The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “But you yourself have not been to see her, if I understand correctly Your Grace?” Francis sat forward a bit, reaching forward for a pastry. It is as if the stars are aligning for me.

  “To my shame I have not.” The Duchess began to fan herself, sitting back from the tea setting. She had hardly eaten anything at all, if indeed any crumb had even passed her lips. “There is something I find, well, unsettling, about the whole of it.”

  “It is an unusual situation, to be sure.” Francis nodded as if he were deep in contemplation. “However, Your Grace, I believe your son was right to bring her into his safety. She was badly injured, and I do not know if the city infirmaries would have seen her to a full recovery.”

  “Why is that, Doctor?” the Duchess squinted at him over the sun streaming in through the great east windows.

  “She suffered many broken ribs.” Francis began to explain. Now I must plant the seed. “If one of her ribs should have punctured... well, anything internal, then harmful humors begin to infect areas of the body that they should not be in.” Francis knew that the Duchess had no knowledge of medical science, and he hoped that she would forget most of what he told her in a short amount of time.

  “This will give cause to a horrible, internal infection.” Francis went on. “And even I would be powerless to stop it's work.” Francis could see that the Duchess looked horrified.

  “But she is well, our patient?” the Duchess insisted, suddenly rattled by the medical discussion.

  “Well, I should see to that, Your Grace, you yourself have said that you have not seen her. He pushed his chair out and reached down for the black medical bag.

  “Oh my.” The Duchess took in a breath. “How cruel a host am I?”

  “Not at all, Your Grace.” Francis began to make his way towards the hallway. It is I who is the cruelest of guests.

  His feet were heavier now than they had ever been as Daniel showed him to Miss Benson's room. Once more he passed the overbearing painting of St. Sebastian. The martyr hung against the Roman pillar, bound by thick cord, pierced by a torrent of arrows, and still his eyes bore down into Francis's soul.

  Francis had never been a religious man. Of course, he had been raised in conjunction with the church, just as near everyone else of his status in the country. Yet, as he grew older and tasted sin, he fell away from the teachings of the Bible. It all seemed a bit much for him, and being a man of science, he eventually put zero stock in it.

  Yet, trudging down the hall towards the confrontation, he could no longer pretend was not going to happen; he felt the unrelenting stare of St. Sebastian, judging him from his death sentence.

  “Here we are, doctor.” Daniel said, reaching the door. He knocked twice and called, “Miss Benson? The doctor is here.

  * * *

  “Send him in.” Leah responded. She pulled herself up a bit more in the bed, bracing against the pillows. She had found that in the confines of the small space, one of her greatest joys had become answering send him in, or, enter. It feels good to have your own space.

  “Good morning, Miss Benson.” Dr. Fowler said as he came through the door. Leah knew immediately that something was wrong with him; his face looked like it belonged to a man that hadn't slept in a week.

  “Good morning to you, Doctor.” she said, looking him up and down. “Are you sure I'm the one that needs attention?”

  “Quite right.” He took the stool beside the bed. “I fear I look something awful.”

  “That is a polite way of saying things.” Leah smiled at the doctor. He looked worried and troubled. It was a look she knew all too well, and it was a face she normally hadn't seen on those living in the upper classes.

  “Enough about me and my inability to sleep soundly.” Dr. Fowler waved his hand as if he were shooing a fly aside. “How are you faring, or at the far least, how do you feel?”

  “I am turning mad in this room, Doctor.” Leah sighed. “I cannot live like this any longer.”

  “Well, I shall be the judge of that, hmm?” Dr. Fowler leaned forward and clicked open his medical bag. Looking down into it he could see his display of tools neatly arranged.

  “My ribs still hurt, but much less.” Leah said hopefully. “And I feel my ankle is fine enough again.”

  “Then we shall start with the ankle.” Dr. Fowler said. Turning to avoid her face, he began to examine her previously-injured ankle.

  After confirming that her ankle had in fact healed remarkably well – much to Leah's delight – Dr. Fowler set to checking her ribs with a delicate hammer.

  She studied him closely; there was an uneasiness within him that leaked out like some sort ooze. She could feel it, dripping down onto her, and she could see its nature. He is hiding something, something that has to do with me.

  “It is impressive.” Dr. Fowler concluded, sitting back on the stool. She could see that he was sweating a fair amount – more than would be naturally occurring on this late summer day. “Your body has healed at an accelerated rate, it seems.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Accelerated?” Leah squinted at him. He is sure enough in a hurry.

  “Well, your ribs will require another week or two to regain full functionality.” he went on. Leah watched his face and saw him slip between tracks of thought. One was medical, and one was causing him intense anxiety. What are you hiding, Doctor?

  “But I can begin to walk about?” Leah pressed.

  “Slowly, mind you.” Dr. Fowler said sternly. “It won't do to have you trip and fall, upsetting all our progress now, would it?”

