The Lady in the Tower
By
Karen Hawkins
& Holly Crawford
Chapter 1
October 12, 1815
London
“Thank goodness you’ve arrived.” Jane Doherty, Baroness Kilkenny, reached through the open door and pulled her guest inside.
Catherine Breckinridge, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, lifted a blond brow. “Answering your own door? What’s amiss?” Her Grace was Russian by birth, a fact that showed not only in her light accent, but also in her choice of bold colors. Not for her the pastels of the current season, but the rich colors of her native Russia.
“Jennings is ill, so I–”
A hacking cough sounded behind them. Jane turned to see her butler standing in the foyer. “Jennings, I told you to remain in bed.”
“But, my lady, I couldn’t leave you to answer your own door.”
“Nonsense! I opened the door and her grace came in. Easy as could be. Now go back to bed.”
The duchess smiled as she removed her gloves. “I’d do as she says. Being a patient of your mistress’s, I can vouch she is quite stubborn.”
“So I am. Off to bed with you, Jennings, and take another dose of the tincture I gave you last night.”
He sighed deeply, which set off another round of coughing. Unable to speak, he managed a bow as he coughed his way downstairs.
“Poor man,” Catherine observed. “How serious is his ailment?”
“It’s curable if he’ll stay in bed, which I am determined he will do.” Jane shook her head. “Quite a busy morning. All of London seems to have caught the ague.”
“Except you. You never catch the ailments you treat.” Amusement lit blue eyes darker than Jane’s own. In a certain light, they might be mistaken for sisters, but Catherine’s blond hair was much lighter than Jane’s straw-color.
“Father always claimed I had the health of a farm horse. It helps when one’s physicking.” She was so blessed to be able to help those in need. Her father, Sir Reginald, had taught her most of the valuable lessons he’d learned over the years, including some of his apothecary skills. Granted, because of the restrictions placed on females, she’d never be allowed to fully pursue a career in medicine, but that didn’t stop her from practicing wherever and whenever she could. Indeed, she enjoyed a far better than average rate of success.
And yet, of all the people she’d helped over the last few years, she hadn’t been able to save her own husband, Albert. It had been eight months since his passing, and guilt still dug at her with spiked spurs. He’d been a very kind man and despite his straight-laced commitment to convention, and their repeated disagreements about her “place” in society, they’d been very fond of each other.
When he’d grown ill, she’d wracked her brain and her books for a cure, but all for naught. While she worked, often falling asleep digging through her father’s books and journals, Albert’s family had secretly called in another physician, Sir Richard Thornton. She’d been furious at her in-laws’ lack of faith, especially when Thornton had done nothing more than examine Albert a mere half an hour before declaring his situation hopeless. The news seemed to have sped Albert to his death that much faster, despite everything she tried.
So much for Richard Thornton’s physicking. Now, months later, she could admit that perhaps Albert’s situation had been nearly hopeless. But Thornton’s manner—abrupt, arrogant, taciturn, and completely dismissive of her thoughts and suggestions—had not helped matters. If she ever saw the man again she’d probably wallop him with her medical bag. Fortunately for them both, that was highly unlikely. Since Albert’s death, she’d made her way tending to those in need, not those who could pay the most. Thornton, meanwhile, had gone on to become one of the leading physicians of the ton, no doubt raking in hundreds, if not thousands of pounds, all with that same arrogance.
The thought of it rankled and Jane had to force herself to stop thinking about it as she took the duchess’s coat and hung it on the rack. “The others have arrived. Kat’s in a bit of an upset.”
“I take it the consult did not go well?” Catherine looked concerned for their friend, Katelyn Worthington, the Dowager Countess Tyndale.
“No.” Jane glanced at the open doors of the drawing room before she leaned in to whisper, “Apparently her client believed sitting for a portrait meant he should be naked.”
The duchess raised her brows. “Was he at least a fine specimen?”
“From what Kat has said, only if you find a rotund belly and foul breath attractive.”
