by Adele Clee
“Have you ever offered the doctor a room for the night?” Finlay climbed out of the conveyance at the gate leading to the doctor’s house and stared at the picturesque scene.
“Of course. I offered him the use of the cottage when I first brought Jessica to Blackborne.” She accepted Finlay’s proffered hand and stepped down to the ground. “Though I get the sense he dislikes the house. He’s a busy man, I know, but he is always in a hurry to leave.”
“One presumes he’s good friends with Mr Archer. The weekly journey must be taxing, and he has kept Jessica’s secret for years.”
Sophia brushed her skirts, her pulse racing when she recalled the reason for the creases. “They grew up together, though the doctor is a few years older. Mr Archer’s parents lived in a manor house in Wolvercote.”
“Are his parents alive?”
“No. Mr Archer sold the house and used the funds to set up business in India.”
There had been whisperings the Archers weren’t as affluent as they portrayed. But the gentleman hadn’t needed to marry for a dowry—he had happily married Maud.
“Is there another doctor in the area?” Finlay removed his hat briefly and combed his hair with his fingers. “With Oxford being five miles away, there must be a few medical men willing to cover the surrounding villages.”
Sophia shrugged. “From what he told me, Dr Goodwin replaced Dr Sheldon when the elderly man died.”
“And what of Goodwin’s father? Did he practice medicine?”
Finlay could have asked these questions during the journey had they not been preoccupied. “No, he had something to do with the bank and spent most of his time between London and Oxford. I got the impression Mr Goodwin was disappointed in his son’s choice of profession.”
Finlay stroked his beard while he contemplated the information. He pursed his lips and sighed numerous times. Heaven knows what he was thinking, but Sophia wasn’t surprised when he asked another question.
“About Jessica’s illness, did your father ever seek a second opinion? Did he have someone else examine your sister?”
“Lord, no. He trusted no one, feared what would happen to Jessica if people discovered she was suffering from mild insanity. No. Everyone believes Jessica is married to Mr Archer and living abroad.”
Finlay braced his hands on his hips and released a weary sigh. Everything about him, from his rigid stance to his firm jaw, said something was amiss.
“What troubles you?”
“This whole scene.” He gestured to the large thatched house covered in lush green wisteria. “It seems inconsistent with what we know about the doctor.”
“Inconsistent?”
“This isn’t the house of a young professional man in need of funds. Come. Let us see if the doctor is at home. Having whisked his patient from under his nose in the dead of night, he must be frantic with worry.”
Sophia clutched Finlay’s arm, and they walked through a garden of fragrant rose bushes and neatly trimmed topiary. Finlay knocked on the solid oak door. A stout woman with plump cheeks and benevolent eyes answered.
“Might we enquire if the master of the house is at home?” he said.
Sophia wondered why he had not asked for the doctor by name.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
Finlay made the introduction.
The woman nodded, though seemed flustered at the mention of Sophia’s title. “Won’t you wait inside, my lady?” She directed them into the hall, left them standing near the console table sporting a vase of freshly cut flowers, and scuttled away.
“Godstow is a small place. Do you not know the housekeeper?”
Sophia lowered her voice. “No. Mrs Mitchell used to serve the Goodwins. But that was some time ago.”
The housekeeper returned and explained the master was in his study but would gladly see them. She led them into a bright room where the air was as fresh as a summer meadow. The easel in the corner carried a half-finished painting of hollyhock. The moment Sophia’s gaze fell to the man standing behind the desk, her blood ran cold.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Finlay said, his narrowed eyes fixed on the elderly gentleman whose black brows were in stark contrast to his mop of white hair. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”
Sophia’s gaze fell to the desk, to the detailed sketch of a leaf stalk.
“Rhamnus cathartica.” The gentleman placed his sharpened pencil in a tray of drawing implements. “Or the common buckthorn to most. Delicate, but deadly in large amounts. Might I offer you refreshments?”
