The duchess moaned softly, clearly beset with pain. She turned her face into the pillow as though hoping to muffle the sound.
Birchwood tensed beside him. “I can’t lose her. I won’t survive that. Now that our sons are gone, she’s all I have.” He faced Constantine while nodding toward the bed, toward Nora. “You brought her here.”
Constantine sighed and nodded. “I did.” A fact he was coming to regret.
“She has to heal her. She must.”
“I know she will try.”
The old man seized his hand in a surprisingly strong, crushing grip. “Not good enough, lad. You see it done.” His eyes were red with emotion. “See. It. Done.”
Nora left the duchess’s bedside only once and that was to collect her bag and all the ingredients she needed to prepare remedies for the afflicted lady. She had the maids erect a work table for her in the duchess’s chamber. Nora was prepared to try anything that might work. She had several options in mind.
None, however, seemed to work.
That was her conclusion the following day when the duchess still moaned and writhed in agony in her bed, no relief achieved.
Oh, Nora’s lavender rosemary ointment and salt lemon tincture gave some ease, but only for a short time. She knew her remedies treated the symptoms. She still did not know what afflicted the duchess, only that her aches seemed to go bone deep. The older woman was able to indicate that her shoulders and arms bore the brunt of her pain. Without properly understanding what plagued her, Nora feared she could never cure her.
She was poring over one of Papa’s books she had brought from home when the door to the chamber opened. The duke marched in the room without casting her a glance, leading a tall, impeccably attired gentleman. They walked a direct line to the bed.
The stranger settled the bag he carried upon the edge of the bed beside the duchess. He pressed a hand to her brow and clucked his tongue sympathetically. “How are you feeling, Your Grace? Not quite yourself, I hear?”
The duchess opened her eyes. She seemed to stare at the man with a decided lack of focus. Eventually, she let out a huff of discomfort and rolled over onto her side.
Opening his bag, the man started digging inside it. It took all her will not to step forward and demand his identity and purpose. He lifted a vial and poured some of the liquid into a spoon.
At that point, she could not stop herself. She took several steps forward. “What is that?”
The man looked over his shoulder and regarded her with an arrogant expression. “’Tis laudanum. It will relax her.”
She frowned. Apparently the man was a doctor. A doctor the Duke of Birchwood did not see fit to introduce to her. She shifted on her feet, suddenly uncomfortable in her own skin.
She cringed as she watched him pour a very generous dose of laudanum for the duchess.
Unlike many physicians, Papa had not been a devotee of the medicine. He found that patients became too dependent on opiates and he had believed them to be altering to mind and body. He’d used them only in the most extreme of circumstance and she had never seen him administer such a substantial dose to anyone.
She bit her lip, frowning down at the duchess. Whatever the duchess’s condition, it appeared to be chronic. She could very easily become dependent on the drug for relief for her recurring pain. In that event, she would not even be herself anymore. She would just be a shell of a person craving her next dose.
She stretched out a hand. “Wait. I do not think—”
“That will be all, Miss Langley,” the duke’s voice whipped across the air. “Your services are no longer needed here.” She flinched. He had never spoken to her in such a way. The man fairly sneered the word services. And his eyes . . .
He looked at her as though she were something to be scraped from the bottom of his boot. It was cutting . . . and an effective reminder of where she ranked here, in this place, among these people—of just how little value she held.
Just beyond the duke, the doctor slipped a hand beneath the duchess’s neck and lifted her head so that she could drink the medicine.
Her shoulders slumped. It was done then.
“Now,” the doctor proclaimed and he resumed rummaging through his bag. “Let’s fetch a bowl so that we may bleed her.” He cast a quick glance around, his gaze alighting on a maid lurking nearby. He nodded to her. “A bowl and some additional linens, please.”
“No! No bloodletting.” She lunged to grasp his arm. “She is too weak for that.”
The doctor looked down at her hand with wide eyes and a faintly curling upper lip. “Your Grace? Who is this . . . person and why is she touching me?”
Person was a kind substitution for what he really thought. She knew that at once from the way he looked her up and down.
“No one. She is no one.” The duke sent a pointed look to her hand. “Release Sir Anthony at once, Miss Langley, and leave this room.”
She is no one. His words reverberated like a tolling clang in her head. Here, in this place, she was no one. All she would ever be to these people was no one.
She slid her hand from the man’s arm, feeling a bit stunned at the duke’s rudeness.
“Your Grace,” a deep voice intoned. “Have a care.”
Nora twisted around to find the source. Her gaze landed on Sinclair. She had not noticed his arrival in the chamber, but, of course, he was here. He was the duke’s shadow, acclimated to his new role, never far away. Except his usual stoic demeanor was gone. He looked quietly furious.
“I beg your pardon?” Birchwood sputtered.
“Miss Langley is my guest. Have a care how you address her.”
Nora looked back and forth between the two men, sensing an exchange passing between them, a dialogue she could not understand.
“Your guest?”
“Yes.” The single word fell dark and heavy, and something physically came over the duke’s body. The older man settled back on his heels, his shoulders easing, sinking as he stared wide-eyed at Sinclair.
