Dulcie couldn’t hide her distress any longer. The smell or taste of food did nothing but make her heave up a putrid, rusty-colored bile after which, she would ask for more tea, with lots of sugar to sweeten the taste. She ate almost nothing and slept for hours at a time.
The countess visited her regularly, asking how she felt. Was she feeling better? Did she have any idea what was wrong with her?
Dulcie wasn’t about to mention her scandalous condition; she fully believed she was with child. Her menses had ceased, so that must be the reason for all this ill feeling. She prayed each night that she would make it through this awful time, and that Griff would soon be home. She wished, too, she might visit Bitsy Bowden; the girl had birthed four, healthy children. Dulcie knew she wasn’t strong enough to leave the manor and have her questions answered by her friend. She wanted her and Griff’s baby to survive, but the way things seemed, she didn’t think either of them would live.
If Dulcie rose out of the bed at all, it was to sit quietly in her nightclothes in a chair in her room. Simon was rarely out of her sight. The dog lay beside her, and she conversed with him as if he were her best friend. The housemaids were stunned, unable to understand why their mistress’s health went downhill so rapidly when she had glowed with health several weeks before. Was she pining so desperately for her betrothed?
Denny Wall asked about Dulcie when he didn’t see her outside or around the manor. He sent word to her by one of the housemaids that he planned to marry soon and hoped she would be well enough to attend his wedding. Dulcie wrote him a note saying she hoped she would be well enough, too.
Finally, the Bonne Vista’s housekeeper begged the countess to call a physician in to see what was wrong with Dulcie. The countess had constantly put her off, saying the girl wasn’t ill.
“I would rather this didn’t go any farther or bandied about with the servants,” Agina told Mrs. Travis. “But if you must know, it is my considered opinion that Dulcina’s fiancé left her in…er…an interesting condition. The girl hasn’t told me yet, though I questioned her. You see, my stepdaughter has all the symptoms of breeding.”
Even the housekeeper understood that innuendo. Mrs. Travis nodded sagely to the countess and kept her thoughts to herself. She knew some women did not fare well when with child. She crossed her fingers and prayed her young lady would feel a whole lot better very soon.
Both Agina and Trent knew what was wrong with Dulcie. The trouble was, the girl was fighting her condition. Her birthday was only days from now, and still Dulcina hung on with the same tenacity that her father had before he died. The earl had had a slight heart condition. A London physician had made that determination. But Trent and Agina had dosed the earl for weeks with their own herb potions, claiming they helped him. He even believed they were doing him some good. The earl’s heart finally lost the race, galloping like a racehorse in his chest. It continued until he finally collapsed in his club one day and succumbed in his bed at Eberley House.
* * * *
Less than a week had gone by, but Griff was on tenterhooks, forced by the anxiety coursing through him. For some reason, he knew he needed to warn Dulcie of something dangerous. He wasn’t sure why, only that he couldn’t get it…or her…out of his head.
His first and only letter to Dulcie had been dispatched with a wounded soldier, but he had no way of knowing if she read it. He never was good at keeping up with correspondence. Of course, he later realized that Dulcie couldn’t possibly send a reply. She wouldn’t know where or when a letter might reach him. He surprised himself during his last weeks in the Peninsula that he had sent a brief post to Rand as to his whereabouts, or the viscount may never learned of his condition.
Bronson had helped Griff with his morning ablutions ever since he came under Rand’s care. Griff’s uncle, John Burlington, made him a short visit and promised his wife, Phoebe, and their daughter, Desdemona, would visit him as soon as he felt more up to snuff. The family planned a homecoming celebration for Griff whenever he gave them the word.
Griff donned civilian dress. He had done his duty to the King, the Regent, and his country, and now, he wanted to get on with his life. He never wanted to wear that army uniform again. He thankfully sold out his commission.
His clothes hung loosely on what once was a robust physique. He still had to sit on the side of the bed, breathing too rapidly, and resting until he could finish dressing. Today, he was determined to browbeat Rand into making the trip to Surrey with him or without him.
