his closed fist, using his other hand to grip her fingers. Reluctantly Madeline pried herself free. “Don't move,” she said. “I'll be right back.” He didn't reply, only sat listlessly, using the last of his strength to keep himself upright.

  By a stroke of fortune, the carpentry shopboy, Jeff, was passing the office. Madeline called his name, and he stopped at once, his eyes friendly and inquiring.

  “I'm afraid Mr. Scott is ill,” Madeline said, indicating the half-closed door behind her. “He must leave right away. Would you please tell someone to have his carriage brought around?”

  “Mr. Scott…ill?” the boy repeated, seeming not to hear the rest. He looked thunderstruck, as if such an occurrence were outside the realm of possibility.

  “There's something else,” Madeline added. “Make certain that the duchess is told to leave immediately. She mustn't come near Mr. Scott—it would be dangerous for her to catch the fever.”

  The boy retreated, glancing warily at the office. “What about you?” he asked in concern. “Shouldn't you stay away from him, too?”

  “I don't believe I'll get sick,” Madeline replied. “I think I would have by now, if I were going to. Please go quickly, Jeff. I'll stay with Mr. Scott while you send for the carriage.”

  “Yes, Miss Maddy.” He shot her a glance of admiration. “If you don't mind my saying, you're an angel, Miss Maddy. As kind and sweet as any girl I ever knew.”

  Madeline
shook her head with an abashed smile. “Thank you, Jeff.” Returning to the office, she found Scott's cloak and draped it around him. The heavy wool should have warmed him, but he continued to shiver and cough. As he tried to rise from the chair, Madeline rushed to him.

  “Sir, you mustn't! You aren't well enough. The footmen will arrive soon to help you.”

  “I can leave on my own,” he growled, pushing at her small, restraining hands.

  “I won't be able to keep you from falling,” Madeline insisted. “And if you collapse before you reach the carriage, you may injure yourself…and think how it will appear to the others. You wouldn't want them to see you that way.”

  Scott went still, and Madeline realized she had hit on a vulnerable point. He couldn't tolerate the least sign of weakness in himself. At all costs, he would maintain his image of authority in front of his employees. Leaning his head on his hands, he waited in a subdued manner that almost frightened Madeline. He wasn't at all himself.

  It was only a few minutes until a footman dressed in black and silver livery appeared at the office, but it seemed an eternity. Although the footman tried to appear unruffled, his eyes widened as he saw Scott. Madeline asked him to help Scott to his feet, and the servant complied in a dumbfounded manner. She wondered why it was such a surprise to see his master ill. Apparently Scott was so good at being a legend that it was easy for everyone, even his servants, to overlook the fact that he was only a man.

  A crowd of actors and crew members had assembled outside the office, their faces registering everything from curiosity to alarm as they strained for a glimpse of Scott. “Perhaps you should all stand back,” Madeline said. “It would be terrible if someone else became ill.”

  The group followed the suggestion at once, retreating to a respectful distance. “What's to be done now?” the property man asked of no one in particular. “With the duchess away and Mr. Scott sick, who's to manage everything?”

  “I'll ask Mr. Scott,” Madeline said, and ducked back into the office. The footman had eased Scott to a standing position. The blood had drained from his face, leaving it ashen. His gaze careened around the room before settling on Madeline. “Sir,” she murmured, “shall I tell the company that you want Mr. Bennett to manage the theater in your absence?”

  Bennett was the assistant stage director, usually called upon to manage rehearsals and arbitrate disputes when the duchess and Scott were otherwise occupied. Scott stared at her with fever-glazed eyes, and Madeline wondered if he had fully understood. Then he gave a short nod.

  Returning to the group outside the office, Madeline repeated the instructions. Scott emerged, gripping the footman's shoulder, concentrating on the act of walking. It was a testament to his physical stamina that he was able to stand in such a condition.

  Madeline led the way toward the entrance at the back of the theater. She heard Scott's rough breathing, the uneven pace of his feet, and knew he couldn't last much longer. The footman showed obvious signs of exertion as he supported Mr. Scott's increasing weight.

  “We're almost there,” Madeline said, hoping desperately that he wouldn't collapse.

  They reached the back entrance and stepped outside, the caustic wind biting through the sleeves of Madeline's gown and numbing her cheeks. A second footman opened the door of a bronze-and-black-lacquered carriage. The vehicle was drawn by a team of perfectly matched chestnuts, their nostrils blowing gusts of steam in the freezing air. The footman lowered a folding step and glanced questioningly at Madeline.

  She hesitated, staring at the luxurious vehicle with longing. She had no right to leave with Scott. Still, if there was a chance that he might need her in some way…

  Madeline hurried into the carriage before she could change her mind. Grateful for the reprieve from the bitter temperature, she settled on a velvet-cushioned seat. The footmen grunted in the effort to load Scott into the space beside her, and he slumped in the corner, his complexion waxen, his eyelids sealed. His cloak had dropped from his shoulders, and Madeline drew the wool garment closer about his neck. Taking another rattling breath, he coughed harshly.

  The carriage rolled away, the ride smooth and springy. The interior was finer than anything Madeline had ever seen, with highly polished wood, coffee-colored upholstering, and the intricate motif of the Capital Theatre painted in gold on the ceiling. Even her father, with his well-deserved pride in his own carriages, would have been impressed.