“Why is it always the fat ones who wish to be naked?”
Jane smiled, but said, “I fear it was more than that; he also thought he could take certain liberties.”
All amusement fled the duchess’s face. “The nerve! I shall see him ostracized.” As she was both a duchess and the widow of a former diplomat, Catherine had the clout to do it, too.
“It seems we’ve all had a somewhat difficult week. Fortunately—” Her Grace removed something from her reticule. “I brought something to distract us.” She drew out a small bundle of black silk. Opening the folds of cloth, she displayed a deck of cards.
Jane frowned. “I don’t see how a card game will—”
“Not a game. A reading! They are tarot cards. Oh, don’t look like that! It will be fun. After what we’ve all been through, we could use some fun.”
Jane could not disagree. The Widows’ Club, as she liked to call it, had become a collection of close friends, all of whom had suffered a loss—some admittedly greater than others—over the past year. “It can’t hurt.”
“Exactly. And who knows what the cards will reveal?” Catherine smiled mysteriously.
Jane just shook her head and led the way into the drawing room where flame-haired Kat stalked back and forth before the hearth. Kat could be more mercurial than a feline, and that passion made her the artist she was, yet she was just as quick to laughter as she was to anger. Of the four of them, only she had a child, her daughter Lilly. In some ways, Lilly was Kat writ in miniature with the same red-gold hair, and green eyes. But where Katelyn could be a hurricane, Lilly was the calm eye to her storm. Even now, while her mother paced the room, Lilly quietly played with her dolls.
Next to her on the floor, her skirts gracefully pooled about her, sat Josephine Whitfield, the last of their group and the youngest. Fair complected, with soot-black hair, and sherry-brown eyes, Josephine had slim lines and a gamine face that belied an innate grace. The most recently widowed, Jo had suffered perhaps the greatest loss among them, having lost both her husband and her father to Napoleon’s ambitions. Yet, of them all, Jane believed Jo had the greatest resilience.
Today, however . . . Jane’s gaze narrowed as she looked at her friend. Something was bothering Jo. It showed in the way she kept sliding glances Jane’s way only to look away when their gazes met. I shall have to get to the bottom of that mystery.
Kat stopped in front Jane and the duchess. “Did you hear?”
Her Grace moved to the younger woman and put an arm about her shoulders. The duchess stood the tallest, slender still and handsome, despite her thirty-four years. “It shall be remedied, Katelyn. This Lord—what’s his name?”
“Hammond. Hammond the Hound I’ve heard he’s called.”
“Ha!” Jo scorned. “That’s an insult to hounds everywhere.”
Catherine’s mouth quirked. “Indeed. I shall see it taken care of, milachka.”
The fact that she’d slipped into Russian indicated her earnestness. Jane noted that her friend rarely mentioned her Russian background; indeed, it seemed whenever anything Slavic came up, the duchess’s health often declined. Jane
had no idea why, nor had her friend been forthcoming. Today, however, she seemed in fine spirits.
“He was quite angry when I rebuffed him.” Katelyn’s eyes flashed. “What if he goes to my mother-in-law with some made up story? Amelia would love any opportunity . . .” Brows drawn, Kat paused by Lilly and ran a hand lightly over her daughter’s curls.
The duchess nodded. “Have no fear. I will take care of it all and when I’m done, no one will believe his lies. But in the meantime, I brought something for our meeting.”
At this Lilly’s interest sparked. “For me, too? Is it a sweet?”
“Not a sweet, lapochka. This is for the adults.” She moved to where a settee stood between two chairs, took a seat, then removed the cards from the black silk. “These tarot cards aren’t as old as the ones from my grandmother, but they’ll suffice.”
Jo and Kat sat across from her. Kat picked up a card from the deck, scanning it with her artist’s eye. “The illustration looks Flemish.” She offered Lilly a look as the child moved to sit on her lap.
“How do these work?” Jane sat next to Catherine. “What do they do?”
“They tell your fortune of course.”