Bronson helped the weakened Griff Spencer navigate the central staircase, grasping his elbow to steady him while Griff gripped the mahogany banister.
Rand was eating when Griff slowly entered the breakfast room on the lower floor.
“Well, now, this is a pleasant surprise, Griff.” Rand rose to greet his friend. “Glad to see you up and about.”
“’Morning, Rand.” A solicitous footman pulled out the chair for Griff. “As soon as I break my fast, I need to ask your indulgence.”
“Oh? What’s that all about?”
“I need the use of a carriage to take me to Surrey.”
“Still lusting for your fiancée, ain’t you?”
“Cut the gaff, Rand, I have a good reason for trekking to Surrey. Will you give me leave to borrow your equipment and a driver? I don’t think I’m strong enough yet to ride.”
Rand frowned, eyeing his friend’s determined countenance.
“Of course, you’re still not well enough…”
“Then I shall hire a vehicle and a driver.”
Rand backed down. Griff had badgered him for most of the week to let him go. “No need for that. I’ll go with you.”
“No,” Griff replied, firmly. “I’d rather you didn’t.” He thought about it and softened his reply. “Do you mind very much?”
“All right then, hear this. You should know some things, Griff.” Rand paused. “I ran into the countess a few weeks ago at one of the ton’s dull card parties. She asked about you. Of course, I simply told her you were alive and well. Which you were when I got your post. She let on that she planned to visit her stepdaughter. I believe your betrothed has an important birthday upcoming.”
“Damn the witch!” Griff exploded. “Dulcie’s birth date is November twenty-second. Now I know I have to see her.”
“Not to beg the question, but what in blazes are you gabbling about?”
“The countess is still after Dulcie’s inheritance!”
“You’ve kept me in the dark, Griff! What havey-cavey business is this?”
“Never mind. Do I get the carriage, Rand, or do I send a footman to hire me transportation?”
“Of course not. Mine is yours to use. Where are you headed?”
“I was led to believe that Bonne Vista is situated outside of Richmond in Surrey.” Griff rose, wavering a little until he gripped the back of a chair. “Don’t worry. I’ll find it. Thank you, my friend. I’ll do fine.”
* * * *
The coach ride from Mayfair to Richmond took several hours. The carriage slowed to a crawl in London but made good time when tooling along the open road. Griff chomped at the bit, anxious to warn Dulcie against the countess. Reminders of her had kept him sane during those days and months in Spain. Her image floated through his mind like torrid, erotic dreams as he lay in his camp cot on the blistering, dusty plains of Spain, sleepless and weary, reliving the hours he held her in his arms.
When the driver finally pulled up in the center of Richmond, Griff ordered him to get precise directions to Bonne Vista. Then they were off. Twenty minutes later, the horses trotted up the carriageway toward a stately, red brick manor house.
Griff went up the stone steps to the front door. His movements were slow and slightly painful. He was breathless from the steep climb, but he straightened his shoulders, rapped the polished brass knocker several times, and waited impatiently, huffing from exertion.
Sommers answered the door, a quizzical expression wrinkling his foreh
ead.
Griff didn’t wait for the butler to ask whom he was or whom he wished to see. “I am Lady Dulcie’s fiancé. If you will be so gracious, tell her Griffith Spencer is returned from Spain.”
Sommer’s face brightened, but only for a moment. The welcome sparkle in his eyes died rather quickly. “Yes, yes, of course. Please do come in, Mr. Spencer. We were hopeful you would arrive in time.”
Griff passed his top hat and gloves to the old retainer, and removed his outerwear. The butler handed Griff’s things to a waiting footman. Straightening the ruffled shirt cuffs from his jacket’s sleeves, Griff tucked his cravat into place. He had noticed the look on the aged butler’s countenance; something sharp and painful knifed into his gut like the bit of shrapnel that pierced his flesh. Fear gripped him, clogging his throat. “Tell me, man,” he rasped. “What am I in time for, may I ask?”
Avoiding a reply, the butler said, “I had best announce you to the countess…”
“No,” Griff said immediately. “No. I don’t wish to speak with the countess. Er…she and I are not on the best of terms at the moment. I would rather you announce me to Lady Dulcina, if you please.”
