“I know,” Sophie said. “And I’m no longer a child, either. I will protect my family at all costs. If they’re able to find Tristan and bring him home, you must tell him where I’ve gone. He’ll come to my aid.”
“And if Garrett wakes?”
“When Garrett wakes, tell him where I have gone. But promise me you won’t let him out of this bed until he’s well enough to do so, understand?”
Aunt Bertrice nodded in agreement, but her expression was terrified.
“There’s much to be done, Aunt, and if I am to have any chance of intercepting them before they reach Scotland, I must hurry. Will you help me?”
“Yes, Sophie. Though I suspect Garrett will shoot me himself once he learns I encouraged this madness.”
“I have no doubt of your ability to protect yourself against him,” Sophie said dryly. Then she dropped her gaze to the gun still resting in her hands. “I’ll see you in the drawing room.”
As Aunt Bertrice left the room, Sophie’s lady’s maid arrived. “Traveling clothes, Delia. Quickly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sophie rose and entered the wardrobe, slipping the pistol in a deep pocket of her heaviest wool cloak.
Delia was always efficient, but seemed to understand the haste and had Sophie dressed and her hair up in a quarter of the time it normally took, even with the additional time required to use powder to mask the colorful bruises blooming across her throat. As soon as the last pin was in her hair, Sophie sent the maid to pack the necessities for the journey. She rose from the dressing table and walked into the bedroom to kiss Garrett’s cold cheek. Anger swept under her skin, and the need for vengeance burned in her blood. She wouldn’t let William Fisk get away with this. She couldn’t.
Sophie gently placed her hand on Garrett’s broad chest as he took a struggling, raspy breath. Fisk was responsible for Garrett’s illness. She knew it as certainly as she knew her own role in this disaster.
Sophie wouldn’t let the man harm her family and walk away with the prize. Better Becky remain a spinster in disgrace than be shackled for life to a man like William Fisk.
“I’ll be back with Becky, Garrett,” she whispered. Sliding her hand under the blanket, she laced her fingers with his damp ones and squeezed. “And you will be angry with me for doing such a foolhardy thing on my own.”
In a way, she was glad he was unconscious. If he were awake, he’d never allow her to leave the house. Nevertheless, every bone in her body wanted to stay by his side, to nurse him through whatever had overcome him. But Miranda and Aunt Bertrice could do that. She needed to find the man who was responsible. Her eyes stinging, she left him and went to the drawing room.
A footman came in first, and Sophie sent him to fetch Dr. Adams, the learned physician Tristan trusted with all their ailments. If anyone could, he’d be the one to accurately diagnose Garrett. She sent another footman to summon Robert Jennings, the man whose address Tristan had written on his note to call on in case of an emergency. Then she gave the chambermaids and scullery maids the duty of searching Fisk’s bedchamber and bringing to her anything that looked the least bit suspicious. Sophie tasked two stable boys to leave on horseback to find Tristan and bring him home as quickly as possible. She sent a boy to fetch Connor, who was not due back at the house until noon today. Another boy ran off to fetch Tom, the burly groomsman, who was supposed to have the morning off. Miss Dalworthy was ordered to rouse the children and to send Miranda down once she’d had her breakfast.
Though it tasted like paste, Sophie diligently forced down the toast, eggs, and coffee offered to her on a tray.
Tom was the first to arrive. “Your Grace?”
“Good morning, Tom. Please ready our traveling carriage. We will be leaving London in precisely one hour. Bring…” She took a moment to consider, then decided on the youngest, smallest boys on staff. They were brothers, orphans of a family from Garrett’s lands in the north, and she knew them well enough to know that despite their youth, they were accomplished hunters experienced with firearms. “We shall bring Pip and Sam Johnson with us. All three of you must prepare to be gone for several days. Understand?”
Unruffled, Tom bowed again. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good. Come fetch me in one hour’s time.”
When Tom left, Aunt Bertrice turned to her. “You cannot leave London in the company of three men, Sophie. Whether they’re your trusted servants or not, you will have need of a companion.”
“I need the men for protection and to alternate driving the team. Another body will slow our travel.”