“Come now,” Sinclair said gently beside her, turning away from Birchwood. “Let’s take some air. You’ve been cooped up in this room long enough. You must be overly tired.”
She looked helplessly at the wan duchess in the middle of the bed, reluctant to leave her. Her face was drawn tight in pain. Her head rolled side to side on the pillow, her lips muttering nonsensical words. At least she was unaware of what was going on around her. She was spared their squabbling.
He settled his hand on her elbow and tugged her away until she let go of the doctor. She nodded numbly and let herself be led from the room.
Of course, it was time to leave the chamber. Just as it was time to leave this place—this house, this city.
She had not succeeded. She had not accomplished the one thing she was supposed to do here.
“You did your best.”
She slipped her arm free of Sinclair and looked up at him. “You don’t believe that. You did not think I could help her in the first place.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know that anyone can help her.” He nodded back toward the chamber. “He has attended her several times and he hasn’t cured her yet. Perhaps no one can.”
And yet Nora had been so confidant. Arrogant even. Her disappointment was keen. She crossed her arms across her chest. “Since I am no longer needed here, I’ll leave on the morrow.”
He blinked. “What?”
“It is clear my purpose here is at an end.” She swallowed, regretting the tightness in her voice. She did not want him to think she was hurt. She did not want his pity.
For a moment he appeared astonished, quietly staring at her. Then, he said, “You needn’t rush away. The duchess quite enjoys your company.”
“I am not a hired companion, Mr. Sinclair.”
Of course, that was how they viewed her, how she best fit in here. As a glorified servant. One step above the downstairs staff, but not one of them. Never one of them.
She did not know why
that bothered her so much. She had not given much thought to rank before. Perhaps it was the fact that she was so obviously not in the same class as Mr. Sinclair. That he was far removed from her. That they were not equal in the eyes of Society.
“I am certain I am missed at home.” Perhaps. But likely not. Her sisters were both caught up in their own happy lives. “I can be of use there.”
He looked at her almost in wonder. “That’s important to you.”
“What is?”
“Being useful.”
She shrugged and then nodded. “Is that so extraordinary?”
He released a rough little laugh. “Yes. It is. You are an extraordinary female, Miss Langley.”
She exhaled, trying not to reveal how very flattered she felt. She ought not to feel that way. On the surface, extraordinary seemed an impressive jump from being characterized as a no one, but she suspected it still was not what proper young girls aspired to be.
Extraordinary could be translated as odd, eccentric. All things she had been called, and each time they had not been intended as compliments.
“I apologize for not helping the duchess. I was arrogant in thinking I—”
“No.” He shook his head. “You did all you could—”
“No. I promised you I could help her. I failed.” She would not allow him to brush aside her duty—the duty she herself had chosen. She had insisted on it, in fact. “If you want to renege on our arrangement, I understand.”
“Arrangement?” He looked befuddled.
“I proved myself ineffectual.” She clenched her jaw. It was difficult to admit that. Especially when she still considered herself better and more skilled than the doctor administering to the duchess right now, using his antiquated methods to treat her. “It is only right that you reveal my deception to all and sundry.”
He exhaled and dragged a hand through his dark hair. “I was wrong to threaten you with that.”
“No. You were doing what you thought right. Protecting people.”
Protecting people from me.
Before he could open his mouth and say something kind that was probably untrue and motivated only by pity, she added, “I think you’re quite right. I am very tired. I think I shall go rest a spell. Good day to you, Mr. Sinclair.”
That said, she spun and departed, mindful not to look back.
Chapter 17
As Nora suspected, Bea was quite disappointed to learn they would be departing for home.
“We have not been here nearly long enough,” she protested, getting in Nora’s way and being generally unhelpful as Nora went ahead and started packing since Bea seemed disinclined.
A pair of servants had returned all her things from the duchess’s chamber. A clear sign that felt like a slap. She was clearly expected to leave the lady alone.
“I have been here too long, I think.”
“What of the duchess?” Bea’s eyes snapped with accusation. “I thought you were going to help her?”
Nora felt her failure keenly. She’d been overly confidant. “I tried. I tried and failed.”
“Nonsense. You only tried for a day. You cannot have exhausted every option.”
Shaking her head, Nora moved to her dressing table and peered inside her bag. The servants had returned it to her, after they had ostensibly tossed everything inside it with little regard. And why should they treat her with politeness or hold her in regard when their master of the house so obviously did not?
She caught a whiff of various herbs and knew something had either broken or spilled inside the bag.
Sighing, she set to work organizing it as it had been before, ignoring Bea who continued to argue the merits of staying at Birchwood House.
Nora grabbed a linen cloth and attempted to wipe up the ointment that had spilled in the bottom. Tears burned her eyes for some unaccountable reason. She blinked them back and told herself to stop such nonsense. There was no reason to be emotional.
Her hand brushed a vial that was on its side, tucked in the corner of the bag where it had rolled. She pulled it out to identify it and stilled, staring down at it in her hand.