“But, Mr. Spencer, er, forgive me. Milady is not well. I believe I must make you known to Countess Eberley.”
Griff’s knees wavered as he stood in the foyer with the Bonne Vista butler. More so, when he grasped the possible unfavorable import he heard from the servant. “Lady Dulcie is ill? My God, when did this happen?”
“Only lately,” the man replied. “Now, come with me, Mr. Spencer,” Sommers said, leading the way into a side hall. “Allow me to show you into the blue salon. I will tell the countess you’re here to see her stepdaughter. I believe she is at luncheon, but I know she will want to speak with you.”
The butler flung open the double doors and ushered Griff inside the tastefully decorated room. A fire blazed in the polished gray marble fireplace, and Griff realized he was glad of its heat. He was still plagued with chills from time to time, and today was no exception. He strode toward the ornate mantel. Over it hung a painting of a middle-aged man. It must be Dulcie’s father, he thought. He remembered the portrait of Dulcie’s mother hanging in the London town house.
“I’ll order you refreshments, Mr. Spencer.”
“No, thank you. Nothing for me except a brandy,” he replied. “Er, what is your name?”
“Sommers, sir.” The old servant poured a generous dollop of brandy into the snifter for Griff then left him to alert the countess of a new arrival.
Griff was in a quandary. He was not anxious to confront Agina here and now. Especially, after he learned that Dulice wasn’t well. He prayed she suffered nothing serious.
Entering the dining room on the main floor, Sommer said rather hesitantly, “Madam?” He knew the countess hated being interrupted at table. “Forgive me, but Mr. Spencer is here to see Lady Dulcina. I’ve put him in the blue salon.”
Agina’s gaze flew to Trent’s face and their eyes locked.
“Ah,” she said, finally. “Dulcina’s long-lost fiancé has arrived.” She patted her lips with a serviette. “We have just begun our meal, Sommers. See that he is made comfortable, and tell him I will see him shortly.” Agina again locked eyes with her lady’s maid.
“Shall I have something sent into him, Madam? A cold collation?”
“I think not.” Agina replied, and coolly dismissed the butler.
Sommers was uncomfortable with the countess, as were the rest of Bonne Vista’s servants. He and the staff wished she and her abigail would leave and return to London. Meanwhile, they were worried sick about their young mistress.
Sommers tapped on the door of the blue salon and went inside. “Countess Eberley wished me to tell you she will see you after she finishes her noon meal. Can I get you anything else?”
Griff frowned. The witch! She’s cooking something up, knowing I am here, and is keeping me waiting in order to concoct some new, vicious scheme.
“No, thank you, Sommers. I would like to see my fiancée.”
“I was told, Mr. Spencer, that you must speak with the countess first.” He bowed and left, closing the oak door behind him.
Griff took a long draught of the brandy. It warmed the blood, at least, although nasty forebodings streaming along his nerve endings hadn’t calmed him down one bit.
He was suddenly reminded of when he lay in bed in the hospital. There he had talked at length with the Nurse Potts, and Dr. Johnson. Several medical questions had bothered him and he was quite curious, so he asked. One was the use of aphrodisiac potions and their reaction on the human psyche—both male and female. When the question came up, Annie excused herself from the discussion, blushing the color of beets. Both men laughed. Afterward, Griff garnered the best information he could from the middle-aged physician, who bluntly asked with a disapproving scowl, if Griff was planning to use it on his bride.
Griff vehemently shook his head. “God, no,” he stated. “I would never put her through that again, even if she were a cold fish!” Hearing the admission he blurted out to the physician, he had the temerity to color up. He went on to describe to Dr. Johnson what happened to him and Dulcie, but he didn’t reveal his idea on who had given them the secret doses.
Having listened to Griff’s stories of his early libertine escapades, the physician took an opportunity to outline the dangers of tupping street whores. One venereal disease, better known as the French Pox, was rampant on the Continent as well as in England. Smoking opium was thought to cure or possibly delay its debilitating onset, but Johnson didn’t give it much credence in the medical community.