  “No.” Leah smiled wide, which seemed to confuse the good doctor a fair amount. “It wouldn't do at all.”

  “In any case.” Dr. Fowler returned to his anxious state, leaning down towards his medical bag. “I have prepared a solvent for you.”

  “A solvent?” Leah blinked.

  “Something to ease the pain when you first try to stand. It should be taken now.”

  Leah saw him pull a tiny vial with a yellow, crystalline substance within. The cork topper was as big as her pinky nail. Oh, Doctor Fowler, Leah lamented within. You have gone and made the largest mistake. She now knew the cause for his anxiety.

  “Wait for perhaps an hour. Afterwards, you should feel free to walk about the grounds. With proper supervision and guidance, of course. You cannot afford to fall.”

  Leah watched him uncork the vial and pour its contents into a small spoon which was on a bedside table. She then watched him drop the vial back into his bag. He reached out to hand her the spoon.

  “Dr. Fowler?” Leah asked, taking the small spoon from his hand.

  “Yes, Miss Benson?” He looked at her, but she could tell he was truly looking at the spoon in her hand.

  “Would you take one more look at my ankle, before I walk, that is, you see I fear falling down as you have described, and I wish to be completely sure I can trust my legs to carry me.”

  “Well, I suppose.” She could see the gears clicking around behind his eyes. He turned towards the foot of the bed, moving his gaze slowly away from the spoon and towards her foot, which they both knew has fully healed.

  As he bent down towards her ankle, Leah snapped into action. Her foot jumped up, striking him square in the nose. Before he could utter a cry or fall backwards, Leah's legs wrapped around his neck and forced him onto the bed. She sat fully upright over him, holding his head in place with a leg lock as blood began to stream out from his broken nose.

  “Doctor Fowler.” she said in a patronizing tone. “You are a dishonest man.” Leah held the spoon of yellow substance over his face, and with her one free hand she pinched open his mouth by squeezing his cheeks.

  “Please!” he grunted as best he could, although she knew that he was trapped in her iron embrace.

  “Why are you trying to kill me, Doctor?” Leah put a deep inflection of sympathy in her voice, or was it sarcasm? She was in complete control of the situation; he could not breath and she held a spoonf
ul of what she could only assume was lethal poison over his mouth.

  “Please!” He gasped for air.

  “What have you got for me, Doctor?” Leah taunted. She knew that nobody could hear them, for many times she had called out for help with moving about the room to no avail. It seemed the only way to reach anyone in this house was to pull the servant's bell rope, and Leah was giving it a wide berth.

  “I can’t–” His face was beginning to turn purple. Leah released a bit of pressure on his neck with her knee, and he gasped deeply for air.

  “Tell me everything, Francis.” Leah insisted, waving the spoon above his eyes.

  “Wait! I'll tell you!” Francis whimpered; they both knew that he was beaten, and Leah had won.

  “Start talking Doctor.” Leah sneered. “I'm not sure how long my ribs can keep this up.”

  “His name is Nash!” Doctor Fowler cried. “I owe him gambling money, he was going to go to my wife if I didn't pay. I couldn't pay, I couldn't pay.” he was sobbing now, but it looked difficult for him the way he was sprawled on his back.

  “Nash?” Leah was stunned. How in the hell does Nash have clout out here? “What did he say?”

  “He put the word out, badly-beaten woman, green eyes, scar down her face, when I saw you, I knew you had to be the one he was talking about. I left a dead drop at the old fountain, I thought that would clear my debt, I'm so sorry!”

  “Stop crying.” Leah pushed her knee back down for a moment, causing Doctor Fowler to choke on his tears and rein himself in. “But it wasn't enough, was it?”

  “No,” Francis whined. “He found me in the street, told me I had to kill you, or he would go to my wife. I couldn't lose everything, I couldn't–” he trailed away, realizing the broken shell that held his words together.

  “He never said anything about Riphook?” Leah pressed.

  “Riphook? Who?” Leah knew he was telling the truth. His eyes betrayed him, ever since he came through the door. Now they showed her that he was at last, being honest.

  “Nobody.” She grunted, releasing some of the pressure so that he again took deep, jagged breathes.

  “Oh, forgive me,” he moaned. “I am undone. I do not deserve anything at all.”

  “Hush it,” Leah snapped. She kicked him off the bed with one clean movement, righting herself and looking down at him on the floor. “Now you may be a lying, cheating, gambling, whoring, immoral doctor, Francis,” Leah said. “But everything is going to be fine. You understand me? Everything will turn out alright.”

  “What do you mean?” He was shaking, clearly entirely intimidated by the woman half his age whom had just managed to completely overpower him physically, despite having several healing ribs.

  “You love your wife?”

  “Yes, yes I do,” he whined.

  “Doesn't seem like it, keeping secrets. You ought to treat her better, don't you think?”

