The Dastardly Miss Lizzie

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The Dastardly Miss Lizzie Page 10

by Viola Carr


  The king giggled, gleefully banging his train into his cake plate. The nurse ran to the rescue, wiping up cream and retrieving broken china.

  “Sorry to hear that, ma’am.” Eliza kept her expression grim, but inside she brightened. If her medication was working even a little, that was progress.

  “This alienist is a lunatic,” whispered Victoria, out of the Philosopher’s earshot. Suddenly she looked ten years older, a sister fearful for her brother’s welfare—or his life. “I humor him for my late mother’s sake, but . . . can’t you do something? It’s Bertie’s birthday this week and he must appear at the banquet. And the Foreign Secretary is outside. I don’t want that reptile to see my brother like this.” She glared at the sweating stick-insect fellow, and raised her voice. “Dr. Savage here seems to regard His Majesty as a species of wild beast to be tamed.”

  Dr. Savage—a physician, then, not a surgeon or apothecary—gave a rotten-toothed smile and took a tin of evil-looking green snuff from his box. “Just the ticket for this type of mania, ma’am.” He applied the snuff to the king’s nose. The child sneezed violently half a dozen times and began to hiccup and weep, his nose turning purple.

  Crestfallen, Savage squinted at the king through his magnifier. “The acid seems to have stung Your Majesty’s eyes. How unexpected.” From his bag he took a pair of sharp-edged steel handcuffs chained to a spiked collar. “Here we are, sir. We’ll soon have you cured.”

  The Regent made a moue of disgust. “Savage, your interpretation of the term ‘natural philosophy’ makes one shudder. I ought to have reasoned her late Majesty’s favorite would be an idiot.”

  “But restraint, Sir Isaac. That’s what’s required.” Savage rattled the horrid cuffs. “It’s the only treatment for these feeble-minded recalcitrants, when the strongest drugs don’t work.”

  Politely, Eliza cleared her throat. “Forgive my presumption, sir, but perhaps Dr. Savage is confusing His Majesty’s state with violent mania. I’ve found that if the heavier narcotics are left off, in cases of sullen dementia the patient eventually awakens into a state of calm, whereupon more specific treatments can be attempted without any restraints at all.”

  Savage scowled. Not at her, oh no. Heaven forbid he should inadvertently acknowledge she existed. “In inferior institutions such as Bethlem Hospital, Sir Isaac, the most wretched medieval quackery was perpetrated by so-called doctors in the guise of honest medicine. We can only be grateful that antediluvian relic burned to the ground.”

  She smiled sharply. “Did you ever actually visit Bethlem, Dr. Savage? If you’d bothered, you’d know that Mr. Fairfax was a fine surgeon and his treatments—”

  “If your honor would allow me,” cut in Savage loudly, “to transport His Majesty to my new state-of-the-art facility, where we can chain him securely and commence regular beatings.”

  Sir Isaac’s eyes flashed stormy warning. “That will be all, Savage.”

  “But we must whip him, sir! Flog him! Release those troublesome choleric humors! It’s the only way—”

  “Out, fool.” The Regent’s voice sliced like a guillotine blade through fog. “Before I lose my temper and turn that whip on you.”

  Savage lost no time in grabbing his bag and marching for the door. “Mark my words, Doctor,” he muttered as he passed. “Leave that one unchained and you’ll regret it.”

  Eliza checked a sigh. Surely professionals ought to be able to co-consult without jealous sniping? Had she unwittingly made another enemy?

  But she shivered, too, recalling her nightmare, the manacles, that horrid tube. She hadn’t liked the look of Savage’s treatments. When you finally drive me mad, Lizzie, let’s hope we don’t end up in Savage’s “facility.”

  Princess Victoria gave a satisfied humph. “What a perfect idiot. On that, Regent, at least we can agree.”

  “Such a pity your opinion troubles me none.” Pointedly, Sir Isaac referred to some letters on the desk. “Proceed, Dr. Jekyll. I do have other appointments.”

  Eliza knelt by the king’s side, setting down her bag. The music box finished its melody and began again, slower. “Your Majesty?” She stroked back his fair hair. A pleasant young face, if slack. “Sir, how are you feeling?”

  He just stared dully, without recognition.

  She made swift mental notes, needles stabbing into her back as Sir Isaac watched her with hawkish interest while he pretended to read. Low fever. Eyes glassy, pupils dilated. Pallor exaggerated. Saliva clear. “What’s he eaten today?”