* * * *
Griff had been deep in thought, pacing the small room as he finished his brandy, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He strode to the door, opened it, and peeked down the empty hallway and its unoccupied foyer. The manor was designed with a wide, central staircase leading to a sizeable landing and which branched to the right and left. Griff knew, having grown up in a similar country manor, that sleeping chambers were situated on the second level at the far end of the upper hallways. He started up the stairs. He was puffing when he reached the second level. Which way? he wondered, uncertain. Well, dammit! If he had to, he would stick his nose into every room on either corridor until he located Dulcie.
He encountered two rosy-cheeked housemaids as he walked the hall. “I am Lady Dulcina’s fiancé, here to surprise her. Shh,” he whispered. “Can you point me to her room?”
The two looked at each other and blushed. Then they giggled. Finally, the taller of the two pointed to a door three doors away.
Griff shushed them a second time. “No need to tell anyone.”
“Oh sir,” the other one blurted, “just now we left Lady Dulcie sleeping. Should you be going in there? Is it proper without the countess to accompany you?”
“She sent me to Dulcie,” he lied. “I’ll be very quiet, I promise. This is a birthday surprise.”
The maids giggled again.
Turning away, Griff strolled to the door they indicated and paused in front of it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dulcie knew she was in the middle of a vivid dream. A wonderful dream, because Griff Spencer stood next to her bed. He looked worried, his face so thin and haggard that her heart bled at the sight of him. His jacket hung strangely loose, not tailored to the inch the way she recalled, thinking back to the fine fabric molded to a robust, Adonis-like physique. Oh, she wanted this dream never to end. If only she had the strength to sit up, open her eyes, and see him standing there in reality.
She had tried so hard to get well, fight what was happening to her, and keep the babe alive, but it wasn’t easy. During the last few days, she felt her limbs twitching on their own as she lay in bed. She barely had strength to move, let alone sit up. Yet whenever she thought of eating, her stomach roiled, and she vomited up a disgusting bile. All she wanted was something to drink, anything, to quench her unfathomable thirst.
It would be
grand if Griff had truly returned to England—safe and sound. But he left months ago, and was far away … on the Continent. She wondered vaguely if he ever thought about her and the pact they made. She sighed softly, her eyes closed, and sunk deeper into wishful dreaming. Surely, the war would end soon. She prayed every night that it would. When he came home, she would have to tell him about the baby.
* * * *
Griff was devastated when he entered the room and looked down onto Dulcie’s slender form lying supine in the big four-poster. She was a shell of the girl he remembered in his dreams. What bloody, vicious scourge had invaded her body and left her without strength enough to open her eyes? Had a physician diagnosed what could be done to alleviate her distress and make her well?
She moaned again, and he jerked forward, sinking onto his knees next to the bed. Not wanting to startle her, softly he called her name. “Dulcie? Dulcie, dearest, can you hear me?”
Oh, Simon, I can almost hear him. But of course, I am dreaming, but thank God, he is all right. Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness…
“Dulcie, won’t you wake up? Please!” Griff reached for one of her hands lying atop the coverlet. It felt as cold as a block of ice.
She doesn’t react to my touch. Bloody hell! Am I losing her?
Just then, Simon nudged his elbow, hard, with a broad, wet, black-nosed muzzle. Griff wasn’t even aware the dog was in the room he’d been so stunned when he saw Dulcie’s appearance.
“Ah, good lad, what’s happened to her, Simon?” He patted the dog’s shiny head, gazing into the soft brown eyes. “How did she become so terribly ill?”
Griff quickly laid Dulcie’s unresponsive hand back on the coverlet, and stood up. Simon gazed up at him, his tongue hanging out of his jaws, panting heavily. Saliva dripped from his mouth. If the animal could talk, Griff was sure he could give him the answers he wanted and needed.
Suddenly, he knew what he suspected days ago but couldn’t believe. Yes, Agina would be that greedy and that vile. “Was it the step-witch? Did she do this to Dulcie?”
Carnal Pleasures Page 24
