An Heir of Uncertainty (6 page)

Lina took the candlestick and escorted him from the room. “Thank you so much for coming here at such an early hour, and in such bitter cold.”

He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s part and parcel of the profession.”

And so was being paid, though heaven only knew when she’d be able to settle his fee. “I’d offer you tea before you go, but Sarah bought a new supply, and our tea is almost as bad as the paregoric.”

He laughed. “Surely not as dreadful as that.”

“Well, perhaps not that bad, but it does have the most disagreeable taste, like sour spearmint.”

The doctor had been leading the way down the stairs, but at this he stopped and turned to look back at her. “Sour spearmint, you say?”

“Yes, it’s really quite horrid.”

A flicker of concern crossed his face. “Would you mind if I had a look at this tea, Lady Radbourne?”

What an odd request. But she’d sooner discuss the tea than the money she owed him, so she escorted him to the kitchen. She had to stand on tiptoe to take the tea caddy from its shelf in the cupboard. “Here it is.”

He set down his medical bag to accept the little rosewood chest from her hands. “You don’t lock the cupboard or the caddy?”

“No, why should we? Sarah is the only kitchen servant, and she’s been with us since Cassandra and I were children. We trust her, and she guards her domain like a hawk whenever Eli wanders in—though we trust him too, for that matter.”

Dr. Strickland lifted the lid and peered down at the tealeaves. Giving the caddy a shake, he inhaled deeply. “My God.” He looked up and met Lina’s eyes, his face slack with shock. “How much of this have you been drinking?”

“Not much. I poured a cup yesterday afternoon, but the taste was so strange I couldn’t finish it, and I was too queasy to have any in the evening. Colonel Vaughan recommended tea and toast for my appetite, so I was going to force myself to drink some with breakfast this morning, but—”

“Don’t. Don’t drink another drop of this.” The doctor snapped the caddy shut and pushed it back into Lina’s hands. “Throw it away, every bit of it, and see to it no one brings tea like this into the house again.”

The hair on the back of Lina’s neck stood up. “Why? What’s the matter with it?”

“This is pennyroyal tea. It’s the last thing a hopeful mother should be drinking.”

“Pennyroyal tea...?”

“It’s an abortifacient.” His lips firmed to a grim line. “Desperate girls have been taking it for centuries to rid themselves of unwanted babies.”

Chapter Five

How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!

—Alexander Pope

“Dear God.” Lina went cold all over. She had to sit down in the cane-backed chair Sarah kept by the hearth. “You mean it causes miscarriage? Do you think I’ve already—”

Dr. Strickland glanced at the clock above the hearth. “What time did you drink it?”

“A little after noon.”

“And you haven’t had any bleeding or spotting since then?”

She might have been embarrassed, but Dr. Strickland always employed a brisk, no-nonsense manner that made it clear such questions were more professional necessity than gross indelicacy. “No.”

“No back pain or spasms?”

She shook her head.

“Then I shouldn’t worry too greatly, Lady Radbourne. After sixteen hours, I expect you’d have had some sign by now if you’d ingested enough to pose a danger. But whatever you do, don’t drink any more of this. You say Sarah bought it in Malton?”

“Yes—or no. I don’t know. I assumed so, but I never asked her about it.” Lina recalled the front door and the broken lock. Could there be some connection? “Perhaps I’ve done Sarah an injustice. We had an intruder in the house yesterday.” She told Dr. Strickland how she’d met Colonel Vaughan and they’d discovered the door ajar, only to find her valuables untouched.

Dr. Strickland listened with a faint frown. “How curious. You say you and Miss Douglass waited outside while Colonel Vaughan went through the house?”

“Yes.”

He squatted down beside her chair, his gaze fixed on her face. “Has anything else out of the ordinary happened in the last few days?”

“Do you mean medically, or in general?”

“In general.”

She gave a shaky laugh. “Well, Colonel Vaughan arrived at the abbey.”

“Yes.” The doctor’s frown deepened. “I mean besides that.”

Why the grave look? Surely the doctor didn’t think there was anything sinister about Colonel Vaughan. The colonel had been with her when she’d discovered the door standing open—in fact, she knew the lock had been forced only because he’d pointed it out.

Then again, the wait outside while he’d checked the house
had
seemed surprisingly long...

She shook her head. “No. Nothing else out of the ordinary.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Just the same, I do hope you’ll be careful.” The doctor reached out and pressed her hand—a gesture so at odds with his usual professional demeanor, it left Lina momentarily speechless. “A good deal depends on that baby you’re carrying, Lady Radbourne—not just for you, but also for Miss Douglass, to say nothing of the tenants and servants here.”

And for Colonel Vaughan. “I’ll be careful.”

The doctor gave her a heartening smile before rising to retrieve his medical bag. Lina saw him out, trying not to read too much into the episode.

Even so, for hours afterward she couldn’t help wondering about the pennyroyal tea, and whether Colonel Vaughan really might mean her harm.

* * *

Win looked over the breakfast table at Freddie. “After what happened to the dower house door yesterday, I thought I’d leave Julia in Mrs. Phelps’s care and walk over to check on Lady Radbourne and her sister. Care to come along?”