At this, all three of them exchanged a look. The duchess noticed and laughed. “I know the tea leaves and crystals were something of a disappointment, but I promise you, these cards are special.”
Jo picked up a card, her eyes wide at the illustration. “’The Devil’? Well, I’ll admit that’s a bit more exciting than tea leaves!”
“That card doesn’t mean what you think.” Catherine took the card and replaced it on the stack.
“What’s this, Mummy?” Lilly held up a card that featured a naked couple entwined.
“Oh dear!” Face red, Kat snatched the card away and tucked it under the deck. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“I hadn’t thought of Lilly being here.” The duchess bit her lip. After a moment, she gave a decisive nod and then carefully, almost reverently, wrapped the cards back in the silk. “I shall send you each a card.”
Jo frowned. “I thought we had to pick one ourselves?”
“The deck can choose, too.” The duchess looked at them each in turn, her smile as mysterious as ever. “Then you will see. All of you.”
Jane and Kat exchanged a humorous glance, but agreed. Catherine added so much to their little gatherings and besides, they had nothing to lose. It was all silliness and nothing more.
Slipping back into her role as hostess, Jane pulled the teapot closer and filled the waiting cups before turning to Jo. “You seem quiet today. Is anything wrong?”
Kat’s and Catherine’s gazes locked on Jo, who grimaced. “I should have known you could tell.”
“What’s wrong, Jo?” Jane asked.
The younger woman sighed. “You would find out soon enough, and I thought I should at least warn you.” She dug in her reticule to pull out a paper clipping. “It’s from this morning’s paper.”
Jane’s jaw tightened. “Not again.”
Jo nodded.
Stomach knotted, Jane took the clipping. It had been cut from the scandal sheets. Bold typeset claimed WICKED WIDOW STRIKES AGAIN:
A certain wicked blond baroness is up to her old tricks! She was found just three days past undressing a gentleman right in the center of the fabulous Burnham Hotel! Even reclusive owner J. Highbridge was shocked by the brazen actions. Is there no limit to what this shameless hussy dares? One shudders to think what she might have done if Other Parties had not been present . . .
Disgusted, Jane thrust the paper back. “Do you want to hear my version of what happened?”
“We don’t need to,” Catherine said instantly.
Kat nodded. “You would never do anything scandalous unless it was to save a life.”
Jo crumpled the paper into a tight ball. “There! Now it’s rubbish only good for kindling. I wondered if I should even bring it, but I thought it best you know. Oh, I wish we knew who wrote this tripe, for I’d like to see them strung up.”
“And quartered,” Catherine added. “Slowly.”
Kat’s eyes gleamed. “I’d like to chop off their fingers with a really large sword so they could never again write such foolishness!”
Jane laughed. “Thank you, but no violence please. Besides, it’s not as if my patients will be bothered by such.”
“They are all so very glad you were nearby to help them,” Jo said.
Kat reached across the table to squeeze Jane’s hand. “As are we.”
Feeling much better, Jane smiled. “Thank you. Now, let’s forget this foolishness and have some tea.
Chapter 2
Jane put down her pen and sighed, looking over the outline she’d written for her next article. After her father’s death, she’d managed to convince the Royal Society of Physicians that he’d left pages and pages of notes that only she could decipher due to his horrible handwriting. As her father was highly regarded, the doddering old fools who ran the Society had accepted her story and had allowed her to present the “findings” at certain meetings.
The papers were all hers, of course, and as it had been more than a year since her father had died, she was quite certain the ruling board was very much aware of her authorship. So long as she didn’t demand credit, however, they seemed content to allow her to continue. A paltry victory, since it wasn’t in her own name, yet she couldn’t help but feel proud, especially when other physicians used her findings in their own work.
Smiling to her herself, she moved to stand, an envelope falling to her feet. It was a simple fold of cream-colored vellum with a red stamp of wax carrying the duchess’s distinctive seal. Although it had been delivered yesterday, Jane had been too busy to open it. She picked up the envelope now, detecting the faint outline of a card within. Ah yes, the tarot card. Such silliness, but then that was mystical, romantic Catherine.
