by Adele Clee
Perhaps Mr Ashwood knew a truth spell because Blent suddenly said, “Mr Draper knew my father. They were at school together. He supported my mother when my father went to debtors’ prison.”
Finlay tapped his finger to his lips and gave a curious hum. “Your father went to debtors’ prison, yet you didn’t sell his books to pay his debts?”
Blent squirmed in the seat as Mr Ashwood unfastened the knots in his bindings. “Clarence Draper paid the debts, but was still negotiating terms with the creditors when my father died in the Fleet.”
In all the years Sophia had known Blent, he had never mentioned the connection, never mentioned her father’s benevolence.
“You’re an educated man,” Finlay said. “Skilled in design. I’ve seen your drawings. Could Clarence Draper not have found a landscape architect willing to give you a position as an apprentice?”
Blent hesitated before saying, “After Miss Draper’s accident, her father feared Mr Archer would return from India and make a nuisance of himself. He paid me handsomely to remain at Blackborne for three years. After which time, I could gain access to the funds and pursue my chosen career.”
“Only three years?” Sophia interjected. “But you’ve been at Blackborne for five.”
Mr Ashwood finished untying the ropes and stepped away. “He remains at Blackborne because he’s in love with Miss Draper.”
Blent rubbed his arms and wrists vigorously to get the blood circulating but made no reply. His silence acted as confirmation.
Mr Sloane crossed the room and thrust a tumbler of amber liquid at Blent. “Drink this. You must have been waiting out in the cold for a few hours. What the devil did you hope to achieve by lingering in the garden? You’d have caught your death had Mrs Brogan not noticed the flickering light outside.”
“Flickering light?” Finlay spoke as if the words were important. “You communicate with Jessica. She shines a light in Blackborne’s upper window to let you know she’s free to come to your cottage.” He didn’t wait for Blent’s admission. “You were hoping to get her attention so she would come to the garden.”
“We signal to each other,” the man confessed. “She knows if we’re ever parted, I shall come to her. She knows to shine a light in her bedchamber window until we are reunited. When she worries, it eases her fears.”
Sophia gaped.
How had she missed the signs?
Yes, Blent was the only one who knew how to calm Jessica when she was agitated. He was the one to carry her upstairs after a bout of sleepwalking. The one who accompanied her on long walks, read to her, played chess. Blent was a strong, reliable influence in Jessica’s world of chaos.
“Clarence Draper trusted me with the care of his daughter,” Blent added. “Nothing else matters.”
A shadow of sadness passed across Finlay’s features. He glanced at her with apologetic eyes before focusing his attention on Blent. “When a man loves a woman, he should be the light in the darkness, the guiding hand of support when the path is uncertain. He should ease her suffering, dry her tears. He should be the angel in the woods, offering a token to keep the devil at bay.”
Gracious!
Was Finlay implying Blent had given Jessica the bowl?
Surely not.
“Why fill Jessica’s head with stories of murdered witches and then give her a bowl as a means of protection?” Sophia blurted. It made no sense.
For courage, Blent swallowed a mouthful of whatever concoction Mr Sloane had mixed in the glass. The heat almost choked him, and he leant forward and coughed.
“Drink it down, my friend.” Mr Sloane chuckled. “The burn will pass.”
When Blent recovered, he thrust the glass at Mr Sloane, who gladly emptied the contents down his own throat without giving a gasp or a hiss.
“Well?” Sophia pressed. “You’ve not answered my question.”
Blent’s shoulders sagged. “The bowl belonged to my father. He brought it back from Persia during his travels. I gave Jessica the bowl, but told her to say she found it in the woods.”
“Yes, but why the frightening tales?”
“It has to do with Dr Goodwin,” Finlay said, prompting the man to confess. “You know he’s been giving her excessive doses of laudanum. Lord knows what’s in the paregoric vials. Hopefully, I shall discover the answer later today.”
“I spoke of witches, hoping she would be too scared to visit the woods.”
“And what of Mrs Friswell and her devil potions?”
