by Candice Hern
"Did you go to Dr. Urquhart?"
"No."
He looked up. "Why not?"
"I cannot explain it, but I didn't want anyone to know. If my family knew I had Mama's disease, they would know I was going to die. I did not want them to know that. I could not bear it."
"But you said a doctor had confirmed the diagnosis?"
"Yes. I decided I had to know for sure, but I could not go to Dr. Urquhart, who would feel obliged to tell my father. So I went to Exeter one day with my sisters. I told them I wanted to visit the lending library while they shopped. Instead, I went to see a physician, using a different name."
Sir Nigel's mouth puckered with disdain. "And what did he say?"
"He said I had the same disease as my mother."
"But he did not name the disease?"
"No."
He dropped his notebook onto his lap and glared at Rosie with undisguised contempt. "And what did you want of me, Miss Lacey? A more positive diagnosis? I assure you I have not achieved this level of my profession by telling people what they want to know rather than what they need to know."
"Oh no, sir," she said, surprised he would think such a thing. "No, I am quite certain of the diagnosis. I wanted to see you simply to have a physician in London aware of my condition. You see, the headaches have begun again."
"What do you mean, begun again? They stopped?"
"Yes. Since I've been in London these last few weeks, I've had no headache until today."
"And you experienced the same symptoms this morning?"
"Yes. Well, sort of."
"Sort of?"
"It... it was not exactly the same this time."
"Was there dizziness?"
"Yes."
"Disorientation?"
"Yes."
"Blurred vision."
"No."
"Coldness in your extremities?"
"No."
"Ringing in your ears?"
"Sort of, though not the same as before. Every sound seemed to echo in my head like a Chinese gong."
"And how do you feel now?"
"Much better, thank you."
"The headache has passed?"
"For the most part."
Sir Nigel rose to his feet and began to pace. He massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, as though he, too, suffered the headache. "Miss Lacey, your story confounds me. You say you have your mother's disease, yet you have no idea what that disease is. Based on a few very common symptoms, I cannot help but believe you are making a gross assumption of fatality."
"You did not see my mother, Sir Nigel. I tell you, I have exactly the condition she had."
He stopped pacing, turned, and skewered her to the spot with his steely glare. "You will, I trust, allow me a tad more expertise in this area, Miss Lacey. You develop symptoms and do not tell the one doctor who might be able to help you, who treated your mother's illness. You visit another doctor, quite unknown to you, who confirms your own diagnosis, without even knowing what he is diagnosing. I suggest to you, Miss Lacey that no physician worthy of his profession would confirm an unknown diagnosis. I promise you I will not, if that's what you had hoped."
"I do not need your confirmation, Sir Nigel," Rosie said, exasperated at the man's arrogance. Just because he did not make the diagnosis, he found it suspect. The pompous ass! "No, sir, I thought only that you might perhaps prescribe something to relieve the headache, when it comes again. I cannot avoid death, it seems, but I should like to be as comfortable as possible in the meantime."
"You've been in London how long?"
"Almost three weeks."
"And this is the first occurrence of the headache?"
"Yes."
"What did you do last evening, Miss Lacey?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Did you go out last evening?"
"Yes."
"To several parties, I daresay."
"Yes. And the theater."
"The theater, too. How nice. And did you have anything to drink at these parties?"
"Yes." Rosie could see where this was heading and she did not like it one bit.
"What did you drink, Miss Lacey?"
"I do not believe it signifies—"
"What did you have to drink?" His tone brooked no equivocation.
"Wine. And champagne."
"Quite a lot of it, I would wager."
Rosie shrugged and would not dignify his implication with a direct answer. The truth was she had consumed a substantial amount of champagne. But it had tasted so very good.
"Miss Lacey," Sir Nigel said through clenched teeth, "you have wasted my time. The symptoms you have described to me are exactly what one might expect after a night of too much champagne. That is the source of your headache, not some mysterious disease."
