The Perfect Duchess

by Erica Taylor

  “Sarah, don’t,” he commanded as the pieces fell together in his head. “You said you were having tea? Have any the rest of you had any from this pot?” Clara, Susanna, and Sarah shook their heads. “Don’t drink the tea.”

  Sarah glanced down at her cup in disgust and set it away. Molly moved to remove the tea tray, her hands shaking as she moved the pieces back to the platter. Molly had been a maid in Morton’s household, and Andrew had been grateful when Molly applied for the position of Clara’s lady’s maid. He thought having a familiar face might make Clara feel more comfortable.

  Narrowing his eyes, Andrew watched as the maid’s gaze darted nervously around the room. Her appearance in his house now seemed too convenient.

  “Stop,” he commanded, and Molly froze, but did not look up at him.

  “Andrew, what—” Clara asked, but he ignored her.

  “You, Molly, is it?” Andrew asked and she nodded. “Did you prepare this tea?”

  “I brought it up from the kitchens, your grace,” Molly said feebly.

  “Yes, but who brewed it?” Andrew asked. He picked up the teapot and yanked the lid off. Hot amber liquid swirled around, the dregs of tea leaves twirling in circles with the motion of the liquid, but there were three whole leaves that stood out.

  “What the devil did you put in here?” he asked, slamming the lid back on. Sarah took the pot from him and looked inside.

  “There are three whole leaves in here,” Sarah said faintly. “Tea leaves aren’t whole.”

  “Molly, what did you do?” Clara asked, her voice sounding heartbroken, and Andrew strained not to look at her, not wanting to see the hurt cross her face, knowing she had been betrayed yet again by someone close to her. He did not want to care.

  “I—I—I—” Molly stammered but was saved from answering by the arrival of the physician.

  “My sister has been poisoned,” Andrew replied. Dr. Lennox nodded, kneeling beside Norah, feeling around her throat and abdomen.

  “Let’s get her to a bed,” Dr. Lennox said. “And fetch some water and a clean cloth.” Andrew bent to Norah’s side, easing his gasping sister into his arms, quickly carrying her two doors down to a guest bedroom. He lay her gently on the bed, stepping away to give Dr. Lennox space to work. The doctor felt for her pulse before bending his ear to her chest and listening directly to her heart, then her lungs.

  “Poisoned, you say?” Dr. Lennox said, Norah’s limp and weak form seemingly small on the large canopy bed. “With what?”

  Andrew rounded on the maid, who was standing uncomfortably by the door, restrained by Beverell.

  “Tell us what you put into the tea,” Andrew commanded, his voice low and authoritative.

  “I don’t know, your grace,” Molly replied shaking her head. “I did not do anything to it.”

  “You did,” Clara said, yanking her maid’s chin towards her like an irate mother would to do a child. “You came from my brother’s household. No one from his grace’s staff would hurt a member of this family.”

  “I’m sorry,” Molly whispered, her voice shaking.

  Andrew swore and walked the length of the room to the window.

  “It was hemlock,” Molly said, her voice cracking in a sob. “Or some variation—I’m not certain. It was meant for you, my lady.” Molly had not taken her eyes off Clara.

  “Is there any of this tea left?” Dr. Lennox asked and another maid stepped forward with the evidential teapot. Lifting the lid, he glanced inside, nodding to himself.

  “Without knowing exactly what variation, there is little I can do. Hemlock poisoning can be deadly, but it does not react well to heat. The boiling water might have burned off most of the toxin.”

  “Have you more?” Clara demanded from her maid.

  Molly shook her head. “I was just given those three leaves. Lady Radcliff always pours, and you are always the first to drink, so I thought nothing of it when I put the leaves in the tea this afternoon. But Lady Norah drank first.”

  “That does not excuse your actions,” Clara snapped at her. “You are henceforth released from your position. However, you are not to leave the premises. You will answer for what you have done.”

  Andrew nodded to Beverell, who pulled her out of the room.

  “Is there anything you can do for Norah?” Clara asked the physician.

  “Activated charcoal should help absorb some of the toxin,” Dr. Lennox said as he opened his bag on the table. The miscellaneous jars of tonics and herbs he carried clanked as he sifted through them to find the correct one. He pulled a small glass canister filled with sand-like black crystals and snapped the bag shut. Andrew watched as he mixed a spoonful of the powder with a spoonful of water, nodding to Clara as she moved to the other side of Norah to aid in its dispersal. Tilting Norah’s head, her mouth opened and Dr. Lennox poured the mixture down Norah’s throat. Norah choked and sputtered but swallowed most of the poultice down.

  “Keep her restful,” Dr. Lennox said to Andrew as they stepped out of the room. “And keep her body temperature up, don’t let her get cold. Bed warmers and downs if you must, or a hot bath and a roaring fire. Only time will tell, but the next twelve hours are critical. I have something else to give her, but I’d need to speak to your cook.”

  “What is it?” Andrew asked, his brows pinching together.