“Thank you, but no,” Finlay said. “In all honesty, we arrived expecting to meet with someone else. We knew the Goodwins.”
“Ah! Then you’re unaware of Mr Goodwin’s passing. I’m afraid to say it happened some time ago. Rather sudden by all accounts, though I’m not sure if that’s a blessing.”
The gentleman introduced himself as Mr Stapler, a man with an interest in botany who spent his time studying plant species. He rounded the desk and arranged chairs so they might sit.
“God gave us plants so we might heal our ailments,” Mr Stapler continued. “They hold the key to curing countless diseases. Yes, these new surgical procedures are to be commended, but one must ask if cutting into flesh causes other imbalances within the body.” He gestured to the delicate leaf pinned to a board on the desk. “Something so fragile, so relatively insignificant, has a power beyond man’s understanding.”
“You’re passionate about your work,” Finlay said with some admiration.
The doctor laughed and then apologised. “It’s relatively quiet here. One rarely receives visitors. Consequently, one talks far too much.”
Mr Stapler seemed glad to have company. They spent ten minutes discussing Dioscorides’ notes on herbal medicine. Eventually, Finlay cleared his throat and said, “We came looking for Dr Goodwin. The late Mr Goodwin’s only son.”
“Yes, yes. He sold this house to pursue his work in the city. These young men are not suited to the life of a provincial doctor. When one studies in Vienna, Godstow has little appeal.”
Dr Goodwin had spent hours discussing his time in the Austrian city, so much so Sophia felt confident that part of the tale was true. And yet he had lied about living in Godstow. The overwhelming question was, why? Many times, she had expressed concern over him making the arduous journey. Not once had he mentioned the sale of his family home.
Finlay sat forward, looking equally perturbed. “We were under the impression Dr Goodwin was the local physician here in Godstow.”
“Godstow? No.” The elderly gentleman frowned and shook his head. “On his return from Vienna, he remained here for a time before moving to London to take a position at Guy’s Hospital.”
“London?”
“Well, that’s what I heard in the village. I’m sure his father worked at Coutts on the Strand, owned a house in Miles’ Lane just across the bridge from Southwark.”
When Jessica had her accident, Dr Sheldon was their family physician. After tugging on his breeches and boots, Mr Archer had raced from the house to fetch help. He returned with his friend, Dr Goodwin, explaining Dr Sheldon was away visiting patients in Yarnton. Dr Sheldon eventually came to the house and conducted an examination, prescribing rest, a poultice and willow-bark tea. It was only when Jessica’s mind proved unstable, and their father’s need for secrecy grew, that Dr Goodwin became Jessica’s permanent physician.
“The doctor attended my sister when we lived in Godstow, before she moved to India.” Sophia had visited the doctor numerous times at his parent’s home during those first few weeks after the accident. “I assumed he still lived here.”
“No doubt the fellow has been lapse in his correspondence. Someone else called two months ago expecting to find him here, too. As I explained then, I purchased this house five years ago and haven’t spoken to the doctor since.”
Someone else had come looking for Dr Goodwin?
Sophia was about to probe Mr Stapl
er further, but the man laughed and said, “The lady seemed most distressed when she discovered he had moved. In that instance, I suspect the doctor was trying to untangle himself from a romantic affair. Pretty little thing, but so persistent in manner she appeared quite rude.”
She glanced at Finlay, waiting for him to ask for a description, but he pushed to his feet. “Thank you, Mr Stapler. We shall leave you to your work. Rest assured. When we speak to Dr Goodwin, we will ensure he informs his friends and acquaintances of his current abode.”
A brief conversation ensued, whereby the gentleman gestured to his drawing and explained the medicinal benefits of toxic buckthorn berries.
“Might I ask one question before you leave?” Mr Stapler said, escorting them to the front door.
Finlay smiled. “Of course.”
“Might I ask if Dr Goodwin is in trouble? He seemed a rather good sort, and yet I sense he has wronged you in some way.”