"That's as may be, Sir Nigel. I admit I am not accustomed to champagne. But that does not mean that I do not also suffer severe pain due to my condition. I am not one of your swooning, vaporish females, I promise you. I do not feign illness to draw attention to myself. Quite the contrary. I do suffer from my mother's disease. Of that I am quite, quite certain."
"You may be right," he said. "You may indeed have contracted a fatal condition, one that is perhaps hereditary. However, I have too little information to go on. And despite my professional instinct that this is mere foolishness, I confess I am intrigued. Your mother's case was real enough, and that interests me. I should like to contact this Dr. Urquhart and get all the medical details of your mother's illness."
"No!"
He gave her another one of those flinty looks that surely intimidated all his other patients into doing exactly what he asked. "I promise not to mention your name, if you insist on this ridiculous secrecy, Miss Lacey. I shall simply tell him I have a patient who is related to the late Lady Lacey and suspects she may have the same disease. I will ask for your mother's history so I may be more precise in my own diagnosis."
"I don't know. I don't want—"
"I promise. No names. And when I hear back from him, I will let you know what I have discovered."
Rosie gave a deep sigh. She could tell the man was not going to give up. "All right. But I will have your pledge of confidentiality."
"Have I not given it, Miss Lacey? More than once? Now, I will have the direction of Dr. Urquhart, if you please."
Chapter 7
"Why the frown, Fanny? Do not tell me your charge has done something to displease you?"
Max had just arrived, admittedly late, at Almack's. Mr. Willis was ready to close the doors when Max had bounded through the entrance. He had been in the midst of an extraordinary winning streak at Brooks's and had been loathe to depart. It was only his promise to dance with Rosalind that prevented him from playing on into the wee hours.
If truth be told, it was not an entirely honorable commitment to a promise. He wanted to waltz with Rosalind, and not because he was obliged to do so. Max could hardly wait to take the girl in his arms and glide her through the dance, to hold her close, to feel her waist beneath his hand, to breathe in her scent, to gaze down into her flashing eyes.
He could not believe he was having such thoughts about an innocent rustic. She was not his style at all, but had somehow got under his skin. He must attempt to keep these foolish impulses under control. Despite her years, Rosalind was a green girl. She was not for him.
He had noticed her the moment he'd entered the room: a vision in scarlet among the white-clad debutantes. Max wondered if it was Fanny's doing that saw her niece so frequently in shades of red, or if the girl wore it simply to shock. No matter. She looked best in red. It suited her coloring and her unquenchable high spirits.
Rosalind's spirits appeared particularly high tonight as she danced the quadrille with Rodney Oswald- Jones.
Max looked back at Fanny, who still frowned. "Fanny? What has the minx done?"
"Nothing at all." She schooled her features into a smile that did not reach her eyes.
; A tall, gray-haired gentlemen stepped up behind Fanny and said, "She is not displeased with Rosalind. She is concerned. Good evening, my dear." Lord Eldridge brought Fanny's gloved fingers to his lips. Max wondered when Fanny would put the besotted man out of his misery and marry him.
"Hush, Jonathan," Fanny said in an undertone, and directed her eyes toward the dance floor.
Max followed her gaze. "Egad, Fanny, do not tell me you are worried about that fatuous tulip, Oswald-Jones? The man's safe as milk."
"I have no objection to the young man," Fanny said, "except perhaps for that peacock-blue waistcoat with the lavender embroidery. What could he have been thinking? Do you suppose he merely seeks attention, or does he truly believe the thing is remotely acceptable?"
"Do not try to fob me off with non sequiturs, my dear," Max said. "Eldridge says you are concerned. What has happened?"
Fanny shot a look of displeasure toward Lord Eldridge, but then gave a resigned sigh. "I am sure it is nothing. And I am also sure Rosalind will not appreciate my telling you. Or you either, Jonathan. So I will trust both of you to keep this matter to yourselves."
