Chapter Thirty-Three

The countess and Trent left Dulcie’s sickroom and retired to Agina’s chambers.

“The chit manages to hold onto a fragile thread, milady,” Trent commented. “She hasn’t asked for tea for several days and drinks only plain water. And she hasn’t tossed up her accounts, either, since I checked her chamber pot. Perhaps, if she can still sit up, we should add a larger dose of sugar and order the tea tray, make sure she swallows the tea in front of us. Her twenty-first birthday is approaching the deadline. We can only hope she expires soon.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, Trent,” the countess said, pinching her bottom lip between a thumb and index finger, a habit of hers when she was scheming. “Best we put our heads together, or we will be in the suds if she is still alive and breathing on the twenty-third of November.”

* * * *

Griff was allowed to enter his physician’s inner sanctum. A weary Henry Johnson looked as if a cat had dragged the man into his office by the scruff of his neck. He slowly waved Griff into a straight-backed chair. He then pulled a decanter of brandy and two glasses toward him. Nodding at the second glass on the tray, Griff accepted the offer from the red-eyed physician. The two men saluted one another and swallowed.

“Well, now,” the physician said, his brows lifting to his forehead. “Are you feeling all right? Should I be of additional help?”

Griff’s smile was thin-lipped, but he replied, “No, I’m fine, thanks to you, sir. But you look as though you haven’t slept a wink in a week. More casualties?”

“I’m afraid so, my boy. Wellington’s march through France is escalating. I quell at the number of lives lost as well as the count of wounded coming into the hospital daily. I pray to God this carnage will soon end…for all of us. I look forward to a more intelligent world in the days ahead.”

“I daresay. I won’t be in that maelstrom of madness again,” Griff said. “I’ve done my duty.”

The physician saluted him again, drained his glass, and poured himself another.

“Give yourself time to heal completely before you do anything strenuous. I can still hear you wheezing. Do you get enough air into your lungs?”

“Yes, of course. But Dr. Johnson, that’s not the reason I came here. I need your help.”

“Oh?”

“And your advice.”

“Go ahead, then. Tell me what is bothering you.”

“I think my fiancée is dying because of…breeding.”

“What?”

“You recall I told you what happened the night we were dosed with that love potion. I was led to believe that she is…er…now with child.”

He didn’t mention that he and Dulcie made love a second time without the potion.

“Well, it happens to the best of you randy rakes.” Dr. Johnson smiled, his expression, showing his fatigue. He allowed the brandy to slide down his throat. “But why do you think she is dying? Women birth babies all the time, young man. I’m sure she will be fine.”

Griff went on to describe Dulcie’s condition. The physician’s expression grew more concerned. “You are harboring suspicions?”

“Yes. I think someone—well, I believe her stepmother is dosing her again. With what, I cannot guess. Dulcie is not burning with lust. She is barely conscious. I wasn’t able to get through to her at all. Dr. Johnson, I beg you to make the trip to Surrey with me today. I’ll pay whatever fee you ask. Believe it or not, while I lay in that hospital bed, I realized I’m deeply in love with her. I don’t want to…I can’t lose her.”

“Hmm? You think it is Countess Eberley who is the culprit? That would be a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

“I’m telling you in confidence, Doctor, because I don’t know where else to turn to save Dulcie’s life…and my child’s. Agina Trayhern is determined to grab Dulcie’s inheritance, and I believe she will do anything…anything…to gain her entire measure of wealth. If Dulcie marries before reaching her majority, she splits the inheritance with her stepmother, which is substantial. If not, after that, Dulcie inherits most of it, and the countess gets a yearly pension instead.”

Griff leaned forward on the seat of the wooden chair, elbows on his knees. “I was hoping, but…well, never mind. Dulcie and I agreed when I left for the Peninsula that our betrothal was a sham, falsifying it so that the countess wouldn’t force her to marry someone else while I was away. I explained my suspicions to her, but I’m afraid Dulcie is a bit of a babe in the woods about the countess and her sly machinations.”

The doctor listened intently.

“The countess probably read the daily casualty list hoping my death notice showed up. That would have dissolved our engagement, and since Countess Eberley is Dulcie’s guardian, she could again force the girl to wed quickly. When I showed up unexpectedly on Bonne Vista’s doorstep yesterday, I thought the countess would be glad to see me since I was in time for the wedding. Instead, she accused me of being the cause of Dulcie’s failing health and ordered me out of the manor.”

