Lynn Viehl - Her Ladyship's Curse

The butler halted in front of two double doors, knocking once before opening them and standing on the threshold. “A Miss Kittredge,” he said in the same tone he’d use to announce that a stray dog, one that might possibly be rabid, had been found on the premises.

“Dear Cousin Kit,” Lady Walsh said, rising and crossing the room to take my hands in hers. “You’re as lovely as I imagined.”

“You’re too kind, Lady Diana.” I bobbed a curtsey to mollify the butler. I thought of all the glasslung that painting this monstrosity must have inflicted and added with a touch of irony, “Your home is quite breathtaking.”

“It is a lovely sanctuary from the worries of the world.” She squeezed my hands before releasing them. “Now come and let me introduce you to the family.”

The family present in the receiving room consisted of two men and one lady. The eldest, a weak-chinned, nearly bald man of fifty in a heavy dark-blue suit, was the master of the house, Nolan Walsh. A thin, mousy-looking woman dressed in an exquisitely fitted lavender half-mourning gown was introduced as Miranda Walsh, Nolan’s younger daughter. A leaner version of Nolan stood by the mantel fiddling with a timepiece; he was the only son and doubtful heir, Nolan Jr., called Montrose.

“My wife tells me you and she are connected through the Landaus,” Nolan said after introductions had been made. “It must be a happy thing for you to meet your distant cousin.”

The way he emphasized distant made me brighten my smile. “A great and humbling happiness, milord.”

Lady Walsh rang for tea, which she served with the elegance of long practice. I refused her offer of cakes and pretended to take a sip now and then while I let my tea grow stone-cold. We spoke of the fine weather, the agreeable effect it was having on the city’s gardens, and whether it promised a milder winter than last season.

As we began to run out of polite topics, Montrose shambled near and bent over oddly, until I realized he was peering at my face.

“I can’t see anything of Diana in you,” he said in a voice that sounded female and querulous. “Are you the get of the gambler or the drinker?”

“Monty, what a thing to ask.” Lady Walsh uttered an embarrassed titter. “Cousin Kit is the daughter of the third son of my great-aunt Hortense Landau.” To me she said, “You do bear a striking resemblance to her, my dear.”

That was my cue. “Thank you for saying so, cousin. I never had the pleasure of meeting my father’s mother.”

“Well, why not?” Montrose rasped. “The old bat lived until she was ninety-seven, didn’t she, Di?”

“She and my father were estranged for quite some time.” I noted the faint yellow tint to the whites of his muddy brown eyes, and the network of fine red lines webbing the skin around his nostrils. Even if I’d missed them, I couldn’t escape his breath, which reeked of gin. The drips might have rendered Junior barren, but it was the blue ruin that was going to kill him.

Montrose showed me his overbite. “What did your old man do, marry a squawk?”

Diana became a beautiful statue, Miranda sucked in a shocked breath and tried to cover it with her bony hand, and Nolan Sr. cleared his throat.

“Why, no, sir,” I said as pleasantly as I could. “That would have been against the law.”

“You’re as dark as one.” His gaze wandered over my black hair before settling on my eyes. “Who were your mother’s people?”

That proved a bit too much, even for the old man, who snapped, “That will suffice, Montrose.”

“It’s all right, milord.” I smiled at his jackass of a son. “My mother’s people were Welshires and Norders. Working class, I believe.”

As I expected, admitting that one-half of my family had been common laborers explained my coloring, invalidated any suspicion that I might be trying to better my situation, and satisfied Montrose’s desire to take me down to the bottom peg.

I needed to get away from these people before I decked someone. “My father always regretted the rift his marriage caused between him and the family. He had no portraits of them, but he often told me how much I reminded him of his mother.” I sighed. “I only wish I could have made her acquaintance before she passed away.”

“In my rooms I have a portint of Great-aunt Hortense when she was about your age,” Diana said, rising from the settee. “Would you care to see it, Kit?”

I managed a surprised smile. “Why, yes, I would very much, thank you, cousin.”

Diana glanced at her stepson before addressing her husband. “If you will excuse us, my dear.”

He nodded, clearly relieved. He must have assumed Diana was taking me off to give him the time and privacy to lecture his son over his wayward lip. I could just imagine how Father Walsh would scold: Gentlemen do not speak of such scum in polite company, my lad .

As soon as we were out of earshot, the lady touched my arm. “I’m so sorry, Kit. Monty usually doesn’t drink so much before dinner. Now, shall we—”

“Think nothing of it, cousin.” Aware that there were still servants around who could overhear us, I touched a finger to my lips to silence her, and then said clearly, “I am so anxious to see the portint of your great-aunt, my grandmother. Do you really believe I bear a resemblance to her?”

As Diana assured me at length of how much I did, she led me upstairs and through a maze of halls to her personal chambers, which included two sitting rooms, a dressing room, a bath, and an enormous bedchamber. A young, plump female sat working carefully to mend the torn hem of a gown hanging from a dress form. As soon as she saw us, she darted her needle and stood.

“Milady.” A well-trained lass, the chambermaid didn’t spare me a single glance. “Do you need something?”

“No, Betsy. This is my cousin, Miss Kittredge.” She waited until the maid dropped a curtsey my way before she added, “Actually, you know, there is something I want. Would you please run down to the apothecary and fetch me a pain powder?”

“At once, milady.” The maid departed.

“I never have the headache, except now and then in the morning,” Diana confided as she led me into her bedchamber. “But it’s the only task I could think of that will take her some time to accomplish.”

“That will help.” I closed the doors before I opened my satchel and took out the echo. “Do you know how long Montrose was away on his tour after school?”

Her brows arched. “I think Nolan told me once that he spent three years traveling. Why?”

“Just curious.” I went to the wall nearest her bed.

Diana went to the window to look down at the city. “My stepdaughters are both kind in their own fashion, but Montrose . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t understand what compels him to be so provocative. Or vulgar.”

I did, and after a moment of silent debate decided to tell her. “Montrose never made a tour, milady. He likely spent those three years in hospital, taking the cure.”

“The cure?” She turned to me. “Whatever for?”

“The drips.”

She swayed and then abruptly sat down on her bed. “I didn’t know Montrose was already married, so I thought my father meant to offer me to him. I was so astonished when Nolan admitted his regard for me.” Her hand touched her ashen cheek. “My God.” She gazed up. “Montrose’s wife—he must have given it to her.”

“Doubtful, milady. After the first year the rot moves into the brain, where it harms no one but the unfortunate one infected.” I popped the cap on the echo and checked the lens. “It is likely the reason behind these attacks. Young Walsh can never inherit, of course.”

“Now I understand why Nolan is always so attentive to . . . his husbandly duties.” A giggle escaped her. “I’m to provide him with a new heir.”