Blent jumped to the housekeeper’s defence. “The restorative Mrs Friswell prepares is to counteract the effects of the doctor’s drugs.”
“She is in my employ.” Sophia could trust no one at Blackborne, it seemed. But that’s what came from having no permanent mistress in the house. Mrs Friswell had taken matters into her own hands. “If she had concerns about Dr Goodwin, she should have come to me. She has no right to administer herbal concoctions without my express permission.”
Blent shook his head. “I had no proof of the doctor’s guilt. He is treating a patient who’s considered unstable. Would you have taken my word over a professional man who has served you faithfully all these years?”
“But you don’t believe she is unstable,” Finlay interjected. “Do you?”
Blent straightened. “There’s nothing wrong with Miss Draper’s mind. I would stake my life on it.”
“I have to agree,” Mr Sloane offered. “Yes, she talks incessantly, fidgets, is forgetful, but beneath the haze of confusion is a logical woman.”
Sophia choked back a sob. Guilt formed the basis of her emotion. If she believed these men, then she had failed Jessica. She had given the trusted doctor free rein to administer his treatments—but only because she loved Jessica and wanted her well.
She swallowed past the pain in her throat and faced Blent. “Although you have no evidence against the doctor, do you know why he might want to drug her, want to keep her subdued? Do you know why Jessica’s manner is so erratic of late?”
Blent pursed his lips but seemed hesitant to reply.
“Only the truth will save Miss Draper and free her from this torment,” Mr Ashwood said.
Blent nodded. “Up until a few months ago, Goodwin has been giving her laudanum to quieten her mind. Mrs Friswell gives only half the dose and has done for years.”
Finlay folded his arms across his chest. “During which time you’ve forged a friendship with Miss Draper that has grown into something more.”
“Yes.”
“Dr Goodwin said the laudanum settles the volatile part of her mind,” Sophia said, cursing herself for being fool enough to believe him. “Without it, he said Jessica might behave as she had done in The Trout Inn that night.”
Oh, the doctor had seemed so convincing, seemed genuinely concerned. And to think she’d let him dine at her table.
Blent swore beneath his breath. “A few months ago, the doctor changed her medication and started putting thoughts into her head. I heard him tell her Mr Archer had returned from India and was waiting to speak to her in the woods.”
Mr D’Angelo cleared his throat. “I’ve checked the passenger records on every ship to dock from Calcutta during the last three months. There is no record of a Mr Bartholomew Archer aboard any vessel.”
“Many shipments of cloth from Calcutta dock in Lancashire,” Finlay said. “A man with devious intentions might board the ship and travel south by mail coach.”
A devious man might have made the journey more than three months ago. A devious man might have used an alias to travel.
“I saw a man lurking in the woods,” Blent countered. “Not a vagrant or poacher, but a gentleman. I’ve had the hounds out every night searching for him.”
Finlay snorted. “Let me guess, he has blonde hair and ridiculous side whiskers.”
Lord Adair? Was Fitzroy a liar and a pest?
“No. He was clean-shaven, tall with a mop of golden blonde hair.”
“Mr Archer! It has to be him
.” Sophia’s words sent the room plunging into a heavy silence.
But if this stranger was Mr Archer, why did he not simply call at Sophia’s home in Portman Street and ask to visit Jessica? Why all the secrecy and lies? Had he returned with Maud? Heavens above, that would certainly complicate matters.
“But why the sudden change in her medication?” Mr Ashwood mused.
Blent shrugged. “Mrs Friswell has been trying different restoratives in the hope it will help with whatever the doctor puts in his vials. The doctor has grown suspicious and makes Jessica drink the medicine before he leaves.”
No doubt Mrs Friswell believed in her herbal remedies, but it was highly likely she had been making the matter worse. Finlay had been right to insist they remove Jessica from Blackborne. Finlay was always right. Except when it came to their estrangement. Had they grown close again after Hannah’s death, he might have prevented this nightmare. And yet the fact he’d become lost in a dark cloud of grief, the fact he’d struggled to find his way back to her, made her love him all the more.