“That does seem odd,” Dr. Johnson commented, finishing his second brandy.

“I cannot put my finger on it, but I know something awful is going on there, Doctor. I’m afraid that Dulcie won’t live to see her birth date. While at Rand Titus’s, I asked him to query people in the Home Office. He learned things about the countess’s background of which neither of us were aware. The woman covered up her common birth and perhaps, other things. I also suspect she may have been the cause of the Earl of Eberley’s early demise.”

“My God, if what you suspect is true…”

Griff frowned. “I have no way to prove it or have her punished for it.”

The physician abruptly pulled his silver pocket watch from his waistcoat. “It’s a long trip to Surrey, though not a rugged one as I recall. Do you have enough stamina to ride a horse for thirty miles?”

“I have a fresh mount waiting outside.”

“Then let me get my bag, and we’ll go. I don’t like one bit of what you have been telling me.”

* * * *

Dulcie felt a tiny bit better today. She ought to call a housemaid. She slowly reached up above her for the bellpull, but the effort was so great, she slumped back onto the mattress. She inhaled and looked around the dimly lit bedchamber. The stale, stultifying odor she breathed in hung heavy in a room that had been closed up far too long. She wished someone would open a window and let in fresher air. It was difficult to take a deep breath. A constant, annoying headache throbbed across her forehead and temples. The area behind her eyes stung, so she shut them again. When she did, a set of pictures appeared in her mind’s eye.

Ah, yes. She had imagined she saw Griff, even heard his voice. When was that? She wondered. What day is it now? Has my birthday come and gone? Oh, when am I going to feel better? I feel so logy, so weak, and lackadaisical…

And she dropped back to sleep.

Two housemaids tiptoed into Dulcie’s room. The taller of the maids carried a tray with a cup and a steaming pot of tea. The other maid brought a beaker of warm water and a washcloth. The housekeeper warned the servant girls more than once that the countess ordered the tea drunk, no matter what, by Lady Dulcina.

When the girl rattled the tray, resting it on the bedside table, Dulcie’s eyes blinked open again. “G’day, milady,” both girls chorused.

“I’ve brought warm water to bathe your face, milady,” the short maid said. “You just lie there quiet, and I’ll do it for you.”

Dulcie attempted a smile as the girl wet the rag, leaned over, and gently wiped her lady’s eyes, brow, and cheeks.

“You’ll see, milady, ’twill make you feel better,” she promised.

“T-thank you,” Dulcie replied, releasing an audible sigh.

The other maid tidied Dulcie’s bedclothes.

“Well, now,” the taller maid said. “Let us help you sit up, milady. A cup or two of hot tea will brighten your day and give you strength.”

“Oh, no,” Dulcie replied. “Nothing t-to d-drink. I cannot k-keep anything down.”

“But you must, milady. We have orders from the countess. You must finish the pot.”

“Oohhh, no, please. I c-can’t swallow.” She turned away from them when they attempted to sit her up.

The two maids looked at each other, worried. The maids were partial to the countess’s exotic tea, but they were allowed to finish it only if anything was left in the pot. For the past two days, the teapot was left untouched, and both of them had savored the warm tea, stirring one teaspoonful each of the sugar from Lady Dulcina’s special sugar bowl.

“P-please,” Dulcie turned back to them. “C-could you open a window?”

“But, milady, ‘tis November!”

“Just a l-little way. Please. ‘Tis so stuffy in here.”

The tall maid threw up the sash. The cool, wintry breeze fluttered the curtains.

“Ahhh,” Dulcie breathed. “Drink the tea for me. The c-countess will n-never know,” she told them, “unless you tell her.”

Having gotten their mistress’s permission, one maid poured herself a cup, adding sugar liberally with their mistress’s permission. They babbled to Dulcie about the wintery weather and other meaningless chatter while Dulcie drew in fresh air to ease her lungs. The cup changed hands several times until the pot was all but empty.

“Best we shut the window now, milady. Wouldn’t want you to get a chill,” the smaller maid admonished kindly. “Is there anything else we can do for ye?”

“No. I believe I w-will sleep a bit longer.”

“We’ll be back at the noon hour, milady. Rest easy.”

But neither of the maids returned. An hour later, both of them became violently ill and had to be put to bed.