“Ruff! Ruff!”
That was enough of an answer for Griff.
The door to Dulcie’s room flew open. Standing in the doorway was the countess and her lady’s maid. “How dare you sneak up here to my stepdaughter’s bedchamber?” She blasted Griff with an icy glare. “You were told to wait belowstairs! I’ll see to it you are removed from this house!”
Sommers and two rather large footmen in gray and blue livery hovered behind the two women.
Griff stood his ground next to Dulcie’s bed. “What is wrong with her, Countess?” he roared back. “My fiancée is dreadfully ill. Has a physician been called to bleed her? I demand to know, dammit!”
“You demand! Hah! You are the last one to make demands. You, Griffith Spencer, have no right to invade this house, nor this room. Not after you left your betrothed behind, bringing on what you see here—her rapid decline into ill health. This is all your doing, and I will not have you in this house, do you hear me?”
The countess spun around to face the footmen and gave them a signal. They stepped forward though the doorway and approached Griff. “You will now leave, Spencer, or I will have you thrown out!”
Coming out of her stupor briefly, Dulcie heard voices, but couldn’t discern who was arguing. She was lost in bewilderment, swathed in murky darkness, fighting without sufficient air to breath. She panicked, fighting her way up off the mattress, until she had to slump back against it and embrace the waiting arms of the black void of unconsciousness once again.
Had Griff the strength and the wisdom to know what was ailing Dulcie, he would have wrapped her up in his arms and carried her off with him, seeking medical help immediately.
However, all things being equal, he did his best to carry himself in an heroic manner and stalked out of the room, down the grand staircase, collected his coat, hat, and gloves, and left in Rand’s carriage.
Meanwhile, Simon stretched beside Dulcie’s bed, his brown gaze locked on Agina. When the countess started toward him, his lips curled. No warning rumbled from his throat, but his lips pulled back to display his ivory fangs. The countess seeing the movement, backed off, spinning away into a swift revolution. “Get rid of that dog,” she commanded, glaring at the butler, and swished out the room with Trent close behind her. “He’s a menace.”
* * * *
Griff had time to ruminate as Rand’s vehicle rumbled toward London. Something was dreadfully wrong with Dulcie. As the carriage traveled across the English countryside, he attempted to solve the puzzle, but without success. He could only presume, after the vague innuendo the countess shouted at him, that Dulcie was with child—his child. And that was the reason for her debilitated condition. He knew nothing whatsoever about a woman’s condition after being ravished, nor of what trials she might endure while awaiting the birth. He’d never had siblings. Neither had he any offspring of which he was aware. He’d always pulled out of a woman’s body before he spilled his seed, even during his earliest days of whoring. He knew of only two instances when he did not; the last time was the night he left Dulcie and sailed for the Peninsula.
The countess had railed at him at Bonne Vista, cursing at him that he alone was the cause of Dulcie’s extraordinary condition. He’d planted the seed that made her sick. If she and the child survived, Griff vowed he would never stick his polluted cock inside a woman’s body again.
Meanwhile, he would make certain Dulcie was given the best of medical attention. He would call on Dr. Johnson on the morrow. He was the physician who pulled Griff through his own ordeal. Now Griff sorely needed additional medical advice and help. He knew without any semblance of doubt that haste was of the essence if Dulcie were to survive.
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 betrot
hal 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.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Griff Spencer and Henry Johnson rode up the drive of Bonne Vista in mid-afternoon. They tethered their mounts to an iron hitching post in front. Sommers met them at the front door.
“Mr. Spencer…”
Before the butler could say refuse them admittance, Griff said, “I brought Dr. Johnson along with me, Sommers. I learned from a groom before I left here yesterday that your mistress has not seen a physician. It is time she did. Have our horses seen to.”
Griff pushed past the butler with the physician following at his heels and started up the central staircase.
“But…but, Mr. Spencer…”
“You needn’t show us up. I know the way.”
The butler drew in a deep breath, silently thanking the Almighty. But he knew his duty and went to tell the countess that Mr. Spencer and a physician from London had come to treat young Lady Dulcina.
When Griff paused at Dulcie’s room, he hesitated. He checked to see if the burly footmen Agina had brought to toss him out yesterday were anywhere in sight. He tapped lightly on the door, then entered soundlessly, with the physician following him into the room. There was no one in the room but Dulcie. Griff turned the key in the lock. The men silently removed their outerwear. Griff went to the windows to draw the heavy curtains aside all the way and let in some light. The day was quickly losing the winter’s afternoon sun.
Dr. Johnson approached the bed, setting his physician’s bag on the carpet. He appraised the sleeping girl in the bed for several moments before speaking. “Griff, her color is not good, her lips are very pale, her chest movement shallow. She is having trouble breathing. I am afraid your fiancée is quite ill. I need to examine her thoroughly.”
Griff sucked in a low gasp of pain and fear. “I may be shot for this,” he muttered. “But do what you must, Doctor, I shall suffer the consequences.”
“Take yourself across the room and turn your back.”
“Aye.” He did what he was told.
Dulcie roused when the physician gently pulled up her gown. Very softly, he said, so as not to frighten her, “I am Dr. Johnson, Lady Dulcina,” he announced himself. “I am here with Griffith Spencer to help you. But to do so, I must examine you and decide the cause of your distress.” He met her eyes, reading the apprehension he recognized when he was asked to examine a female patient. “Will you allow me to do that, milady? It is for your own good and the babe’s.”
Dulcie exhaled, shuddering. She nodded her chin, allowing him to undress her. The physician was gentle w
ith his hands and his instruments. He examined intimate places no one but Griff Spencer had ever touched.
What seemed moments later, someone jiggled the lock, followed by several loud, insistent raps on the wooden door outside in the hall. One notable voice and several more were heard. “Griffith Spencer! Open this door immediately, or I’ll have you strung up! Who do you think you are making yourself free with my stepdaughter?”
“I hope I’m saving her life, Countess!” he answered, loud enough that she could hear him clearly. “What hellish mischief have you done to devil my fiancée, Countess?”
“If you don’t open this door immediately, I will have the door broken down and a magistrate summoned to lock you up! You’ll stay incarcerated there for eons! Do as I say now!”
“I suggest you calm down and listen to me, instead.” Griff leaned closer and spoke through the thickness of the oak “I know more about you and your conniving ways than you think, Countess. Hear what I’m saying. The London constabulary divulged certain information about your lurid background to a friend of mine. I plan to send all that muck to every newspaper in London. You will never live it down, Countess. When I am done with you, you will be given the cut direct by all your acquaintances, never spoken to or allowed near a ballroom, nor invited to an afternoon tea or anything else, for the rest of your shameful life. Take my word on it!”
Griff heard her indrawn breath through the heavy oak. “Arrgh! I should have known you are the same damn blackmailing beast your father was. But, you wouldn’t dare! I never let Boswell get the better of me!”
My father? What did she have to do with my father’s death?
Griff suppressed more questions, but went on to warn her with undisguised animosity, “Just try me, Countess. In the meantime, Dulcie needs a physician. I brought someone from London to treat her.”
When he didn’t add anything more, there was dead silence outside Dulcie’s bedchamber.
Inside, Dulcie was weeping embarrassed tears by the time Dr. Johnson finished his thorough internal and external examinations. He readjusted her gown, replaced the bedclothes to cover her newly slender form, and squeezed the fingers of one of her hands to reassure her.
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