Aunt Bertrice’s blue eyes turned as hard and cold as steel, reminding Sophie of Garrett at his most uncompromising. “No. I will not allow it. Enough scandal has been brought down on this family, and I won’t tolerate any more. What if someone glimpses you leaving London alone? The scandal wouldn’t die for years. No, Sophie. If you choose this route, then I withdraw my support.”
Sophie heaved a sigh. “Very well, then, I shall take Delia. And we’ll leave Sam Johnson.”
By opting to leave Sam, the elder of the Johnson boys, she was essentially valuing her reputation over her safety. Foolish, a voice within her said. But by the look in Aunt Bertrice’s eyes, she wouldn’t budge. And she had the feeling that if she had refused, Bertrice would wake Garrett, and no matter how ill he was, he’d prevent her from leaving. She rubbed her fingertips over her temples. Pain still sliced through her skull, unrelenting. A soft knock on the door heralded the entrance of Dr. Adams, a balding, reed-thin man with a polite, caring manner. Sophie and Aunt Bertrice led him to the bedchamber, and he quickly assessed Garrett, taking his pulse, feeling his skin, and checking his eyes. Garrett didn’t wake—he hardly even moved, and Sophie watched in silence, chewing her lip as her heart thumped nervously. As soon as he finished taking Garrett’s vital signs, Dr. Adams turned back to Sophie and said, “Your Grace, I have seen this several times before. I believe it is a clear-cut case of opium poisoning.”
“Will he live?” Aunt Bertrice asked bluntly.
“Yes—I have little doubt of that. His pupils are contracted to points but they respond to light, and he appears to have a strong constitution. Though his pulse is rapid, it is quite strong.”
“Is the poisoning due to the laudanum the other doctor gave?” Sophie asked.
“How much was he given, madam?”
Sophie turned to Aunt Bertrice. “Looked like nearly an ounce,” the older woman said.
“Not enough for this strong a reaction, my lady, at least not for a man of his size. And you said he was dazed and lethargic prior to being given the laudanum?”
“Yes indeed, sir. First he was quite insensible and experiencing rather fantastical spectral illusions, which of course we attributed to his madness.”
“His madness?”
“Yes,” Sophie said. “He’s experienced similar episodes, and the other doctor said his symptoms were proof he is degenerating into madness.”
“You say he experienced the exact same symptoms then?”
“Nearly,” said Aunt Bertrice. “This time he descended into apathy much more rapidly. And he stayed awake rather longer, though he went to sleep shortly after taking the laudanum. He’s been in and out of a conscious state all night.”
“And when he wakes?”
“His eyes pop open as if he’s been awake all the time and just teasing us. Then he mutters nonsense and drops off to sleep equally abruptly.”
“Yes, as I said, a clear-cut case.” Dr. Adams frowned. “What is the name of the other doctor?”
“Dr. MacAllister,” Sophie said.
Dr. Adams shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him. And I’m rather well connected in London’s medical community, Your Grace.”
“Nonetheless, the duke was convinced his diagnosis of oncoming madness was correct.”
“I doubt that, madam. His symptoms are classic for opium poisoning and I’d be hardpressed to diagnose anything else, least of all impendin
g insanity.”
Sophie closed her eyes. “Thank God.”
The doctor rolled up his sleeves. “I shall require several buckets of cold water, please. And two sturdy men. I must rouse him.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows. Garrett already seemed cold, so throwing cold water on him sounded rather brutal. “Is that necessary?”
“Yes. I must awaken him to assess his state of mind and level of intoxication.”
“Of course, doctor. I’ll send everything you require.”
With the doctor looking on, she only had the opportunity to squeeze Garrett lightly on the shoulder before she left the room, nodding to Aunt Bertrice to follow her. When they were just outside the door, she murmured, “Be certain he doesn’t rouse Garrett before I leave. And keep my departure from Garrett for as long as possible, whether he is lucid or not. I shall let you be the one to judge whether he is well enough to follow me.”
