Death in Hellfire Read Online Free PDF Page A

that, I fear.”
    Nick looked at him over the edge of the tea cup. “Why not? You might well remarry and have another family.”
    “I have no plans to do so. Absolutely none.”
    Dawkins gave a disconcerting wink. “You never know what is round the corner,” he said.
    For some reason this remark made John pause and think about his life. Perhaps he should marry again and put his great passion for Elizabeth behind him. Perhaps he should marry for the company, for the contented routine that living with somebody brought in its train. Perhaps, indeed, he should try and have another child to give Rose some company.
    “No,” he answered Nicholas slowly, “you don’t know, do you.” And he slowly sipped his tea.
    Some hours later he returned home to sense a change in the atmosphere. Even as he put his key in the lock and opened the door he could tell that something in the place had changed. There was a faint perfume in the air, a smell of summer and roses and sweetness of the fields.
    “Grey,” he said to the footman who came hurrying to take his coat. “Idas somebody called?”
    “Not only called, sir, but is waiting for you in the parlour.”
    “And who might that be?”
    “A young lady, sir. She’s come about the advertisement you placed in the newspaper yesterday. I thought it best that she should wait, sir. I hope you don’t mind.”
    “No, of course not. I’ll just go and wash quickly and then I’ll present myself.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    Hurrying up the stairs to his bedroom, John doused his hands and face in cold water, brushed at his clothes then, on a whim, changed his cravat, his other looking somewhat soiled. Then he sauntered downstairs and into the parlour.
    The girl was standing looking out of the window as he came in but turned immediately and dropped a curtsey. John bowed slightly, then straightened up to look at her.
    It was a neat little parcel of humanity that he was staring at, everything perfectly proportioned and concise. But it was the girl’s face that held his attention, huge dark blackberry eyes and a large smiling mouth, smiling so broadly in fact that John had no option but to grin back. Hair, black as midnight, showed itself beneath her lilac hat, which matched her open robe beneath, her general smallness belied by the girl’s hands which were long and fine.
    “Madam,” said John, and bowed once more, this time a little more deeply.
    “I am Octavia da Costa,” she answered, and the Apothecary knew at once that she was not a native of these shores, not just from her name but also from her very careful use of the English tongue.
    He should have been totally in control of the situation, calmly speaking about the advertisement and her qualifications in answering it, but there was something infectious about her good humour, about her precise use of his mother tongue, that just made him want to laugh. Instead he smiled.
    “Miss da Costa, I am John Rawlings. Do sit down. Would you care for some wine?”
    “Oh yes, I would like that very much,” she answered, removing her gloves and revealing her hands which were truly distinctive as he had guessed.
    John rang a bell, then said, “Tell me, Miss da Costa, where do you come from and what is your history?”
    The blackberry eyes beneath their thin dark brows flashed him a slightly apprehensive glance. “I was born in Portugal, Mr Rawlings, of a Portuguese father and an English mother. Unfortunately my father, though a good husband and parent in every other way, was addicted to gambling, in particular he liked to back horses. It was my mother who taught me English, by the way.”
    “And very well too,” John answered, finding her accent charming.
    “Anyway, Papa died leaving a string of debts and I’m afraid my mother and I were forced by dead of night to take the packet from Lisbon and escape to this country.” She looked at him to see if he was shocked but gathered from his relaxed expression that he was not.
    “It was very