She sucked in a little breath. She’d forgotten it was in there. She did not remember packing it. She would not have done so. She must have grabbed it when she was taking items from her cabinet, where she stored it with so many of her tonics and salves.
Marian thought she had destroyed it. Nora had done nothing to correct that misapprehension.
Marian had advised her to do so, insisted, in fact . . . even knowing Nora could simply replicate it and make a fresh batch. She claimed she would feel safer in the house if the tonic did not exist, if it was not sitting somewhere on one of Nora’s shelves. As though it was a keg of gunpowder that could erupt and explode accidentally.
Nora had not, however, destroyed it. Of course not.
She’d kept the original mixture, feeling almost loyal to it. It was the reason Charlotte and Kingston came together. At least initially.
She studied the little bronze bottle, turning it over in her hand, well aware of the power that was inside it.
She had promised Marian she would never use it again.
“Miss Nora? Are you listening to me?”
“Hm?” Apparently Bea had been talking to her.
Nora shook her head. No, she had not heard a word the girl had said. She could only stare at the small vial and consider it for what it was. Charlotte had been her unwitting test subject.
Bea approached and peered at what she held in her hand. “What is that?”
“Something I concocted over a year ago for Charlotte . . . to ease the pains of her menses.”
Bea perked up. “Indeed. Does it work?”
“It eased her monthly pains, yes,” she admitted, stifling a wince. Indeed, it had eliminated Char’s monthly aches, but it replaced them with aches of another fashion.
“Might it help the duchess?” Bea looked at her hopefully, her eyes wide with inquiry.
She angled her head contemplatively. “It’s much too . . . untested. Charlotte is the only one who tried it.” Nora would want to know more about the duchess’s condition before she dosed her with the elixir. It would be too risky otherwise.
Bea reached for it. “You want me to try—”
“No!” Nora snapped her hand shut into a fist and tucked her arm behind her. “No, thank you.” The last thing she needed was Bea lost to the throes of desire and accosting some poor unaware footman.
“You needn’t shout,” Bea grumbled, moving away. “I’m only saying, if you have something that mitigates pain, then why are you keeping it from the duchess? Hasn’t she been through enough? Poor woman. She is in great pain.”
Nora uncurled her fingers and brought her hand back around to look down and examine the tiny bronze vial resting so innocently in her palm. Why not indeed?
The brew did, in fact, numb pain with no adverse consequences. She thought about that for a moment and mentally amended. No long-standing adverse consequences. It just happened to have one pesky side effect. A pesky potential side effect, she again amended. That was an important distinction. Who knew how the elixir would interact with another person? Everyone differed in their individual body composition.
What were the odds that Nora’s tonic would overcome the duchess’s good sense and modesty and turn her into . . .
Nora couldn’t even finish the thought. It was so ludicrous. The proper and dignified sixty-year-old lady would not lose her decorum and become mad with lust. It was impossible to envision such a thing.
Charlotte had been modest and prudent. Nora ignored the reminder, her mind continuing down a path of rationalization.
Could it really affect the duchess in such an extreme manner?
Perhaps if Nora reduced the dosage and started with a small fraction of what she administered to Charlotte?
Perhaps . . .
No. She gave a single swift shake of her head. Marian would tell her it was reckless and irresponsible. She
could almost hear her sister’s voice in her ears.
Nora resumed exploring all her various remedies. Remedies that never turned anyone into a lust-afflicted beast.
She vowed not to think on it again. It was much too risky for the duchess.
Besides. She was done here. Soon she’d be back in Brambledon. Back to her life, her routines. It was doubtful she’d ever step foot in this city again. Warrington certainly was not compelled to visit Town.
She’d be gone and it would be the last she ever saw of Sinclair. She ignored the small pang in her chest that prompted. Perhaps he’d reveal her deception. Perhaps not.
Whatever the situation, she would finish packing and be on her way.
Despite all intentions, Nora could not stop thinking about that tiny bronze vial. All her things were packed, ready for departure on the morrow, but sleep was elusive.
She finally gave up. Flinging back the counterpane, she hopped from bed and snatched her night rail where it rested at the foot of the bed. Wrapping herself in it and tightening the belt at her waist, she crept out into the corridor.
Nora stopped before Sinclair’s door and shifted uneasily on her feet. She lifted her hand to knock and then hesitated, pulling back. She bit her lip in contemplation.
She knew it was unseemly to visit him in his bedchamber, but considering it had to do with the well-being of the duchess, she thought decorum could be set aside for a much-needed discussion with Sinclair.
She came here for one reason, after all. She might very well have a way to help the duchess. The lady was in acute pain. Even with possible side effects, it was only fair that she present the treatment option to Sinclair. A conversation was justified. More than justified. It was necessary.
Her original purpose in coming here had been forgotten or at least pushed aside since her arrival. Not through any manner of neglect. The duchess had simply been in good health, seemingly so, and Nora had allowed herself to become complacent. She’d allowed her head to be turned by an afternoon jaunt with a handsome man.
Her holiday was over.
The Duke Effect EPB Page 13