“Nothing has changed since yesterday,” Finlay said, addressing Sophia and his colleagues. “I need to get my hands on the doctor and throttle the truth from his lying lips.”
“Then tell us how we can be of service,” Mr D’Angelo replied. The gentleman seemed excited at the prospect of witnessing a fight.
Finlay stroked his beard while he thought. “First, we need sleep. Sloane, I’m sure you can find Blent a room.”
“Indeed.”
“I shall visit the apothecary in Hyde Street. I stole vials from the doctor’s bag and asked the apothecary to determine the contents. Sophia, while I’m away, perhaps you could sit with Blent and Jessica and see what else you can learn.”
Sophia glared at Blent. “Yes, we have a lot to discuss.”
“Do you need my assistance?” Mr Ashwood said. “I can stay if required.”
Finlay glanced briefly at Sophia before turning to Mr Ashwood. “Would you remain here until we return this evening? I wish to apprehend the doctor at what we hope is his residence in Miles’ Lane. I need Sophia to accompany me.”
Mr Ashwood inclined his head. “Of course.”
“I suppose I am to play host while you romp about town,” Mr Sloane said with a frustrated sigh.
Finlay smiled. “You and D’Angelo may accompany us. When it comes to the doctor, I have a strange suspicion nothing will go as planned.”
Chapter 17
The cobbled thoroughfare of Miles’ Lane was barely wide enough for a carriage and provided little scope for those wishing to hide in the shadows. The lack of street lighting helped, as did the fact the entrance to the mews was directly opposite a row of four townhouses.
“If the late Mr Goodwin worked at Coutts, then one would presume he’d own the most elegant house on the row,” Sloane said, drawing the brim of his hat lower on his brow. “Bankers are renowned for their greed. I doubt he lives opposite the church.”
“And St Michael’s occupies the upper half of the lane,” Finlay added. “Then we agree, one of these four houses must belong to Dr Goodwin.”
“Well, we cannot stand here all night wondering.” Sophia pulled the hood of her thick blue cloak around her ears. “We shall catch our deaths if we linger.”
“Have no fear, my lady,” D’Angelo said. “I shall remedy the situation.”
D’Angelo ushered them back into the shadowy entrance of the mews. He tilted his hat, loosened his cravat and staggered across the cobblestones, singing a ballad to a lost love as he approached the door of Number 2.
Sloane sniggered. “If he’s not careful, someone will raise the sash and shower him with gold.”
“Shower him with gold?” Sophia repeated.
“Drown him with the contents of the chamber pot.”
“D’Angelo could reek of piddle and still charm the ladies,” Finlay replied as Sophia sidled beside him, hugged his arm and shivered. “They’d scramble over a pit of vipers to bathe those hard muscles and slide into his bed for the night.”
Finlay would wrestle vipers, too, if he thought he might earn an hour locked in a bedchamber with Sophia.
D’Angelo rapped on the front door and called, “Matilda, my love! Open the door lest I die of a broken heart on the doorstep. Matilda!” He broke into drunken song and banged the iron knocker.
The curtains in the upper window twitched.
An elderly gentleman sporting a jaunty mustard nightcap raised the sash and thrust his head through the gap. “Who goes there?”
D’Angelo stumbled back and met the irate man’s gaze. “Matilda, my love. Let me in so I might make amends.” He clutched his chest as if the shards of his broken heart might tumble onto the doorstep. “Matilda!”
“There is no one here by that name. Move on before I call the constable.”
“Ah, you’re still angry with me, my love,” D’Angelo drawled.
Sophia squeezed Finlay’s arm and whispered, “I imagine most women would unlatch the door just to watch him grovel.”
“One day, I hope he meets a woman who pelts him with the pot and curses him to hell.”
Sophia chuckled. “I suspect the woman who refuses him could well be the one who steals his heart.”
“She would have to be a thief in the night,” Sloane said, joining their conversation. “She would have to catch him unawares. In short, she would have to be a damn sight more inconspicuous than Miss Hart.”
Miss Hart?
Finlay couldn’t help but notice the vexation in Sloane’s usually smooth voice. “Who the devil is Miss Hart?” He glanced at Sophia, who looked equally bewildered.