"Of course, Fanny." Max experienced a moment of apprehension that Rosalind had, as he'd predicted, landed herself into some kind of trouble. For some inexplicable reason, the notion did not sit well with him.
"If you must know," Fanny said, "I am concerned for the girl's health."
"Her health?" Max looked across the floor at the dazzling figure of Rosalind, gracefully but energetically stepping through the dance, pure enjoyment radiating from the smile on her face. Her health was the last thing he would expect her aunt, or anyone else, to be concerned about.
"She spent almost an hour this morning with Sir Nigel Leighton," Fanny said.
Her words brought Max up short. "Leighton?" Good Lord, it must be something serious. The man was physician to most of the London aristocracy, but was especially noted for his no-nonsense, somewhat dispassionate approach to medicine. He did not suffer fools, and had been known to walk out on those who wasted his time on self-indulgent nervous conditions. He would not have spent an hour on a trifling case of the vapors.
"Why did he come?" Max asked. "She looks perfectly fit to me."
"She asked for a doctor," Fanny said. "She would not tell me why."
How curious. The girl must have a secret. All sorts of interesting possibilities leapt to mind. "What did Leighton say when he left?"
"Nothing," Fanny said, almost spitting out the word in disgust. "He would not tell me anything, save to remind me in no uncertain terms that what was said between a doctor and his patient was private. Controlling my urge to strike the impudent man, I asked for a simple reassurance that Rosalind was not unwell. As her aunt, I felt I had the right to know of anything serious. But all he would say was that I should not worry. How can I not worry? If nothing were amiss, why did he spend so long with her?"
Max's imagination spun off into all sorts of directions, most of them less than respectable, some downright scandalous. But if Rosalind was in that sort of trouble, it was unlikely to have happened in London. She'd only been here a few weeks. Was she not, after all, the innocent he believed her to be?
"You have grown fond of the girl, my dear," Eldridge said. "It is only natural to be concerned. But I cannot believe Leighton would not at least have given you a hint if there was something seriously wrong."
"I agree," Max said, thinking it best not to dwell on the topic. "If the most respected physician in London says not to worry, then I shouldn't worry. I declare, Fanny, you have become a veritable mother hen."
"Hateful boy! I am nobody's hen and I'll thank you to remember that. I am fond of Rosalind. That is all."
"Just so," Eldridge agreed.
"She is so different from what I expected," Fanny said, "so vibrant, so alive, so eager to do everything."
"Which includes flouting propriety at every opportunity," Max said.
"I know!" Fanny's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Is it not delicious? What do you suppose Edmund will say when he discovers his eldest daughter has become the talk of the town?"
"You are a bad woman," Max said. "Eldridge, what are we to do with her? She is hoping for trouble."
"If I know Fanny," Eldridge said, and winked at her, "she is merely looking for a bit of spice to flavor a dull Season."
"You are quite right, Jonathan, darling," she said. "Besides, I like her. I enjoy her. In fact, I cannot recall when I have so enjoyed a Season. She has more life in her than I would ever have expected from any of Edmund's brood."
"She's too lively by half," Max said, grinning. "And so irrepressibly high-spirited, she makes one's head spin. She's up to anything, I'll give her that. Intrepid as they come. You ought to have seen her driving Aldrich's team the other day. What a stir she caused!"
"So I heard." Fanny beamed with such pride it was all Max could do not to burst out laughing. Mother hen, indeed.
"And you are right," he went on, "she wants to do absolutely everything, or so she says. I tell you, she quite exhausts me just listening to all her plans."
"I know," Fanny said. "She has a list."
"Does she? Next you will tell me she has a guidebook as well."
"She bought a copy of The Picture of London the day after she arrived."
"Egad!" Max gave a shudder. "How horribly quaint." He reconsidered his interesting speculations based on Leighton's visit. He could not reconcile the idea of a fast sophisticate with someone who came to London with a pokey little guidebook and a list of things to do.