“Not really.”

Sometimes Win wished Freddie were a bit less honest. Or a bit more sociable. Or both. “I think you should come just the same. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

“It was implied in my troubling to ask.”

Freddie’s brow wrinkled. “How? Doesn’t asking me mean you wish to hear my answer, rather than supply your own?”

He had a point. “I thought you might like to meet Miss Douglass. She’s about your age.” When Freddie failed to show any sign of interest, Win added, “Her Christian name is Cassandra. Don’t you have a pigeon with that name?”

Freddie perked up. “Yes, mated with Agamemnon. Two of my broad tail shakers. Beautiful birds.”

“Miss Douglass is a beauty too. A slender blonde with blue eyes.”

“My Cassandra is white with a fine full breast—”

“I’d advise you not to compare your Cassandra to Miss Douglass on every score,” Win broke in, “at least not within Miss Douglass’s hearing. Ladies tend to take that sort of thing amiss.”

“Ah, so that’s what ‘comparisons are odious’ means. I had no idea it was unique to ladies.”

“Not unique to them, but...just refrain from doing it.”

Shaving that morning, Win had decided it didn’t much matter what he thought of Lady Radbourne, since he was leaving in a week. Months from now, either the countess’s baby would disinherit him and he’d remain at Hamble Grange, endeavoring to pay off the mortgage there, or she’d give birth to a girl, in which case he’d return to find her resenting him for stepping into her husband’s shoes.

Yet he’d taken extra care with the way he dressed that morning, and not half an hour after breakfast, he was bowing to the ladies in the dower house drawing room, Freddie at his side. “May I present my brother, Mr. Frederick Vaughan? Freddie, this is Lady Radbourne and her sister, Miss Douglass.”

Freddie executed a bow—a surprisingly smooth and courtly one. He had elegant manners when he made the effort. “How do you do, Lady Radbourne?” He tendered a second bow to her sister. “How do you do, Miss Douglass?”

Once again, the countess looked decidedly unlike a femme fatale. She was dressed in the unbroken black of mourning, with a black net fichu filling in the low neckline of her long-sleeved gown. The sober hue only emphasized the milk-whiteness of her flawless skin and the vivid green of her eyes. She wore her shining chestnut hair swept up in a Psyche knot, though a few wayward curls had managed to escape.

She acknowledged Freddie with a slight inclination of her head. “Mr. Vaughan.”

Win ran his eyes over her from head to toe. Was it his imagination, or was there a certain wariness in her posture, a wariness he hadn’t observed the day before? She seemed...reserved? Uneasy? Win hoped she wasn’t embarrassed about her fainting spell the day before.

She glanced in his direction, and he quickly directed a smile at her sister so she wouldn’t suspect he’d been staring.

Freddie, too, was smiling at Miss Douglass. “Win tells me your Christian name is Cassandra. I have a pigeon with that name.”

At the flash of confusion that crossed her face, Win hastened to explain. “My brother raises racing pigeons.”

“Yes,” Freddie said, “but my Cassandra isn’t a racer, she’s a dropper.”

Miss Douglass gave him a look of polite inquiry. “A dropper?”

“A docile pigeon that doesn’t fly well, to encourage my racers to return to the loft. At present I have four droppers, all broad tail shakers—Cassandra, Agamemnon, Galatea and Pygmalion.”

“Ah.” Miss Douglass wore a faintly bemused expression.

“You would like them. They’re beautiful white birds with a full breast and a fine spreading tail reminiscent of a turkey cock’s. Both the hen and the cock alike can erect the tail, though the cocks’ tails tend to be slightly larger.”

Miss Douglass turned faintly pink, and Win resisted the urge to give his brother an elbow in the ribs. Freddie was bright enough, and not at all bad looking. Why couldn’t he, just once, carry on a normal conversation? Why did it always have to be pigeons—and not just pigeons, but whatever indelicate detail about them popped into his head? He’d spoken all of four or five sentences to the girl, and already she could tell he was peculiar. It vexed Win, because while Freddie frequently drew interested looks from young ladies, few troubled to talk to him long enough to appreciate his many sterling qualities—his kind heart, for instance, and his unflagging loyalty. “Perhaps we might discuss something else for the present, Freddie.”

“If you like.”

“I came to assure myself that the workman I sent repaired the front door to your satisfaction,” Win said to both ladies. “And of course so that my brother could make your acquaintance.” He added in a low voice to Miss Douglass, “I hope you’ll excuse Freddie’s manners. He can be a bit eccentric on occasion.”

She gave Win a bright smile. “Oh, no, there’s nothing to excuse. I find his manners charming.”

She seemed in a perpetually sunny mood, despite the faint purplish circles under her eyes. She was so slender Win suspected he could span her waist with his hands. Then again, he might say the same for her sister, who certainly showed no sign yet of her condition.

Lady Radbourne resumed her place on the sofa. “Do sit down, please, gentlemen. The door is once again in good repair, as you no doubt observed when you arrived.”