  Dr. Lennox looked a bit embarrassed, but he answered Andrew truthfully. “My mother was an herbal healer in the village where I grew up and she did well enough to send me to Cambridge to study medicine. My brother accidentally ingested hemlock as a child and she gave him a horrible smelling drink of coffee grinds, mustard powder, and castor oil. It made no sense to me, but he survived and lives to this day. There may not have been much stock in Mother’s herbal remedies, but it will not hurt to try.”

  “By all means, try everything,” Andrew said.

  “Absolutely, your grace,” Dr. Lennox said, hurrying down the stairs, asking the butler the direction of the kitchen.

  Worry over Norah’s health was overpowering his anger at her poisoning, but the rage still simmered in his blood. Someone had tried to poison Clara, and Norah had paid the price.

  Clara came out of the room, standing a few feet away, her arms crossed around her midsection, like she was trying to hold herself together.

  “She will survive, Andrew,” Clara said, though she seemed as though she was trying to convince herself. “From what the doctor said it was the small dosage combined with the heat from the tea that probably saved her. Three hemlock leaves could take down a grown man if ingested fresh. Norah barely had a sip.”

  Andrew knew she was right, but he was still wracked with worry for his sister. What if his sister died? If he lost another sibling . . .

  Andrew shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts so he could figure out what to do next.

  “Where is she?” he asked. “Your maid?”

  “Beverell left with her,” Clara replied. Andrew turned, hurrying through the hall and down the stairs, seeking Howards who was standing beside the front door.

  “Where has Beverell taken the maid?” Andrew asked.

  “Your study, your grace,” Howards replied. Andrew did not spare a glance for Clara or offer her an arm as they both practically ran unceremoniously down the long hallway towards the study.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The maid’s tearful confession was proving to be more of a hindrance than informational.

  “Molly, please try and calm down,” Clara was saying to her, though Clara looked fed up with her maid’s dramatics. “What you know is no good if we cannot properly understand you.”

  “I’m sorry, milady,” Molly sobbed, gulping in great gasps of breath. “I am so v-very sorry about everything that has happened. It was not my f-fault, or my idea. I was just a p-p-pawn in their stupid games!” Molly sobbed over the word “games�
�� and her speech was lost again to her tears.

  This is ridiculous, Andrew thought. The maid was wasting time.

  “If you do not tell us what we want to know, I will have you hanged,” Andrew snapped at her. “You attempted to murder a member of one of England’s most prominent families. Answer my questions, or I will have you strung up like the common criminal you are.”

  This only made her wail louder, and Clara glared at him for his tactlessness. He shrugged and moved away from the sobbing woman and poured himself a drink and then another for Clara. Stepping back to them, he offered Clara the alcohol, which she took after a moment’s hesitation. She took a long sip, swallowing quickly before thrusting the crystal into the maid’s hands.

  “Drink this,” Clara ordered. “You need to calm down, Molly. I will not be able to stop his grace if he decides to have you arrested. However, if you help us he will be much more lenient. We just want to know what is happening and why.”

  Molly downed the contents of the cup, dabbing at her watering eyes with the corner of Clara’s delicate handkerchief.

  “Now, who is behind this?” Andrew asked, standing before her, feet apart and shoulders squared, his arms folded across his chest in irritation.

  Molly passed the glass back to Clara. “My brother,” she said and looked at Clara, “and your brother, the earl.”

  “Who is your brother?” Clara asked.

  “Joseph Baker,” Molly replied. “He used to be your father’s footman.”

  The name rang a bell. “The footman Lady Christina ran away with, perchance?” Andrew asked.

  Molly nodded. “She did not run away, they forced her to leave with him. They threatened your life, Lady Clara.”

  Clara nodded; they knew this already. “Do you know my brother’s motivations?”

  Molly shrugged. “I swear I do not know. When he came back, he told me he wanted me to apply to be your lady’s maid and to insinuate myself in his grace’s household. He said he needed me close to you. He only gave me those leaves a few days ago, though I had to persuade him to tell me what it was. He was not going to tell me, but I told him I had to know what it was so I knew how to properly administer it.”

  “But why?” Clara asked, her voice falling. “Why would you want to hurt me?”

  Molly started to cry again. “I’m sorry, milady, but he threatened my brother’s life. Joey’s been living up near Scotland in a big mansion, and the earl told me he’d cut off his head if I did not do as he asked. I was afraid for my brother’s life, you see. I had to help him.”

  Clara shook her head, her face falling in exhaustion. Yet another victim of Jonathan Masson’s smooth-talking tongue. Someone else’s life the earl had destroyed.

  “Is there anything else?” Andrew asked. “Any other assassination attempts we should know about?”

  Molly shook her head. “No, I know nothing more of the earl’s plans. I am just grateful he does not know about sweet Mary.”

  “Who?” Clara asked.

  “Mary,” she repeated, her tone a tad patronizing. “The baby your sister died bringing into this world. Only she did not die.”

  “The baby or Christina?” Clara asked.

  “Both,” Molly explained. “When news came of your sister’s death, I made my own subtle inquires. I went to the parsonage where she died, though they did not see me. I saw Lady Christina and her baby, and I knew she had faked her death, and I could only imagine why. So I kept my peace, knowing that everyone was better off thinking Lady Christina had died in childbirth.”