Of course, Jane didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t quantify in some way, an occupational hazard from the surgical training she’d received from her father. Still, she couldn’t help but be a little curious. She retrieved a letter opener, then slid the flat blade under the seal. The red wax cracked. She started to open the envelope, but caught sight of the clock. Catherine was coming for tea. For some reason, Jane put the note back on the desk. She’d look at the card when she had some time to examine it. She wasn’t sure why, but the tarot seemed personal—like a secret not to be shared.
There was a quiet knock and then Jennings pushed the tea trolley into the room. The butler was still a bit red-nosed, though his cough was gone as he poured her a cup of steaming tea. “Mrs. Simms says that as it’s so cold, she made your special brew.”
“Lovely. The duchess will enjoy it when she arrives.” Jane took a sip of the tea, smiling as a hint of brandy warmed her. “Please tell Mrs. Simms it’s perfect.”
“Very good, my lady. And may I again say thank you? That tincture you gave me was just the thing.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll check your lungs again by week’s end to make sure they’re clear.”
“Thank you, my lady. I—”
The unmistakable jangle of the bell filled the air and Jennings bowed and left.
A moment later, he returned, but he wasn’t escorting Catherine as Jane expected. “Pardon me, my lady, but a note arrived from the dowager duchess.”
Jane took the note from the tray and opened it. Jane, I’m unwell. Come when you can? –C.
“Jennings, please hail a cab. The duchess is ill.”
“Yes, my lady.” He bowed and hurried into the foyer, Jane following. While he hailed a cab, she secured her medical satchel and donned her pelisse against the October chill. Moments later, she met the hackney on the pavement outside. The smell of autumn leaves and wood smoke filled the air.
“Where to, ma’am?” the cabbie asked as he handed her up.
“St. James Square.” The cab lurched as the cabbie took his perch, and Jane clutched at the open window, fightin
g the inevitable vertigo that often plagued her in vehicles. She hated closed conveyances of any kind, but by taking deep breaths, she was able to reduce the nausea caused by the rocking ride.
When the hackney finally drew to a halt, she threw open the door and climbed down before the cabbie could assist her. She pressed the necessary coin into his hand and then, gathering her satchel, ran up the stairs to the duchess’s fashionable townhouse. The door opened before her foot touched the top stair.
“Thank goodness you’ve come!” The butler, Higgins, cast her a harried gaze, his gray hair wisping about his head like a frenzied halo. “Her Grace is ill, and I’m about to go to war with Mrs. Ballard.”
Mrs. Ballard was Catherine’s housekeeper. “Whatever for?”
“Because while I was sending Her Grace’s note to you, that harridan called for another physician!”
Jane sighed. “Is he already here?”
“Yes, my lady, and I can tell Her Grace isn’t happy about it and neither am I! I told Mrs. Ballard not to call for another—”
“Higgins, please, you’ll have an apoplexy. Take a slow breath.” Once he complied, Jane turned to immediate business. “Where is Her Grace?”
“The morning room.” Higgins hurried to open the doors for her.
“Catherine, whatever is—” Jane froze.
The duchess lay upon a chaise, looking pale. Standing beside her, measuring her pulse, was the very last man Jane had ever expected or wanted to see.
Sir Richard Thornton once again loomed over someone she cared about.
“Get away from her,” Jane demanded. “She’s my patient!”
Thornton lifted sea-blue eyes to hers. A black brow, a shade lighter than his ebon hair, lifted. “Hmm. One does not own a patient. We merely borrow their time.” He stood tall and broad shouldered, a fashionable silver-tipped cane clasped by one hand.
Jane’s hands tightened into fists.
“Mrs. Ballard sent for Sir Richard without my knowledge,” Catherine said, looking up at the physician. “But I must credit the good doctor with his speedy response to my housekeeper’s rather histrionic summons.”
The Lady in the Tower Page 1