Aunt Bertrice nodded, and Sophie led her to Fisk’s room. The room was in disarray—glass still strewn across the carpet, and the neat piles of paper now scattered over the escritoire as if a strong wind had blown them askew. Some of them had fluttered to the floor. The previously locked drawer was halfway open and empty. As she quickly skimmed the remaining documents—all of which appeared legitimate—Sophie described the suspicious receipts to Aunt Bertrice and explained her theory that Fisk hadn’t been paying debts as Garrett intended, but rather using Garrett’s payments to fatten his own purse. Aunt Bertrice listened in silence, nodding every so often to show her understanding.
“If Tristan’s friend Mr. Jennings arrives after I leave, you must tell him everything, Aunt,”
Sophie instructed. “He will be discreet, and I am certain he will help us. The first order of business must be to have that murderous blackguard Dr. MacAllister arrested.”
“I understand, Sophie.” Aunt Bertrice was still pale, but Sophie trusted she’d be all right once she had a chance to take a breath. The woman had always been strong as steel. A gasp came from the direction of the closet, where a scullery maid was searching for evidence on hands and knees. Sophie and Aunt Bertrice hurried to see what was the matter. The girl rose. “Oh, mum, forgive me, but I do believe I may’ve found something!”
“What is it?”
The girl held out her hand. Sitting on the red, callused palm was a small, stoppered bottle. Sophie took it and read the label out loud. “Pure grains of opium, of the finest and most potent quality, imported from the Orient.” The bottle was empty. She looked from Aunt Bertrice’s blue eyes, dilated with shock, to the girl’s earth-colored ones.
“Thank you. Please continue searching. I won’t be here, but bring anything you might find to Lady Bertrice.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“It was Mr. Fisk all along,” Aunt Bertrice breathed. “The despicable man was poisoning Garrett.” She gestured at the strewn documents. “And misleading us all.”
“Yes,” murmured Sophie. It explained the open decanter of brandy on the escritoire shelf
—Fisk had mixed the opium with the brandy before offering it to Garrett. Relief swept through her like sweet wine, leaving her breathless and weak-kneed. This was final proof that Garrett wasn’t going mad. That he would be all right.
“Mama?”
Sophie turned to see Miranda rounding the corner from the staircase. The child’s eyes widened when she saw the room’s disarray. Sophie held out her hand to her daughter.
“Come, Miranda. I need to speak with you about something very important.”
“Yes, Mama.”
When they reached the drawing room, Sophie settled on one of the palm-print sofas and patted the cushion beside her. “Come, dearest.”
Miranda obeyed, but her blue eyes were wary. Though Sophie had instructed Miss Dalworthy to stay quiet about the goings-on, Sophie wasn’t surprised Miranda had felt the energy pulsing through the household.
“I’ll be going on a short journey.” When Miranda didn’t say anything, she added, “I will be gone for a few days. You will remain under Aunt Bertrice’s and Miss Dalworthy’s care while I am gone.”
“What about Papa?” Miranda asked.
“Your papa isn’t feeling well, Miranda. I wish I didn’t have to leave him, but I do. I’m glad you’ll be here, though, because I know I can trust you will be beside him in my stead.”
Miranda nodded gravely. “Is Papa so very ill?”
“No,” Sophie said softly. “In fact, he is less sick than he believes.” She reached forward and took her daughter’s small hands in her own.
Big blue eyes studied her solemnly. “Will he recover?”
“Absolutely.”
Miranda sighed in relief, then frowned. “Mama, is it true that Papa has gone mad?”
Sophie froze, then forced words through tight lips. “Where did you hear that, darling?”
Miranda paled, and her small hands fisted in her lap. “Oh. I promised I would not say.”
“Was it Mr. Fisk?”
Tears formed in the little girl’s eyes as she gazed down at the tight balls of her hands. “I—I promised.”
Aunt Bertrice’s sharp voice came from behind them. “Your mother’s wishes supersede any and all promises you ever make, child.”
Sophie asked again. “Miranda, darling, who told you your father has gone mad?”
