Page 4 of Ghost of the Ton

“So, she’ll not survive?” her cousin said.

“The chances are slight,” the doctor said. “The chances of yer survival are diminishing with every moment ye spend in this room.”

“Then I’ll bid you good day, Dr. McIver. I trust you’ll inform my lawyers when she—”

He broke off with a yelp. Mia heard a scuffle, followed by two sets of footsteps receding. Then a door slammed in the distance. She resumed her attention on the looming darkness, letting her body sink into the bed, which seemed to drift in and out of the mortal world.

The chances are slight.

Most of Dr. McIver’s patients would have preferred him to coat his diagnoses in honey, or utter falsehoods to peddle hope in lieu of a fee. But the straight-talking Scot was never a man to embellish his words with poetry or tales best confined to the nursery.

If only he had been my father, rather than…

Then Mia admonished herself. Papa had loved her, in his own way. He now lay cold in his grave and she hadn’t been able to bid him farewell.

The footsteps returned, a single set this time, and Mia caught the unmistakable scent of lavender.

“Dr. McIver, i-is he…?”

“Yer cousin won’t be visiting ye any more, lass. I’ve told Gertie not to admit him again.”

Mia opened her eyes and the doctor’s concerned face swam into view, blurred by pain and tears.

“I-I’m sorry, I…”

“Hush, lass. Here—take this. It’ll ease yer pain.”

Something cold and unyielding was pressed to her lips. Obediently she parted them and liquid slipped onto her tongue, filling her mouth with its bitter taste.

“H-how long…?”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “How long have ye got? The crisis should come within three or four days, after which…” His voice cracked a little before he continued. “I’ll make sure ye’re comfortable, lass. And Gertie will remain with ye until the end.”

“Three or four days?”

“A week, at most. Now, is there anything ye want?”

Mia nodded, then winced at the stab of pain in her neck. “I want to see Mr. Stockton. I wish to settle my affairs before—”

She broke off, unwilling to voice what must be inevitable, though she lauded the doctor for voicing it.

“Yer affairs are already settled, lass,” he replied. “That vile cousin of yers—if ye’ll permit me to speak so freely—is to inherit under rules of the entailment. There’s no way to prevent it.”

“There’s one way,” Mia whispered. She blinked, clearing her vision for a moment, and winced against the bright backdrop of sunlight from the window that silhouetted the doctor’s frame.

Then the doctor, displaying the intelligence and insight that set him apart from the rest of his profession—nay, the rest of his sex—drew a sharp intake of breath.

“Ye dinnae mean…”

“Yes, Dr. McIver,” Mia said, ignoring the agony in her throat as she voiced what was to be her last wish. “I want a husband. I wish to marry before I die.”

Chapter Two

“I’m afraid I’ve exhausted every path, Lord MacLennan. I cannot secure you credit from any of the London banks.”

Hamish clasped his hands together as the lawyer delivered the news. “Not even the Hart Bank, Mr. Stockton?”

“Especially not the Hart Bank. Mr. Hart has a keen understanding of business risk and is therefore very particular about whom he accepts as a client.”