With her trust in the doctor waning, Sophia had to force a smile. “The doctor is treating a good friend of ours, and we’re concerned about his methods. We hoped to speak to him privately and assumed he still lived here.”
Mr Stapler seemed appeased and raised his chin in acknowledgement. “These modern methods are somewhat unconventional, and often highly alarming.” He passed pleasantries, bid them a good day and closed the door.
They returned to the carriage, and Finlay instructed Mr Sloane’s coachman to head back to High Wycombe.
Once nestled inside the vehicle, she said, “Well, it seems we’ve had a wasted journey. Dr Goodwin is proving to be rather elusive.”
Finlay’s smile turned sinful. “Not wasted. The drive here proved immensely satisfying.”
“As might the jaunt back to Wycombe.”
The heat in his gaze, and the sensual way he scanned her body, said he’d be pulling down the blinds before they reached Wolvercote.
“We’ve made some progress in our investigation,” he added. “We know where to find Dr Goodwin. If he sold the house, not leased it, we know he needed money. More importantly, we know he’s a liar.”
Sophia’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment for having trusted the man all these years. “Money, and his need to atone for Mr Archer’s misdeed, must be the reason he makes the weekly trip to Blackborne.”
“I’m not so sure.” With intense eyes, Finlay watched her unbutton her pelisse. “But we’ll find the doctor and discover the answer once we’ve visited Blackborne and dealt with your deceptive servants.”
“And how shall we pass the next few hours?”
He stroked his impressive beard. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
Chapter 15
Beautiful women teased the eyes and tormented the soul. Those were the words Finlay’s father had uttered upon learning of Sophia’s marriage to Lord Adair. He had died a few months later, leaving Finlay alone in the world but for a distant cousin in the moorlands of Northumberland. His father had departed this plane, but the words remained.
Sophia certainly teased the eyes. Finlay had spent an hour studying every beautiful contour while she slept in the carriage, scribing every delightful aspect to memory. The last seven years had been torture. A waking nightmare. Sloane was right. Finlay was tired, weary, had longed for the peace that comes with death. But dark days pass—if one has the strength to cling on through the storm.
Opposite him, Sophia stretched and yawned as the carriage slowed to a stop before Blackborne’s imposing iron gates. Her eyes flickered open. “What? Have we arrived?”
“Yes.”
“What time is it?” she asked, her skin still aglow from sleep and their lovemaking.
Finlay pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the face beneath the light of the carriage lamp. “Almost eleven o’clock.”
They had stopped twice on the journey from Wycombe to Windlesham, had let the coachman take a quick nap while they ate supper, reminisced and drank copious amounts of wine.
“Blent doesn’t do his rounds until midnight, and the gates are locked.” She straightened and bemoaned her aching limbs. “The path through the woods isn’t wide enough for a carriage.”
Finlay’s body ached, too, from being confined for hours, from pleasuring the woman who’d shown him that happiness bobbed on the horizon.
“I shall climb the wall and retrieve the key to the boundary door.”
Her gaze dipped to his thighs. “Well, you certainly have the strength for the task.”
“And the stamina,” he teased.
“You’ll find the key in a wooden tea caddy on the windowsill. We can send Blent to remove the lock and chain from the gates. I doubt Mr Sloane’s coachman will want to spend the night sleeping atop his box.”
“The desire to sleep beneath the stars is in Turton’s blood. His grandfather served Livingston Sloane, the buccaneer. But you’re right, he’s exhausted and in need of a rest. And he will require Blent’s help with the horses.”
They alighted. Turton followed Finlay and helped to launch him over the brick wall. After finding the key and unlocking the boundary door, he permitted Turton to take another nap inside the carriage while he waited for Blent to arrive.
Walking the dark, unkempt path up to the gatehouse, roused memories of the night Finlay had been reluctant to hold Sophia’s hand. Now, he gripped it as if she were hauling him out of a choppy sea.
As they passed through the gatehouse, and the eerie manor loomed into view, he was overcome with trepidation. Yes, the hour was late, but the house seemed too dark, too quiet, as if it held another terrifying secret within its old walls.