“It was Mr. Fisk,” Miranda said breathlessly. “He told me and Gary a few days ago when we were waiting outside for Miss Dalworthy to fetch her umbrella. He said he had a secret to tell us but we must promise never to repeat it to anyone. He said Papa was going mad and we might never see him again. But he said he’d make sure we were taken care of.” She looked up at Sophie with shining eyes. “Is it true? I don’t want to lose my papa. Not again.”
“It is not true,” Sophie said firmly. “Your papa is ill right now, but he is perfectly sane. Mr. Fisk is a terrible man, and he lied to you, Miranda.”
“Oh.” Miranda’s blue eyes flooded with relief. “Oh, thank goodness.”
“Now, will you take care of your father for me while I am gone?”
“Yes, Mama, of course I will. But—” She broke off, frowning again.
“What is it, dearest?”
“Will I go to hell for lying to Mr. Fisk? I promised him I wouldn’t tell a soul. I promised.”
“Don’t be daft,” Aunt Bertrice snapped. “The Lord understands. And you see, you being honest with your mother helped you learn the truth about your papa, when you were so worried about him. Aren’t you happy to know the truth?”
“Yes,” Miranda said softly.
Sophie kissed her daughter’s hand. “It was right and good for you to tell me, Miranda. And it was very bad for Mr. Fisk to force you to make him such a promise to begin with.”
Miranda nodded. “Thank you, Mama.”
“And if anyone ever accuses your father of being mad, you will defend him vigorously, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mama.” Miranda straightened. “I will defend him to my very last breath.”
“Good. Now give me a hug, dearest. I’ll miss you.”
As she drew her daughter into her arms, she saw Tom waiting at the threshold. He was ready.
It was time to go.
Chapter Nineteen
Tristan was tired. He was covered in mud, and his horse was nearly dead with exhaustion. He came to a stop in front of the Duke of Calton’s Mayfair home in the late afternoon, and when nobody ran out to greet him or take his horse, tension rippled through him. He simply left the horse, who was too spent to move, and strode to the front door and opened it.“Hullo?” he called, stepping through the entry hall.
Mrs. Krum emerged from the doorway leading to the service hall. When she saw him, a relieved smile spread across her round face. “Oh, Lord Westcliff. Thank the Lord. I knew you’d come, I just knew it.”
“What is it? What’s happened?”
She frowned. “You don’t know? The men didn’t find you?”
“What men? Where’s Her Grace?”
Mrs. Krum shook her head. “Lady Bertrice is in the drawing room with Lady Miranda and Master Gary.”
Tristan was already on his way, and Mrs. Krum didn’t try to stop him. He called back to the housekeeper to have someone look after his horse, then he took the stairs two at a time.
“Papa!” Gary screamed when he burst through the door. The boy flew into his arms, and he knelt to gather him close, looking over his shoulder at Aunt Bertrice.
“Tristan,” the old woman said, her eyes glowing. “Good Lord, you’re filthy, but I’m so glad you’re home.”
“What the hell has happened?” he gasped.
She shook her head, looking pointedly at Miranda, who sat beside her. “Children, leave us now. Gary, I must speak with your papa. Miranda, please take him to the nursery.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Miranda hopped off her chair and approached them. She looked up at him with her big blue eyes. “Thank you for coming home to us, sir.” Then she took Gary by the hand and tugged him away. His son seemed happy enough to follow, dancing along behind her, jabbering about how very dirty his papa was and wasn’t it simply wonderful that he’d finally come home?
Home, Tristan thought. Would this place ever be home to him again?
“Sit down, Tristan,” said Aunt Bertrice. “And do take off your gloves and hat. I’ll order you some food.”
“Where’s Sophie?”
Aunt Bertrice waved her hand. “First things first, boy. Something has happened, but I don’t want you back on a horse until you’ve had some rest. You look like something’s dragged you through the pits of Hades.”
Tristan yanked off his gloves. “Please tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with William Fisk.”
“Oh, it does,” Aunt Bertrice said softly. “Unfortunately, it has everything to do with him.”
Tristan stared at her, trying to control his temper. “Tell. Me,” he said from between gritted teeth.
“Rebecca has eloped with Mr. Fisk. Sophie has gone after them.”
What little air he’d been holding escaped from his lungs. “Alone?”
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