Sloane grumbled something incoherent. “A lady usually found clinging to the ballroom wall. She spends so much time watching from the periphery, one might mistake her for a potted fern.”
“She’s that unremarkable?”
“Or she wears green fronds in her hair,” Sophia added.
“She’s a nuisance, a veritable pest.”
“A pest and a wallflower?” Finlay mused. “How unconventional.”
“Matilda!” D’Angelo’s cry stole their attention. “Let down your golden hair so I may climb up and kiss those precious lips.” Their friend clutched his stomach and pretended to retch.
“You drunken fool. Try two doors down.” And with that, the man slammed the sash with such force he might have cracked a pane.
D’Angelo threw them a devilish grin and then moved toward Number 4. He’d taken but a few steps when the front door opened and a woman exited.
A few things struck Finlay as odd.
Yes, there was a nip in the air, though she was dressed as if she were part of an arctic expedition. The white muff was the size of a sheepdog. The red ermine-trimmed cloak would be better suited to a crisp winter’s day. And rarely did a woman of quality venture out alone at midnight.
D’Angelo approached her. The man was no fool. “Matilda!” He clasped his hands together, pleading for forgiveness. “Don’t leave, love. Give me one more chance.”
The woman shooed him away and quickened her pace. She hurried towards the mews, glanced over her shoulder to check if the drunken devil sauntered behind. At no point was she aware of the three people lingering in the darkness—not until she barged into them, the sudden impact stealing her breath.
Her terrified shriek rent the air.
“Hush. There’s nothing to fear.” Sophia’s voice was reassuringly low.
The woman flinched and stumbled, unwittingly grabbed hold of Sophia’s arm for support while gathering her wits. The blood drained from her face the moment they locked gazes.
“Maud?” Sophia gasped in disbelief.
So, Maud was the doctor’s companion in the coffeehouse. Things were all fitting nicely into place. Finlay doubted he would remember the maid were it not for her uncanny likeness to Jessica. The question plaguing him now was, what business did she have with Dr Goodwin?
Maud stood, stiff as a corpse, the mist
from her breathless pants being the only sign of life.
Finlay coughed into his fist, drawing the maid’s attention. “It seems you’re a little far from home, Maud. Did the hot climate not suit? Perhaps you’re ill and journeyed for months just to visit the good doctor.”
Maud surprised them all by throwing herself at Sophia and crying, “My lady, thank goodness it’s you. I’ve been terrified out of my wits. Oh, praise be.”
While Maud spoke with some eloquence now, her accent held traces of a provincial dialect, and her manner appeared rather coarse.
Sophia shrugged out of the maid’s embrace and stepped back. “What are you doing here, Maud?” Hostility tainted the words. After all, Maud was the reason Jessica had spent the last seven years in a drug-induced state. “Where is your husband? Where is Mr Archer?”
Maud blinked back tears. “Bartholomew? I wish I knew, my lady. The son of a devil is up to mischief, make no mistake. I’ve not seen him for almost ten months. But I fear he’s come to England to find Miss Draper.”
“What, and so you followed him here on a whim?” Finlay studied the agitated woman. Why risk the arduous journey when she only suspected her husband had come to England? No. Maud knew Archer was in town. And knew a damn sight more besides.
“Not on a whim.” Maud’s bright blue eyes brimmed with tears. “His friend, Mr Kamara, confessed to knowing my husband’s plan.”
“His plan to find Miss Draper?” Finlay pressed.
“Yes.”
“You’ve been staying with Dr Goodwin?”
The woman hesitated, yet the quick glance over her shoulder confirmed Finlay’s theory. “What are you doing out here at this ungodly hour?” Finlay asked.
Maud blinked rapidly. “Doing?”
“Why have you left the house?”
“I—I glanced out of the window when the rogue started singing and saw a figure at the entrance to the mews. I thought it was Bartholomew. I thought to come outside and confront him.”
She was lying. If she saw a figure, why was she so shocked to find them in the mews? No, the doctor must have seen them and sent Maud outside as a distraction.