  “My sister is alive?” Clara asked, her eyes wide, brimming with tears.

  “Last time I saw her,” Molly replied.

  Reeling, Andrew poured himself another drink and another for Clara, though she declined. All this time, Christina was alive? He was shocked, though Clara must have been enraged. After all Clara had to endure at the disappearance of her sister, her time away from London, away from him. Andrew watched his new fiancée, hoping for some insight into her thoughts, but her face was blank and devoid of emotion.

  “Where is this parsonage?” Andrew asked, and Molly gave him the name and location. He waved in Beverell, and the footman came forward to take Molly to another room. “And send for Halcourt, please,” Andrew instructed the footman as the maid was removed from the room. Andrew did not sit beside Clara on the settee, watching her for signs of distress, searching her face for some sign of her thoughts.

  She looked to be breathing normally, though anyone else might have melted into hysterics. Andrew could only imagine how he would react had he learned Sam was alive after all this time—would he be angry? Pleased? Relieved? He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the distress of the past five minutes—of the past twelve hours—but for once he was at a loss for what to say.

  Clara was not as stunned as she ought to be. Of everything that had happened over the past three weeks, this was not so farfetched. Jonathan wanted to kill her for money she did not know she had, and he was instrumental in Christina’s disappearance, who had not died as previously thought, which meant Clara’s year of mourning was for naught. Though if she hadn’t stayed away from London until now, she wouldn’t have met Andrew again as she had, and she would not be basically taking her sister’s place as his fiancée. Just thinking of the circle of events was causing her head to spin.

  “Where on earth did you find a footman such as Beverell?” Clara asked absently as Andrew shifted his weight back and forth the between each foot. He did not seem to know what to do with himself.

  “My brother, Bennett,” he replied. “He has a habit of sending us people as gifts.”

  “People as gifts?” Clara asked, slightly appalled.

  “Not how it sounds,” Andrew answered. “In his travels he occasionally comes across people who are in a bad situation. He removes them from their circumstances and sends them here, where he knows I will offer him employment.”

  “How many has he sent you?”

  “Over the years?” Andrew thought for a moment. “Eight. He assured me that each one had come willingly, and we’ve never had any problems with those we have taken his advice and employed.”

  It certainly helped explain the staff’s complete devotion to the Macalister family. The long-lost Bennett was just another Macalister do-gooder.

  “Where is Beverell from?” Clara asked, not sure if she had ever heard him speak more than three words.

  “Brussels, I think,” Andrew replied.

  “Is Beverell his first name or surname?”

  “I never thought to ask,” Andrew replied. “You are rambling, Clara. Please, tell me how you are feeling.”

  Clara sighed, not even sure she understood the wash of emotions this new development sent crashing through her. “I am surprised, I think that would be the best way to describe how I am feeling. But I am not overset by the news. To think we were all here assuming the worst of Christina and she was enduring hardships no person should have to withstand. She must have known what Jonathan was capable of to feel the need to fabricate her own death.”

  “Sometimes I envy your empathy, Clara,” Andrew said, softly. “You should be livid or hurt by your sister’s deception, but instead you worry about what she has had to suffer. Your ability to think of others first is one of the most wonderful things about you.”

  Clara tilted her head up towards him. He stood, towering over her, and she wanted nothing more than for him to wrap his arms around her, to press a soft reassuring kiss to her lips. But that was not how things were to be between them.

  “Do not think I will put my sister before my own happiness,” Clara told him. “If she truly is alive, she is not taking you away from me.”

  “You will, of course, stay here while I travel to this parsonage and verify your maid’s claims.”

  “I will not,” Clara replied, and he sighed as though
he knew she was going to argue. “I have to see what happened, Andrew. This could have been me. Father could have chosen me instead of Christina; you could have chosen me instead of Christina. I could be the one missing, presumed dead, hiding in a parsonage to protect myself and my child. That could be my child. Christina was my sister, Andrew, and I lost her. I’ve lost everyone. My parents, my twin sister—gone; my younger brother went off to war, and my older brother has tried to have me killed. Don’t you see? All I have is you, and you can give this to me. Let me come with you. I have to see this through.”

  “Clara, we cannot just up and leave London on some wild goose chase,” he argued. “Who is to say if what the maid says is even true? It could be a lie spun by your brother.”

  “Molly said she saw Christina with her own eyes,” Clara countered.

  “And Molly just tried to poison you, and Norah was harmed in the process,” he reminded her, glaring. “Are you so quick to trust Molly? Or your brother?”

  Clara took a deep calming breath, trying to find the words to explain to him what she had felt for years.

  “Everything that I was ever told about Christina’s disappearance seemed off,” Clara said. “This seems right.”

  “Or do you just want so desperately for your sister to be alive?”

  “I want to know I am not stepping into her life!” Clara exclaimed.

  Andrew glared. “I explained to you the differences between you and your sister, but you are quick to deny any truth to those claims.”

  “I do not doubt your sincerity,” Clara began.

  “Then what?” he demanded. “You intended to treat me the same as your sister, why should you want anything different?”

  Clara turned away from his angry face, realizing how deeply she had hurt him. But she had no words to fix this, how could she?