  “Yes.” he whispered, still laying on the floor. There was no reason for him to get back up.

  “Everything's going to be alright.” she said again. It was time for her to let off easily and bring him into her good graces. He was a puppet on a string, but she was a superior puppeteer to Nash, and she knew it.

  “How?” There was no hope in his eyes, only the blank defeated stare of an antelope that had fallen down into the crocodile's river. “What can I do?”

  “You will do exactly as I say, do you understand?” Leah stated.

  “Yes, yes, tell me what to do.” he stuttered.

  “Firstly, you're going to clean yourself up. You've made a mess of yourself. You broke your nose on that door frame.” She gestured to the door. “You've got to always watch where you’re walking. It's hard when you don't get enough sleep, isn't it?”

  Doctor Fowler nodded incessantly. He seemed to be eating up every word she spoon fed him.

  “Then you're going to find Nash. More likely he's going to find you, eh? On your way back into the city I'd imagine. He's going to ask you if I'm dead. You will tell him that you watched me die. You will tell him that I am buried out here in Worthington nearby some crumbling chapel.”

  “Will he believe me?”

  “That's up to you, isn't it?” Leah challenged. “But you'll have to lie better than when you came into this room. I saw through you in a heartbeat. Nash will too.”

  “I can't do this.” He began taking rapid breathes.

  “You can, and you will.” Leah insisted. “Take a slow breath.”

  “Very well.” He did so, closing his eyes for a moment.

  “After you tell him I'm dead, you'll go straight home to your wife. You'll tell her you love her, and you'll never go behind her back again, isn't that right?”

  “That's right.” he said.

  “Now get on up and get out.” Leah huffed, setting the spoon down on the table. “And leave that little vial.”

  * * *

  Francis left the Worthington estate in a whirlwind of emotion. He had abruptly cleaned his broken nose, splashed himself with water, and rushed out the door bidding the Duchess a hasty and regrettable farewell. No doubt she will gripe about that in the future.

  As his coach rolled away from the manor, he felt both relief and fear take hold of him simultaneously. He would have killed that woman, he realized, had she not been so ready to defend herself. And good thing for that!

  Francis had no wish to be a murderer. He was a doctor; he was a man of healing and talent. To have committed that crime would have destroyed his entire being far worse than anything Nash could do to his social circles.

  For that reason, he felt tremendous joy; Miss Benson was alive, and she was more than capable of fending off the likes of Nash and his gutter rats.

  But thinking of Nash also brought him fear, for he would soon be brought face to face with the criminal. How could he lie to him if he failed to lie to Miss Benson? They were cut from the same cloth, and he stood out against both of them like red on blue.

  Still this was the course he had to follow – and follow it he would. I must succeed.

  The coach came into London sometime after the four o'clock bells; Francis could hear them on approach, but by the time they rolled into the city and over the river they had ceased their chorus.

  The smell of the city always irritated Francis after having been in the country. He often wondered how it was possible to live in such conditions as the ones he saw in the shantytowns outside the southern gates.

  After a few hours he acclimated and forgot about the smell, as all Londoners had to for survival. He had not yet become situated however when he was forced to call his carriage to a stop. Hay bales and an overturned ox cart lay in the street. This is no accident.

  The sound of a sharp whistle caused his head to turn, and he saw Nash's face peering out from an adjacent alleyway. Time to act.

  Francis pushed the door open and jumped down from his coach.

  “I'll only be a moment,” he said up to his driver. “Pull around the sidewalk and wait for the oxen to get clear.”

  The driver nodded some sort of understanding, and Francis ducked into the alleyway. The walls shot up around him like a lidless prison cell, stretching out before him into darkness.

  “The good doctor returns.” Nash's voice floated out of the blackness. He appeared then, slinking over the cobblestones. His favorite large lackey was beside him.

  “It's done.” Francis said flatly. Being a good liar was not a terrific skill to possess morally, but practically it served Francis well. While previously his conscious had betrayed his intentions, he fell quickly back into his old step of rambling half-truths.

  “Is it?” Nash walked up to him, staring level into his eyes. Francis could smell how rancid his breath was; he could see the rotting teeth and malnourished skin. “You saw her die?”

  “I did.” He took a firm stance, thinking of Miss Benson's courage. “I gave her a poison powder, I told her it was medicine. Essentially she suffered a rapid swelling of the brain u
ntil–”

  “Damn doc!” Nash laughed out. “I don't need to hear that. That's cold blooded, ain't it, Digby?”

  “Cold blooded boss.” the lackey grunted.

  “Good riddance, doc, you got her good.” Nash clapped him on the shoulder. The feeling jarred Francis, but he maintained his composure.

  “So, we're square, you and I?” Francis knew that if he did not address this, then his story would unravel.

  “Sure doc, we're square.” Nash chuckled. “Cold blooded bugger, sheesh. Full of surprises, ain't you?”