“Now tell me what is really going on here,” he demanded, his tone clipped and angry.
The doctor looked at Lady Agatha sadly. “I know this is distressing for you, my lady, but it’s best we talk about it openly.”
Agatha appeared weary and so much older than Beatrice could comprehend as she nodded her assent. “Go ahead, Doctor. It is best if they know the truth, shameful as I find it.”
Dr. Warner patted her hand in a consoling manner before explaining, “Dr. Shepherd has been giving Lady Agatha laudanum for decades. Initially, it was to negate the stress of your disappearance, my lord, but when she elected to stop taking it, he concealed it in other medications that he prescribed. Since the accident where her son—you—disappeared, she has been consuming a highly addictive substance daily!”
“How can you know that?” Beatrice asked.
Dr. Warner patted Lady Agatha’s hand reassuringly. “The symptoms of opium addiction are quite easy to identify, Miss Marlowe, and unfortunately Lady Agatha has displayed them all. Also, I noted that her pupils were heavily dilated and she admitted to me that she had taken her medications just an hour earlier. That is a hallmark of opiate usage. But there is more at stake here than simply that. Her body has become dependent upon it and it takes more and more of the substance to have the same effect and, when it is not forthcoming, it results in illness. That explains a portion of her symptoms, but not all. I believe that some of the tonics she has been given are laced with foxglove.”
“Foxglove?” Beatrice exclaimed with horror. The poison was terrifyingly effective. “Foxglove is not something that is accidentally prescribed!”
“No, it isn’t,” Dr. Warner agreed. “But I do not think it has been prescribed. Nor do I believe that Lady Agatha has been betrayed by her loyal maid. I do, however, believe that someone who was unaware of Lady Agatha’s treatment with laudanum has hidden the poison amongst her regular medications.”
“Why would that matter?” Beatrice asked, clearly puzzled by the statement.
“Because, my dear Miss Marlowe,” the doctor explained, “laudanum counteracts many of the more harmful effects of foxglove. Were it not for Lady Agatha’s dependency on the rarified form of opium, no doubt the foxglove would have killed her already. Were they not administering it in such a small dose—well, I do not have to tell you what the consequences would be.”
Lady Agatha’s weeping intensified. “I cannot imagine who would do such a thing? Why?”
“Greed,” Graham answered softly. “But the question remains, who is responsible?”
“Let us first ascertain if I am correct,” Dr. Warner stated firmly. Turning to Lady Agatha, he explained patiently, “We will leave you to rest. Your maid will give you another reduced dosage of laudanum tonight so that we can begin weaning you off it. It will be difficult but I have no doubt that you will master this.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she replied tearfully just as Crenshaw returned.
“Here are the bottles you asked for,” the maid said stiffly.
“Come with us,” Dr. Warner urged her. “I want you to examine each of these bottles and tell me if they have been tampered with since you received them. We’re counting on you to help us determine who is trying to harm her ladyship.”
Beatrice watched the maid puff up under such importance and wondered just how trustworthy the doctor actually was. He had been charming with her, now he was charming Crenshaw. But he did appear competent and that was more than a step above Dr. Shepherd who thought every ailment experienced by women was imagined simply because they were women.
The stepped out into the small sitting room that abutted Lady Agatha’s chamber and Graham immediately began hounding the doctor with questions as Crenshaw diligently inspected each bottle. “How will you be able to determine if foxglove is present?”
“The first step will be removing this lot from her. She’ll be ill from the reduced dosages of laudanum, but within a sennight, she should be significantly improved,” Dr. Warner answered. “And while I will be doing my best to analyze the contents of each bottle based on how they react with other chemicals or components, it will be time consuming and tedious work that may not provide definitive answers. Sadly, I do not have the necessary equipment to complete true experimentation on the compounds, but I will do my best.”
“And if she’s not better?” Graham asked, waving a hand toward the bottles. “What if these elixirs and tonics were actually beneficial to her?”
“I will treat any symptoms as they arise, Lord Blakemore, but these remedies are not medication!” Dr. Warner exclaimed heatedly as he began sorting through the various bottles. “Galvin’s Tonic for Ladies, Sweet Rosebud Elixir for Nervous Conditions! Even the names are utterly ridiculous! These have been purchased from snake oil salesmen, from traveling confidence men peddling heaven knows what and calling it medicine!”
Graham rose. “I must see to this investigator who is here. I will trust your judgement, but if her health fails further—”
“She will worsen before she recovers,” the doctor warned again, “but I promise you, recover she will!”
“Why such small doses of foxglove, Doctor?” Beatrice asked. “Surely that would only delay death if murder was their intent.”
The doctor nodded his agreement. “Precisely, Miss Marlowe. If a person who has been ill for some time passes away, there is no reason to question it. However, if a person descends from the peak of health to keeling over unexpectedly, it might spur curiosity… it’s a devious way to go about it, to be sure!”
“The maid will show you to your chamber… this stays between us, Crenshaw,” Graham stated emphatically. “If whoever intended to harm her learns that we now know the truth of it, they may speed up or alter their plans in a way we cannot predict! For her safety and all of ours, we must go on as if the truth remains undiscovered. Is that clear?”