  Her gaze returned to Scott, who looked vulnerable and large at the same time, like a felled lion. A jolt of the carriage wheels on the road caused him to groan. Automatically Madeline reached for him, pressing her cool hand to his forehead.

  Her touch seemed to bring about a moment of lucidity, and his bruised-looking eyes opened into slits of startling blue. “M-Maddy,” he said, clenching his teeth in the effort to keep them from chattering.

  “Yes, Mr. Scott?” Her hand drifted to the side of his face, gently touching the dry, bristle-roughened skin.

  “You shouldn't…have come with me.”

  “I'm sorry.” She drew her hand away. “I know you're very protective of your privacy. You needn't worry, sir. I won't stay long. I just want to make certain you're all right.”

  “N-no, it's not that…” He clenched his jaw against a new bout of shivering. “You'll get sick,” he said distinctly.

  Madeline glanced at him in surprise. How many people in his condition would have given a thought to her welfare? Touched by the unexpected gallantry, she smiled. “I feel very well, Mr. Scott.”

  Seeming too exhausted to argue, Scott closed his eyes and lowered his head against the seat back. Madeline's smile faded, and she tried to remember what her nanny had done whenever she and her sisters had been sick…kept them warm, applied mustard plasters to their chests and heated soap-stone to their feet, and fed them beef tea and milk toast. For a cough, Nanny had made a syrup of lemons and oil of sweet almonds. Beyond that, Madeline's medical knowledge was sadly lacking. She sighed, feeling utterly useless.

  The carriage traveled into the quiet court suburb of St. James Square, past a stone guard gate adorned with bronze griffins. Madeline peeked through the curtain at the carriage window as the vehicle progressed along a tree-lined drive to a mansion fronted with fluted columns.

  As the carriage slowed to a halt, one of the footmen jumped from his platform and hit the ground running. He reached the double front doors and hammered vigorously. One of the doors opened, and the scene became a blur of activity.

  A lad dressed in a thick coat and cap came to help the coachman stable the team. Two footmen reached for Mr. Scott, half-dragging, half-carrying him from the vehicle. They each wedged a shoulder beneath Scott's arms and brought him into the mansion, while Madeline followed. She felt as if she were treading on forbidden ground, intruding in a way that Scott would never have allowed if he were well.

  They entered a magnificent entrance hall illuminated by a crystal chandelier strung in intricate loops. The entrance opened into a main room where a matronly housekeeper gave orders to a troop of housemaids. “…Set out fresh linens and water,” she was saying in a voice that rang with authority. “Tilda, fetch my medicine case, and tell Gwyn to bring the jar of leeches. The doctor may wish to use them when he arrives.”

  A gray-haired butler was similarly engaged in giving instructions to the male servants, directing them to procure bottles of brandy and whiskey, and assist the valet in putting Scott to bed. Madeline stood to the side, watching helplessly as Scott was taken up a double-sided staircase of white and gray marble fashioned in a horseshoe shape.

  The housekeeper quickly noticed Madeline's presence and introduced herself as Mrs. Beecham. “Please forgive us, miss…”

  “Ridley.”

  “Miss Ridley,” the housekeeper repeated. “I'm afraid we're all rather distracted at the moment. This is an unusual situation.”

  “I understand.”

  The housekeeper's gaze swept over Madeline. Clearly she was trying to de
cide who Madeline was and exactly how she was acquainted with Mr. Scott, but she refrained from asking. “It was kind of you to accompany Mr. Scott from the theater,” the woman remarked.

  Madeline glanced in the direction they had taken him. “I only hope he'll be all right.”

  “Mr. Scott is being made as comfortable as possible until the doctor arrives. Would you care to wait in the downstairs parlor?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Mrs. Beecham led her to a spacious parlor decorated in understated shades of gold and plum, with French armchairs upholstered in silk and velvet, and tables bearing books of poetry and engravings. One wall was covered with the tapestry of a French landscape. Between two floor-to-ceiling windows, a long table displayed Oriental figurines.

  Noticing Madeline's interest in a small Japanese statue of a bearded old man holding a golden staff, the housekeeper smiled wryly. “The god of good fortune, Mr. Scott says. I couldn't begin to pronounce its name. He has others in his collection, all of them heathenish things.”

  “I like this one,” Madeline said, touching the little man's beard with a fingertip. “I only hope he lives up to his reputation and brings good fortune to Mr. Scott.”

  “Some would say Mr. Scott has already enjoyed more than his share of luck,” Mrs. Beecham commented, walking to the parlor door.

  Left to her own devices, Madeline wandered to the parlor window, staring out at a row of topiaries and a marble fountain in the garden. It was a bright, wintry day, and the dormant trees in the orchard shuddered from gusts of wind.

  Madeline shivered a little and retreated to an armchair, where she sat and tapped her foot nervously on the thickly carpeted floor. Noticing a wooden box on the table next to her, she picked it up curiously. The interior of the box was lined in silver, the top carved with the Shakespearean medal. On the bottom was the inscription “Presented to Mr. Logan Scott by the Stratford Corporation.”

  A voice interrupted her musings, and Madeline looked up to see a pair of housemaids bearing a tray of tea. “That box was carved from Shakespeare's mulberry tree,” one of the maids said with pride. “The master is always getting awards an' such, on account of all 'is charity works and benefits.”