  The nurse curtseyed again. “Cake, ma’am. I couldn’t get the porridge down.”

  The clockwork music box wound down, its final chord fading. “Try again, if you please,” said Eliza. “He won’t improve if he doesn’t eat . . . I say, whatever’s the matter?”

  The king clawed at his face, wheezing for breath. “Murder!” His eyes gleamed like poisoned darts, no longer vacant but afire. “Murder! They’re trying to kill me. Run for your lives!”

  Princess Victoria ran to wind up the music box. Crink! Crank! The melody started again. The boy was weeping now, rocking back and forth, blood oozing from scratched cheeks. “There, Bertie,” soothed Victoria, “it’s playing again now. He really does like his Mozart.”

  As always, his condition twanged loose wires in Eliza’s memory. Sometimes a docile child, taking his supper and playing his little mandolin for hours on end. On other occasions, his rage lapsed into cunning, and he tore the wings from flies and twisted the fat Palace cat’s tail until it yowled. Yet others, he rolled wet eyes at her with what she could only describe as a thoroughly lascivious grin.

  Not unlike the polar states of another unstable fellow of her acquaintance. Almost a transcendental identity.

  Sympathy tugged at her heart. He ought to be out playing polo, hunting, flirting with heiresses, all the things titled young gentlemen did. Not languishing here, trapped in his own mind, playing with a train set while others carried on his kingdom’s business without him.

  Her courage quailed. She’d never treated the king in the Philosopher’s presence before. Was her dangerous choice of remedies justified? She hoped so, for the king’s sake—and for her own.

  From her bag, she took a glass phial. Inside, the medicine she’d developed—with Mr. Finch’s assistance, naturally—bubbled and sang, a thick grassy color. Its bitter smell drifted, reminiscent of her elixir, and inside her, Lizzie thrashed like a trapped serpent. This wasn’t the elixir itself. Merely some of the same ingredients. Lux ex tenebris: to make light from darkness. Scientific heresy, of course, but she’d judged it worth the risk. A patient like Bertie had forbidden corridors in his mind, locked rooms he couldn’t open. If she could encourage those locks to break . . .

  Ha! yelled Lizzie in her head, a bright shock. I’ll break you, my pretty Eliza. Dissolve you, like Eddie did Henry. Transparent like god-rotted glass. See how you like it!

  The liquid splashed over Eliza’s hand, icy and burning.

  Victoria eyed the bottle, abruptly suspicious. “What’s that?”

  “Similar to last week, ma’am. A tonic I’ve developed.” Casually, she wiped away the spillage.

  “Ah.” A glimmer of interest. “What exactly does it do?”

  “It should calm his jittery nerves, and encourage him to, er, communicate more lucidly. I’ve had some success with it with similar patients in institutions—”

  “Madhouses, you mean.” Victoria’s mouth set hard. “My brother is not a lunatic, Dr. Jekyll.”

  “Of course not—”

  “And I won’t have it put about that he is. Do you hear me?”

  “I assure you, ma’am, I keep the strictest patient confidentiality—”

  “You doctors are all the same. Think you know everything.” Victoria worked herself into a rage, skirts swirling as she paced. “You’re not the first quack to attend on His Majesty’s affliction, and I promise you shan’t be the last.”

  Nothing to do but keep her eyes down. But the word quack stu
ng Eliza’s skin like an angry wasp. A moment ago the princess had practically begged her for help. How had she disappointed? Numbly, she waited for Victoria to dismiss her for good. So much for her opportunity to shine.

  “Give me that.” Victoria swiped the phial from Eliza’s fist. “I’ll have it tested by my own reputable physicians before he drinks a single drop. Think you can feed my brother whatever snake oil takes your fancy? I shan’t allow it!”

  Sir Isaac stepped deliberately into Victoria’s path, oozing lean menace. “I’ll decide what we shall and shan’t allow, ma’am. I have studied such things. You have not. Dr. Jekyll’s medicinals are of the finest efficacious quality.”

  Eliza felt faint. Was he being sarcastic? Playing with her, a sleek gray cat batting about its favorite timid mouse? A guilty mouse who could summon no legal defense. A mouse who, if he chose, was as good as dead.