The maid nodded and bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, my lord. I’ll do whatever is necessary to see that my mistress is cared for.”
The doctor left the room accompanied by Crenshaw who would take him to his quarters, leaving Beatrice and Graham alone once more.
Alone, Beatrice looked at him. He was tired, lines forming at the corners of his mouth and there was a tension in him that made her want to do whatever was necessary to ease it. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked.
She walked toward him, taking his hand in hers, holding it tightly. “No, it is not. Whoever is plotting against Lady Agatha has been doing so for months. Had you not returned home to us, had you not demanded, much to the dismay of both Edmund and Christopher, that she be treated by a capable physician, we might never have known… murder would have been done, Graham, had you not returned to Castle Black!”
He met her gaze steadily. “I pray you are correct. But in the meantime, let us go and determine what it is Mr. Eaves knows… then we’ll discuss this further in private,” Graham suggested. “It is becoming more imperative by the minute that we get to the bottom of this.”
“You will have to see Mr. Eaves alone. The man makes me very uncomfortable… also, I believe the meeting will be more productive if he doesn’t feel the need to censor himself due to the presence of a lady,” Beatrice explained. It was not a task that she looked forward to, but there were still things that required her attention. “I need to have a talking to with all the female servants in the house lest they begin brawling over who gets to attend Dr. Warner. His presence has created quite a tizzy.”
“We are not finished, Beatrice. What happened last night and again this morning, we will discuss it.” He did not phrase it as a question and the heated look that he directed toward her relayed his meaning very clearly. Discussion was not what occupied his thoughts, at all.
Beatrice blushed, and mumbled her reply. “Very well.”
*
Graham watched her leave, enjoying the sway of her skirts with each step she took. She was a distraction at the moment and
one he could ill afford, but he took that moment of pleasure in watching her, committing it to memory to savor at leisure. He needed to be focused while speaking to the investigator. If Beatrice was correct and Eaves was less than above board, he needed to be able to fully ascertain what the man’s motives might ultimately be. There was far more at stake than his claim to the title. Lives were hanging in the balance.
Heading toward the kitchen and the small sitting room that was the housekeeper’s domain, he wondered what might be waiting for him. As he reached the door, a footman rushed ahead of him to open it for him. Apparently, even in the servants’ quarters, protocol was to be maintained.
Mr. Eaves was small in stature but his posture was outwardly belligerent. Chin up, arms crossed, chest puffed out—the man was obviously angry.
“Good evening, Mr. Eaves. I apologize for the delay. What news has brought you to Castle Black?” Graham kept his tone even and his expression, if not friendly, at least civil.
“News of you, my lord. Your miraculous resurrection from a watery grave, that is,” the man answered with a smug smile.
Graham raised one eyebrow at the man’s tone. “To my knowledge, Mr. Eaves, any talk of a watery grave was simply supposition. Therefore resurrection is an inaccurate accounting of the facts.”
“Mr. Blakemore sent word you’d arrived, my lord.” The last was offered with a sneer of disbelief. “I’ll be needing some information from you to confirm that you are who you say you are. It could take some time, you understand, checking and rechecking all the facts.”
“Ask your questions, Mr. Eaves. And mind your tone,” Graham said.
“You’re not the lord of this castle yet! My employer has not exhausted the means at his disposal to have you barred from this house!” the little man snapped.
“Because I am Lord Blakemore, I will allow your behavior to stand… for the moment,” Graham uttered in a soft warning. “Speak to me in that manner again, Eaves, and I will show you just how far from my gentlemanly birth I have strayed!”
The man heeded the warning and his next question was couched in a much more civil manner. “What was the name of the ship that rescued you?”
Graham sighed. He had no doubt the man was already aware of the information. He wasn’t looking for new information but confirmation of the facts he already had or, better yet, a slip up on his part. “It was the Marion Gale, captained by a man named Jasper Smith… I served as cabin boy on that ship for two years. I worked my way up through the ranks, but the ship foundered off the coast of Freeport after a pirate attack. From there I worked on numerous ships, some with more legitimate cargo than others. During a storm, the mast broke and I was struck on the head by one of the spars. I laid in a bed, senseless for days, at an inn in Freeport run by Captain Smith and tended to by Dr. Warner who is here now. That is when memory of my name returned. Once I had recovered, I began taking whatever positions were open on any ship that would bring me back to England.”
Mr. Eaves withdrew a small journal from his pocket, made a series of notes. “And is Captain Smith still in Freeport?”
“He remained in Freeport. He married a local woman, a widow, there and helped her take on the running of the inn that had been her late husband’s.” The facts were recited with little emotion. It felt almost as if he were speaking of someone else’s life. How strange it was that the short time he’d spent at Castle Black seemed more real to him than all the years before it.
“So you are close to this Captain Smith, then? One might even say he’s a father figure to you?” Mr. Eaves asked, a challenging note in his voice.