The quadrille had ended and Rosalind stood surrounded by an impressive company of swains. She had a smile, a word, a laugh for each one of them, and they buzzed about her like bees seeking nectar. Damn, but the woman confounded him. Truly, he could not decide if she was an innocent rustic stretching her wings, or a practiced flirt. Or, paradoxically, a bit of both?
Max turned his back to the vulgar spectacle in time to see several plumed and jeweled matrons glaring indignantly in Rosalind's direction. Stealing their charges' beaux again, he supposed, and putting all their insipid little chits in the shade with her bold red ensemble. He could hardly blame the gentlemen.
Rosalind was something new, something different. Whereas most of Society preferred an appearance of ennui, a total indifference to everything and everyone—an attitude Max himself had honed to perfection—Rosalind was unashamed in her excitement, her enthusiasm, her amusement, her gaiety. The pure joy of life glowed in her eyes and her radiant smile and her unreserved laughter.
Max had never known anyone quite like Rosalind Lacey. And neither had any of the other men clustered about her.
"Rosalind may be a grown woman," Fanny said, "but perhaps I really ought to keep a closer eye on her after all. She does seem to attract all sorts, does she not?"
"Indeed," Max said.
"Why, even Overton has entered her circle. I would not have thought her his type, but—"
"What?" Max spun around to see Lord Overton kissing Rosalind's outstretched hand. The man was a notorious libertine with the face of an Adonis. He was a devil, a cad, a blackguard of the first degree. Yet no woman seemed immune to his charm. Max could not bear to think of his innocent Rosalind succumbing to the man's oily seduction.
"I believe it is time for my waltz," he said, and hurried to the bandstand where he slipped the orchestra leader a five-pound note to change the order of tunes.
* * *
"Did I not tell you, Jonathan?" Fanny said when Max was out of earshot. She tried without success to suppress a grin. "The boy is smitten."
"You provoked him."
"I did no such thing. I simply mentioned Overton."
"Overton," Lord Eldridge said, "the only man in town ever to best Davenant. Stole Lady Fallon right from under his nose."
"Yes, poor Max did not fare well in that little escapade. He's never forgiven Overton. But his blond lordship is a formidable rival: devilishly handsome, charming, a clever seducer. If yo
u want my opinion, the entire episode did Max a world of good. A taste of failure now and again builds character. Max was becoming too sure of himself. Too complacent. Bored with the game."
"Davenant is always bored."
Fanny smiled as she watched her young friend talking with the orchestra leader, exerting himself to a degree she had not seen in years. "Not any more."
* * *
Rosie could barely concentrate on all the gentlemen surrounding her, though they offered compliments and flattery enough to swell her head to bursting. Ever since she had seen Max Davenant arrive, she could think of nothing but that waltz he'd promised.
She had thought he wasn't coming and could barely contain her disappointment. The morning's headache and Sir Nigel's visit served to remind her of how little time she had left. She must not waste another moment. With every intention of making this evening especially memorable, Rosie had taken extra care to look her best tonight. She wore her favorite dress of crimson silk over a darker red satin slip edged in pink tulle quilling. A fillet of tiny pink blossoms had been woven through her short curls, and she even wore new pink kid slippers.
She had begun to believe her efforts had been wasted. The orchestra had already played one waltz, and Rosie had been tempted to dance it with someone else, though she would have been disappointed to do so. For some reason, she had got hold of the notion that she must dance the first waltz with Max and no one else. She had even dreamed about it the night before, about twirling around an empty dance floor in Max's arms, his liquid brown eyes smiling down into hers. But when hours went by without his making an appearance, Rosie had begun to consider another partner.
As it happened, she was spared the decision, for no one had asked her to waltz. The gentlemen of the ton seemed determined to honor the silly Almack's rule. It was a mystery how they knew she had not been granted the precious permission to waltz, but it appeared to be generally understood. So she had sat out the first waltz with Fanny and watched with envy as other couples twirled about the floor.
