secret from her.”
But Pen was undeterred, her eyes narrowing. “I think you are keeping a secret because you are.”
Caro eyed her sister across the tiny room beside the kitchens of The Sinner’s Palace, the lone space she had claimed for her healing efforts. Nothing but bare walls, a table, and all her herbs and instruments and vials and jars. Better than no place at all, she reminded herself.
“You may think whatever you like, Pen, but that will not bring my ointment back to me. It is quite ruined.”
Indeed, a glance to the floor proved it had slid down her gown, leaving a wet stain in its wake, only to fall upon her slipper before landing on the floor in a worthless lump. She had spent days perfecting this version of the healing ointment she applied to her brothers’ cuts and wounds whenever they were involved in fights. And she had been so certain she had been close to developing a final combination of ingredients that would enable wounds to heal faster and with less pain, all while minimizing contagion.
Gone now.
“I understand how important your salves and whatnots are to you,” Pen said, her tone softening, “and you must know I would never wish to make you spill them. However, I do want you to tell me the truth. Why are you and Jasper whispering and spending so much time together? The two of you are ordinarily at odds, spitting fire and throwing blades at each other.”
Caro sighed. It was true that she and Jasper often disagreed. The matter of Gavin Winter was not unlike any of the other occasions upon which they had found themselves at odds. It was also true that she was a healer, and that referring to her creations as salves and whatnot was an insult.
She decided to keep her attention firmly pinned upon the latter rather than addressing her sister’s other concerns. “Do you have any inkling how much time I spend reading and experimenting during the creation of my salves and whatnots?”
Pen rolled her eyes heavenward. “Why do I suspect you’re about to tell me?”
The truth was, not even Caro knew how much time she spent upon being the Sutton healer. But it was easily half of each day, if not most of the day.
Caro reached for a freshly laundered rag and bent to clean the remnants of her ointment from the scarred floorboards. “You needn’t mock. We cannot all go gadding about with disreputable rogues. Some of us must tend the flock.”
If there was bitterness in her voice, it was not because she did not enjoy being the Sutton healer. On the contrary, she loved tending to all who needed her efforts. She enjoyed reading, expanding her knowledge, and experimenting. Her dream of being a physician would never come to fruition, for she had been born a woman. At least she was able to pursue her calling within the walls of The Sinner’s Palace, if nowhere else. However, she could not deny that part of her had come to resent Pen for having no responsibilities at the hell beyond keeping the ledgers, a role which enabled her endless time to run off with Lord Aidan.
“Aidan is not disreputable,” Pen denied, her shoulders going back in defiance, chin tilting up. “He is the son of a duke.”
“Third son,” Caro reminded. “And a despicable wastrel.”
“He is a fine gentleman.”
Ha! Lord Aidan Weir was neither fine nor a gentleman. Caro snorted as she sought a clean part of the cloth and wiped the fallen ointment from her slipper.
“Of course you would defend him, Pen.”
“He needs no defense.”
Yet, there was an edge to her sister’s voice. A note of desperation, as if Pen herself knew how much of a scandalous rascal the man she had befriended truly was. Whoring, drinking, gambling, and getting Pen into no end of scrapes—the man was not a Sutton favorite, aside from his endless purse and his desire to spend it exclusively at The Sinner’s Palace. Caro had always suspected there was something more between her sister and Lord Aidan, but Pen claimed they were friends and nothing more.
“He needs an entire infantry brigade of defense,” Caro challenged her sister, straightening once more, a sense of defeat settling over her.
The ointment had numbed her skin, which had been the effect she had been attempting to achieve as a means of aiding the pain a wound caused. But she had no notion of how to recreate her unguent without the precise measurements, and the