  Victoria’s face suffused. “I am a princess of this realm, sir, and you are a farmer’s son. Dare you presume—”

  “Must we go over this again?” Sir Isaac’s rain-gray eyes threatened murder. “I am Regent. The king is in my charge. Dr. Jekyll has my full confidence, and you are an irrelevance standing in my way.” He beckoned sharply. “Now hand that over, if you please.”

  Victoria fumed, outraged—but with ill grace, she thrust out the phial.

  He snatched it, cut her a razor-sharp smile, and turned away. At his feet, King Edward nodded and drooled, silent once more.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this.” Victoria flung open the double doors and stalked out into the main audience chamber. Unseen deferential murmurs from the petitioners—your royal highness, princess, ma’am—rippled down the hall and faded into the distance.

  Eliza waited, sick and shuddering.

  The Philosopher held Eliza’s phial to the light. Inside, the tell-tale green liquid bubbled and hummed. “Ah,” he said lightly, “the famous medication. My curiosity knows no bounds.”

  Surely the stuff reeked of alchemy. Sir Isaac would tire of his games, dismiss her in disgrace. Worse, summon his Enforcers to drag her to the Tower, where a dank electrified cell awaited her, complete with rusted electrodes and agony. She might never be released. Day after day, locked up without elixir, enduring Lizzie’s writhings and screamings to be free. And when she could endure the turmoil no longer . . .

  He popped the cork, and sniffed. Frowned. Sniffed again. “Egad,” he remarked dryly, “how peculiar. What’s in it?”

  She smiled weakly. “Numerous ingredients. I hardly know. As I say, I’ve had success with small doses in the more tractable lun— Er, patients at Bethlem.”

  “Extraordinary. One would almost say transcendental?” He tipped a drop onto his thumb. Rubbed it. Touched it to the tip of his tongue.

  She nearly retched. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Don’t insult me, Dr. Jekyll. I’ve been preparing aqua vitae for a century or more. I know alchemy when I see it.” A cold smile stretched his lips. “My, my. A shame if your unorthodox dabblings should offend me somehow. If the king’s condition should improve too drastically, for instance. Do you understand?”

  Her stomach knotted, cold slimy terror. So that was it. The Philosopher didn’t want the king cured. He wanted him kept useless and pliable. Under control.

  What part was she expected to play in this charade? Poison the king, keep him witless and drooling?

  Or just . . . do nothing? Primum non nocere, said the ancient physicians’ creed. First, do no harm. But how could she justify withholding treatment when she knew it helped? Didn’t it?

  Thump! The doors flew open, and Hipp barreled in and hurled himself eagerly at her skirts. She stumbled to her knees against the gilded red sofa. Footsteps slipped over the carpet, a sudden forest of legs. “Hipp, for heaven’s sake—”

  “Foreign Secretary,” said Sir Isaac blandly, and in a twinkling hid her incriminating phial behind his back. “Good of you to come, my lord.”

  Hurriedly, Eliza gathered Hipp in, glancing up with trepidation at the Secretary and his entourage—into sparkling eyes of clear electric blue.

  Remy Lafayette winked at her, his scarlet-and-gold cavalry officer’s coat dazzling as ever. It only made his chestnut hair glisten harder, if that were even possible, and his eyes glow deeper.

  She couldn’t smother her delighted grin. She’d imagined from his letter that he wasn’t returning for weeks. Just like him to want to surprise her.

  Languidly, the Foreign Secretary—namely the 1st Earl of Beaconsfield—sat. Dark and sardonic with a neat goatee, a green coat, and striped yellow trousers. Fastidiously, he crossed his legs, arranging himself to best advantage, draping one hand over a glittering diamond-headed cane. “Regent. Good of you to see me.” His tone was dry, as if he didn’t mean it in the slightest and didn’t care who knew.

  Eliza—still kneeling on the floor—couldn’t help a curious stare. With Parliament dissolved on the old queen’s assassination, and the general election halfway done, the papers said this vain, provocative little man would be the next Prime Minister. A career politician, and raised from the Commons to boot, his title newly minted by the late, besotted queen. Doubly disturbing to the establishment.

  That reptile, Princess Victoria had called him. Certainly his eyes were narrow and heavy-lidded, his thin mouth perennially mocking. Not a man to be trusted.

  But she couldn’t concentrate on that now. Not with Remy’s gaze on her, coaxing away her every glimmer of attention. Was it only that she’d missed him, or did he look even more unreasonably spectacular than usual?