Graham would have laughed at the absurdity of such. Jasper Smith had been a harsh taskmaster, quick to bark orders and quicker still to punish at the slightest hesitation or anything he interpreted as disobedience. He’d also been quick enough to throw a young boy to the wolves to save his own thieving hide. The marks on his back were proof enough of that. “No. He is not. I was at his inn because they had a room and it was all I could afford. There was no sentiment involved in the choice. As to my time on his ship—Smith is now and always has been a bastard. Sadistic and quick with the lash.”
Eaves didn’t look perturbed or even especially surprised by the description. “I’ll be looking into all of this… if it doesn’t add up, I’ll be letting Mr. Blakemore know! If you’re an imposter, sir, you will be found out and held accountable.”
“You do that, Mr. Eaves. I have never claimed absolutely to be Lord Blakemore, only professed the belief that I may be. What others choose to believe is at their discretion for the time being.” Graham started to walk away, to let sleeping dogs lie. But some sixth sense prompted him to alter that plan. He turned back to Eaves and added, “What was it you were looking for in the library, Eaves?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the man denied instantly.
Graham laughed. “I trust you as little as you trust me, sir. You’ll be closely monitored every moment you remain under this roof, now and forever more.”
Eaves’ eyes narrowed and his fists clenched tight around the journal he held. “You’ve taken to the role of lord of the manor quite well, I see.”
“Some things one never forgets,” Graham answered. “Before a footman shows you out, you will empty your pockets.”
Eaves bristled at that. “You’ve no right to demand such things!”
Graham cocked his eyebrow and stared the man down. “I’ve every right. Miss Marlowe saw you pilfering through items on the desk in the library. Either you were taking something that didn’t belong to you or you were searching for information for reasons I cannot fathom. I’ll have the truth out of you one way or another. Pockets. Now.”
“And if I refuse?” the man demanded. It was clear that he believed having the backing of Edmund Blakemore offered him some protection. He could not have been more wrong.
A smile spread across Graham’s face, but it was not a warm expression. The events of the last few days had begun to wear on him and the idea of planting his fist in the man’s face held more than a little appeal. He took one menacing step forward and then another, until he towered over Eaves. He stood close enough to smell the brandy the man had no doubt filched. “Refusal isn’t an option, Mr. Eaves. You misunderstand me if you think it was a request and not an order. You empty them or I will empty them for you.”
The investigator blanched. Whether it had been his tone, his expression or his proximity that highlighted the very different nature of their physiques, Eaves must have felt suitably threatened. He began emptying his pockets, producing little of interest until it came to a folded piece of paper that he tried too hard to make seem insignificant.
“What is that?”
“It’s only a letter,” he replied dismissively, his expression of false innocence patently obvious.
“A letter from whom?” Graham demanded. At the man’s hesitation, he snapped, “Do not test me, Eaves!”
“It’s a letter I wrote to Mr. Blakemore last winter,” the man admitted reluctantly. “It wasn’t very long after I was employed by her ladyship, at Mr. Blakemore’s discretion, to find the missing heir.”
It wasn’t simply a letter or he would not have gone to such lengths to lay hands on it again. “Why did you take it?”
“I didn’t!” he denied hotly. “I’m no thief!”
“Give it to me.”
When the man didn’t move to comply, Graham grasped his wrist. As the man flinched and cowed, he snatched the missive from his hand. Unfolding it, the information contained within changed everything.
“Did you take this from the desk?” Graham snapped.
“Yes. I was searching his desk for other letters we’d exchanged about all this.”
“Damn you! Why?” Graham shouted.
“I wanted more money,” Eaves admitted with a tremor. “I figured if I had proof that he’d known you were out there and that he’d done nothing about it, and in fact tried to stop it, I could get more money out of him. Fi
gured Mr. Blakemore would pay me to be quiet. And I wanted him to know he couldn’t hang me out to dry for it all—that I had proof he was just as guilty as me of keeping secrets from the old woman!”
Graham shoved the letter into his own pocket and met the man’s gaze with a chilly one of his own. “When you leave this house, you will not return. If you need to see Mr. Blakemore for anything you will do so while he is in London. Get out.”
As Graham made his way through the kitchens, the housekeeper stopped him. “What shall we do about dinner tonight, my lord?”
“Serve it,” he answered shortly.
“We have guests, my lord,” she reminded him and looked at him with expectation, as if he would have some great wisdom to impart.
Assessing the situation, Graham provided the information he thought she wanted from him. “Mr. Eaves is not staying and Dr. Warner is not a guest. He’s here to treat Lady Agatha. He will be attending her this evening, so a tray sent up for him will suffice. Edmund has gone to London so it would only be Beatrice, Mrs. Blakemore and myself at dinner, and Christopher, if he bothers to show.”
She nodded. “Yes, my lord. Master Christopher has gone out at any rate. I saw him ride out toward the village just moments ago… he likes to spend time at the inn there. It’s not a very nice place… lots of immoral goings-on there.”
It had been uttered with disapproval and no doubt with the notion that he would do something about it. It was, at the moment, the very least of his concerns. But rather than offend the woman, Graham nodded. “Thank you for letting me know. Given the small number, prepare trays and have them sent up. We will all dine in our chambers tonight.”
With his head whirling with what he had learned, Graham went in search of the one person who could help him make sense of it all—Beatrice.
Chapter Fifteen
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 86