When forming a plan of attack, he’d imagined interrogating the staff—an hour of barked demands and raised tempers—though he suspected Blent would tell the truth when confronted. Mrs Friswell would dig in her heels.
Afterwards, to calm his inner rage, Finlay would carry Sophia up to the master chamber, lay her down on the large plush bed and pleasure her with his tongue, his fingers, his cock. But now the prickling at his nape warned the night would not go as planned.
“What’s to say we won’t find Mrs Friswell entertaining the herbalists from Windlesham?” he said, noting there wasn’t a single flicker of candlelight evident in the vast array of windows.
“Perhaps we might wait until morning to question the servants.” Desire flowed thick and heavy in her voice. “You must be tired. I am just as eager to rest my aching limbs and long for the comfort of a bed.”
Oh, she had other things on her mind besides sleep.
He laughed lightly despite his niggling apprehension. “Why not say what you mean?” They stopped inside the covered porch. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her round to face him. “Say what you really want, Sophia.”
A coy smile played on her lips. “Make love to me, Finlay.” She cupped his cheek, stroked his beard. “I’ve spent years without you. Now the need to feel you moving inside me has brought a new kind of desperation.”
His mouth found hers in the darkness. He would find her in a room of a hundred women. He would know her taste, know the smoothness of her lips, the rhythm of her heartbeat, the cadence of her breath.
“Fill me.” She slipped her tongue over his, hardening his cock. “Make me feel whole like only you can.”
He dragged his mouth away and grabbed her hand. In his mind, they were already darting upstairs, and they had not yet reached the front door.
The door was locked.
“Mrs Friswell must have retired for the evening,” Sophia said impatiently. “Come, we can enter through the herb garden. The door is always open. If not, Blent keeps a key in the cottage.”
They hurried to the rear of the house, stopping twice to kiss like lovers in the bloom of youth—frantic for physical contact.
The rear door was locked, too.
Sophia rubbed the nape of her neck and frowned. “That is odd.”
The word odd roused Finlay’s earlier unease. “I expect they’re eating the b
est food in the pantry and burning beeswax candles, not tallow.” He spoke to soothe her fears—hoped he was wrong to suspect something sinister. “That or they’ve taken advantage of your absence and ventured to the nearest tavern to drink themselves silly.”
“There’s plenty of wine and ale here if they’re so inclined.”
He shrugged. “Gone to visit family, then.”
“Mrs Friswell has a sister in Bisley. But Blent wouldn’t leave the hounds.”
Blent had left the dogs. His cottage sat in darkness. Finlay banged and hammered on the door but received no reply. A quick scan of the kennels confirmed the animals were accounted for. Blent couldn’t have gone far.
Perhaps Mrs Friswell was in the woods, chanting curses and conjuring spells, summoning the ghosts of her ancestors.
With a powerful barge of the shoulder, Finlay forced the cottage door. “Blent will have to fix the frame upon his return. It will serve him right for abandoning his post.”
They entered the house, though Finlay had to duck to clear the low lintel. The rooms were clean and uncluttered. Finlay found a tinderbox and lit the lamp, then examined the array of leather-bound books on the shelf.
“If Blent sold these, he would make a tidy sum,” Finlay said, running his finger over the gilt lettering on the spine of Wieland’s Oberon. Indeed, a further inspection of Blent’s rooms revealed other expensive items.
“This chessboard and table must be worth something, too.” Sophia stood before a brass inlaid rosewood table, a quality piece that could grace any peer’s home.
“Does the card table belong to you?” It was hardly furniture suitable for a gardener’s cottage.
“No. Blent asked if he might bring sentimental items from home when his mother died. It must be his table. As is the chessboard.”
Finlay picked up the white knight. “This is turned ivory, a rather exquisite piece.” The mahogany chess box bore a brass plate engraved with the name Fredrick Blent. “Blent is certainly a man of untold secrets.”