  “—your man here informs me the Paris sorcerers are deploying mesmerism and mind control to suppress their unruly citizens,” Lord Beaconsfield was saying in his exaggeratedly bored drawl. “Mind control. I mean, really. Their Committee of Public Safety have gone certifiably insane.” He fluttered a limp hand. “And apparently the incumbent set of lunatics are about to be stabbed in the back by an even more rot-brained outfit, who want nothing less than outright anarchy. Com-mo-tion, sir. Pure chaos. It’s 1794 all over again.”

  The Regent smiled sharply. “Heaven forbid. This group Liberté du Sang—”

  “La Belle et la Bête, their two leaders call themselves. Beauty and the Beast. Villains from an overwrought Italian opera, if you ask me. ‘Liberty of blood,’ indeed. What does that even mean?” Beaconsfield sniffed, dabbing his nose with a scarlet handkerchief. “Shapeshifters, Sir Isaac. It’s insufferable. One almost wishes that half-wit Louis Philippe back again. At least he knew the value of an honest war.”

  The king crawled under the Regent’s chair, and absently Sir Isaac stroked his hair, shushing him as one might a nervous puppy. “And the meeting with our envoys?”

  Behind the Foreign Secretary, Remy cleared his throat. “All arranged, sir. Security is in hand. La Bête is a coward, but I think he might be persuaded.”

  Beaconsfield arched his manicured eyebrows at the Regent. “Good fellow, your Lafayette. When he does as he’s told, which isn’t often. Supposed to be spying on them, my boy, not joining their ranks.”

  Remy didn’t flicker. “Only way to gain their trust, my lord.”

  “I’m sure,” said the Regent dryly. “And what of their agitators in London?”

  Beaconsfield sniffed. “Damned radicals. This government of ours may indeed be an organized hypocrisy, but at least it is organized. I hear they want women’s suffrage and no income tax. Democracy,” he declared with a delicate shudder, “is a perfect drain on parliamentary resources. What an abject bore.”

  Newton yawned. “His Majesty will receive your reports, I suppose?”

  “Naturally.” Beaconsfield admired the sparkling diamond-studded unicorn atop his cane. “Lafayette, be a darling, do. Just remember you’re writing for royalty. They live to be flattered, my boy. Make ’em think they’re the smartest person in the room. None of your damned regimental straightforwardness.”

  Remy bowed. “I’ll lay it on with a trowel
, my lord.”

  “Good man.” The earl waved languidly. “Off you go, leave the adults to talk. We’ll discuss your other matter later. At the Carlton, of course. Proper Tory stronghold. One can’t use the privy at Whitehall these days without spies bursting in.”

  Eliza rose, taking up her bag. “Regent, may I also be excused?”

  The Foreign Secretary stared archly at her interjection. Perhaps he’d imagined her a servant. But Sir Isaac winked conspiratorially at her—a disconcerting experience—and placed her phial on the desk. “Be on your way, Doctor. I’ll administer this curious medicinal as per your instructions. What were your instructions, precisely?”

  She forced a smile. “A drachm now, and another before supper, sir.”

  “Bated breath, I’m sure. Good day.”

  “I say,” drawled Beaconsfield, “young madam, are you a physician? Is that allowed?” His heavy-lidded eyes were lazy on her face, but interest smoldered, too, as if she’d offered him some delicacy that watered his mocking mouth.

  As if he’d imagined a tantalizing use for her, and intended on putting his plan into practice without delay. This man was no foppish idiot. Far from it.

  Flustered, she curtseyed to the king and hurried out, Hipp galloping at her side. She pushed through the crush of grandees and civil servants, searching for Remy. “Oh, there you are—”

  “And there you are.” He flashed that ridiculously brilliant smile. “Hello, Dr. Jekyll. Did you miss me?”

  She laughed, drinking in the sight of him. Irrational, how her pulse fluttered. Most unscientific. For once, she didn’t mind. “I might have noticed you were gone. Dare I hope Paris has improved your manners?”

  “Glad to disappoint.” He tucked his hands behind his back, and bent closer to whisper. “Imagine I’m kissing you.”

  “Oh?” She inhaled, closing her eyes. “Hmm. I see.”

  “Yes. And again, you fascinating woman. Do you feel it? You can barely breathe. It’s perfectly scandalous. You’re practically fainting in my arms.”

 

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