Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(38)
“By all means, conduct your search, sir.” She took a few steps down and halted, poised in a chance beam of sunlight through the fog. “I certainly would not like to be murdered in my bed. But please do not upset the servants. Rivers, accompany the men and ensure that they behave themselves.”
Her voice was chillier than Celia had ever heard it. When she peered hard at Lady Flora several floors below her, she saw that Lady Flora clenched the railing hard, the fall of lace from her sleeves trembling.
Captain Jamison sent her a look that was not flattering, but he nodded. Celia knew from Edward that soldiers could be unruly, tearing up houses and terrorizing those within on any pretense. The more civilized officers kept such goings-on at bay, but at times the officers could be as unscrupulous as their disorderly men.
Celia had no doubt that Rivers would keep them tame with his cold disapproval, but she wondered what the servants would tell the soldiers. Would they mention Alec? Did they believe him anything other than poor Mr. Finn, Irish drawing tutor? Would he be significant enough for the soldiers to want to question?
She held her breath as the infantrymen moved past the officers and headed for the back stairs. The lieutenant, who’d remained silent the whole time, broke away and strode to the dining room, wresting open its pocket doors to begin his search inside.
Celia’s blood went cold. Though Alec might have departed in anticipation of this visit, if he was innocently purchasing supplies, he could reappear from his errand and walk right into a houseful of British soldiers. Any of them might recognize a fugitive Highlander when they saw one and arrest him on the spot.
Celia silently fled back to the studio, where she hurried to the window to scan the streets for any sign of Alec. She could signal to him somehow when he appeared, warn him off.
She grasped the window’s latch, but it was stiff with disuse. Celia tugged at it impatiently, but it wouldn’t move. Why on earth had a window this high off the ground been given a latch? Did Lady Flora fear burglary from a bird?
A cry cut through her nerves as she struggled with the window, a baby’s wail, strong and unhappy.
Jenny.
Anxiousness washed through Celia in cold waves. What would the captain do if he heard a baby up here? She couldn’t imagine how Lady Flora would explain the child’s presence, though she had no doubt Flora would come up with something plausible.
Even so, Celia rushed from the room and up the stairs to the top of the house. A corridor ran under the sloping roof of the garret, which had been partitioned into rooms. Celia traced the crying to a chamber at the end of this corridor.
When she pushed open its door, she found a plump maid—Sally—her cap half fallen from her frizzy brown hair, bouncing baby Jenny in her arms.
Jenny had been swaddled, wrapped tightly from head to foot, a method believed by physicians to help a baby grow strong. Jenny’s head, covered with bright red hair, stuck out of the bundle, her mouth wide as she screamed her displeasure.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Sally said over the noise. “She’s hurting from the teething, and she wants her dad.”
“Here, let me.” Celia reached for Jenny, and Sally reluctantly gave her over.
“Lady Flora says I’m to keep her quiet,” Sally babbled, wringing her hands. “Mr. Finn gave me the chamomile ice, but she won’t take it today.”
Poor Jenny must sense something was wrong. Her father absent, soldiers in the house …
Celia began to loosen the tight cloths. She’d not been around babies much, being the youngest child in her household, but she had the feeling Jenny would be much happier if she could move.
“My lady?” Sally cried in alarm. “Should you do that?”
“The poor thing wants a bit of freedom.” Celia held the squirming child with difficulty as she tugged off the cloths. “There you are, love.” As the last of the swaddling fell away, Celia hoisted Jenny, clad in a thin nightdress, to her shoulder. “Papa will be home soon.”
Celia wasn’t certain Papa would ever return, and she knew Jenny couldn’t understand her, but she said the words anyway. What would become of this child if Alec was caught and taken prisoner?
Nothing, Celia thought with determination. I will look after her.
It was an absurd thought—Celia had no idea how to take care of a child, and her father and mother would hardly let her bring an orphan into their house. But she’d find a way. Alec would never have to worry about his daughter.
Jenny’s wails grew fainter as she dug her fists into Celia’s soft fichu. A bit of dribble from the child’s mouth landed on the embroidered cotton, but Celia only held her closer.
“Give me the chamomile,” she said to Sally.
Sally fetched a covered bowl with small balls of ice floating in water, the soothing scent of chamomile wafting from it.
Celia took a chunk of ice between her fingers and offered it to Jenny. “Here, now, love. This will soothe you.”
Jenny fretted and cried, but at last she parted her lips, as though curious. She then suckled Celia’s finger, and the ice, her sobs quieting.
Sally grinned. “There now. Ye have a way with you, my lady. She likes you.”
Celia cuddled Jenny closer. Holding the babe against her heart, Alec’s pretty child, sent a warmness through her she’d never experienced. Affection for Jenny grew and swelled.
Yes, she would take care of this child if she had to. It would be a pleasure.