Win took the chair she’d indicated, balancing his hat on his knee. Gad, but she was pretty. With a will of their own, Win’s eyes slid from her proud, lovely face to the neckline of her gown, where the pale curves of her breasts, high and firm, showed through the sheer silk net of her black fichu. A brief but undeniable stir of lust ran through him.

Now that was admirable of him, lusting after Lady Radbourne when she was expecting another man’s baby. Then again, Harriet had been at her most alluring when she’d been carrying his child, her body even more womanly than usual. Unless he was much mistaken, she’d wanted him more then too. He’d never been so surprised in his life as the night four or five months before Julia was born when he’d awakened to find Harriet straddling him in bed, slick with need, literally begging him to take her. He still grew aroused, sometimes, just thinking about it...

Which was why he shouldn’t be thinking about it, not now, sitting here with a widow and her maiden sister, no matter how lovely the widow or how colorful the gossip about her. “How are you feeling this morning, Lady Radbourne? When I last saw you, you were a trifle under the weather.”

It was a polite enough question—personal, perhaps, but certainly friendly—yet she looked even more wary than before. “I’m quite well, thank you. As you suggested, I made sure to eat a few biscuits before getting out of bed this morning. And I ate breakfast too.” She gave him an oddly measuring look. “Tea and toast.”

Win wondered at the reason for the look. Puzzled, he replied, “I’m glad to hear it. Sometimes a simple meal can work wonders. I know it often made the difference between gloom and good cheer when I was in Spain.”

Miss Douglass had joined her sister on the sofa, but at this she inclined his way with bright-eyed interest. “So you
were
in the war. For how long?”

“Eight years in the Light Division, from 1806 to 1814.”

“And you escaped without a scratch...”

“I wouldn’t say that. I took a jab from a French bayonet at Nivelle, and I’ve a fine scar to show for it. But I was more fortunate than most.”

“I can’t think why you call it a
fine
scar,” Freddie broke in. “It’s not an interesting shape, or even particularly colorful.” Directing an amiable smile in the general direction of both ladies, he touched a finger to his chest. “It’s here, just above his right nipple.”

Win groaned inwardly. “Freddie, they don’t care where—”

“We enjoyed meeting your little girl yesterday, Colonel Vaughan,” Miss Douglass said with admirable aplomb. “She’s very prettily behaved. Would it be indelicate of me to ask how long you’ve been a widower?”

“Two years.” It sounded like only a short time, yet felt like ages. But then, Win sometimes felt he’d lived an entire lifetime in the ten years since he’d reached his majority. He’d fought on the Peninsula, sat by his father’s deathbed, married and seen his marriage crumble, followed Harriet’s coffin to the churchyard, and was now facing the looming mortgage on Hamble Grange. Just raising Julia seemed likely to turn him gray. He fell asleep at night thinking
Harriet would have done a better job with her.

Beside him, Freddie was giving Miss Douglass a puzzled look. “Why do you call him
Colonel
Vaughan?”

Win tensed. He’d forgotten to warn his brother about that detail. “You know very well I was in the army, Freddie. We were just speaking of it.”

“Yes, but no one calls you ‘Colonel.’”

“Some people do.” Win did his best to sound offhand, though he wanted to kick himself. That would teach him to put on airs. Now he must look like a pompous ass.
Thank you, Freddie.

Across from him, the countess heaved a tension-laden sigh.

Keen to abandon the topic of his military rank, Win asked, “Are you certain you’re well, ma’am? You’re very quiet.”

“You must excuse my sister,” Miss Douglass said before Lady Radbourne could reply. “I suffered an attack of my lung complaint last night and she was up with me most of the night, waiting for Dr. Strickland.”

So the doctor had been here, had he? A vague and unexpected stir of jealousy ran through Win. If, as Mr. Channing believed, Strickland really was the father of Lady Radbourne’s baby, Miss Douglass’s condition certainly made a convenient excuse for his late-night calls.

“I trust the attack wasn’t serious,” Win said, a trifle stiffly.

“Serious enough,” Lady Radbourne said. “But if I seem out of sorts this morning, it has nothing to do with Cassandra. You see, I was nearly poisoned yesterday.”

Win blinked. He must have heard her wrong. “Poisoned?”

“Lina,” Miss Douglass said in the same instant, her brow puckering in consternation, “do you really think it’s wise to mention the tea when Dr. Strickland thinks—”

“Either Colonel Vaughan had nothing to do with the incident and will no doubt share our wish to identify the guilty party,” Lady Radbourne said, sitting with her back very straight, “or he’s responsible, in which case he already knows about it and mentioning it can make no difference.”

Win didn’t like the sound of
guilty party
, especially in conjunction with Lady Radbourne’s earlier use of the word
poisoned.
“What exactly happened here?”

She met his gaze, a spark of challenge in her green eyes. “Someone—someone who was in this house yesterday—substituted an herb called pennyroyal for the tea in our caddy. For any woman in a delicate condition, drinking pennyroyal tea can bring on miscarriage.”

Win was torn between horror and outrage—and, for the moment at least, outrage won. “And you think I had something to do with it?”