Snowed By the Wallflower (Revenge of the Wallflowers #48)

Chapter 6

Brushing past Ridgemont, Bel knelt by the bed, pulled off Sophie’s pelisse, and began unbuttoning her gown. “Susan, fetch Lady Sophie’s nightgown! Also, water and clean toweling,” she said without looking up. The girl scurried away.

Bel sensed the earl hovering behind her, but refused to look at him. “You must leave, your lordship. Spare my cousin her blushes.” She turned to fetch a cloth from the washstand and came face to face with him, still in the doorway, his expression grim. He wasn’t peering at Sophie; he was studying Bel.

“I asked you to leave. A gentleman would…”

He blinked. “Yes, of course. I will go back to check on the rest of the party. I had the food locked away, but who knows how many people were sickened.”

Bel’s stomach clenched. How did George bungle my orders?

“We will talk about this when your cousin is well, Miss Westcott. We will talk about this.” He left before she could answer him.

Angels above, did he guess? Bel forced the thought away. She had to focus on what she’d done to her cousin. There would be time for guilt and remorse later.

Susan returned with fresh water. “Let me help with that gown, Miss Westcott.” The two of them had her out of it soon enough, and washed the worst of the sick away.

At Bel’s orders, the maid fetched lavender soap, and they washed her again before removing her soiled chemise. In all the commotion, Sophie groaned and begged for a basin. Long minutes later, the girl lay back limp and pale, her eyes closed. They managed to get her into a clean nightgown without setting her off again.

“Fetch the clean wash bowl from the washstand in my room and then empty this one,” Bel ordered.

Bel laid wet cloths on Susan’s forehead. The incoherent noises Sophie made worried her. The dose in the flagon had been prepared for a man of Ridgemont’s size and weight. It was far too much for a little wren like Sophie.

She grabbed up a paper from the tiny desk in the corner of Sophie’s room and wrote out instructions for fetching peppermint and yarrow. She didn’t trust the kitchen to make the tea so she asked for the containers.

Susan returned, set down the clean basin and picked up the dirty one. “Can you read, Susan?” Bel asked.

“Not well, miss. But I know my letters,” the girl replied.

“Good. Look at these words carefully.” Bel pointed to the names of the herbs printed on the bottom. “Ask Mrs. Wesley to let you in my laboratory and fetch the jars with these names on them. Only these two. Can you do that?”

“I think so, Miss. Will it help my lady?”

“Yes. It should. Tell Mrs. Wesley we need hot water, a large teapot, and a footman to help you fetch and carry. Do you understand?”

“Yes, miss.” Susan dashed off.

Bel sank to the chair, and picked up Sophie’s hand, wallowing in guilt and fear. Perhaps Sophie had expelled the cephaelis ipecacuanha syrup completely—all Bel could do was hope, soothe her, and try an herbal tisane to calm her stomach.

Aunt Violet burst through the door. She leaned over to Bel’s ear and whispered. “I heard… That is, did Sophie become ill on the ice? Carlton told me Ridgemont marched right through the house and up the stairs carrying her.”

While Bel took a moment to formulate an answer, Aunt Violet went on breathlessly. “Ridgemont! Think of it. And several people saw. There is talk downstairs, and Dinah Beckwith is quite out of sorts over it.”

“Ridgemont was a perfect gentleman. Her stomach was?—”

“Yes, yes!” Aunt Violet waved unpleasant words away. She dropped her voice again. “Talk may reach London. Whatever will her mother say to me.”

“There is no scandal, here, Aunt,” Bel said. “At least not to Sophie.”

Aunt Violet gasped. “Has anyone else been sick? This isn’t another one of those… Those accidents, is it?” She didn’t have to explain what she meant by “another.”

“There was nothing deliberate,” Bel said through clenched teeth. That was not entirely true; Bel intended the tainted hot chocolate. But Sophie hadn’t been the target. “I don’t believe anyone else has taken ill. Ridgemont has gone back to make certain.”

“Then Sophie got some spoiled food. This time I will truly fire the cook. Even you can’t keep her tip top.” She rose and shook out her skirts. “We’ll just have to contain the scandal.”

Susan interrupted them, followed by two footmen carrying two teapots, fresh sheets, and fresh towels. Susan bobbed a curtsey to the countess, glanced from one woman to the other, and handed Bel two vials. “I hope I did this right, Miss.”

Bel examined the containers of herbs. Peppermint and yarrow. “Exactly right, Susan. Thank you.

“Sophie will get well, won’t she?” Aunt Violet asked belatedly, a slight squeak in her voice.

“I believe so, though she may be weak for a day or two. We’ll do our best to ease her upset,” Bel replied.

“Good. I will manage the talk. Still, Ridgemont’s care is all to the good, I expect.” With a swish of skirts, she left Bel to attend her cousin, clean up the sick room, and try not to worry about the loss of the compliant Mrs. Wesley in the kitchen.

No one else had become ill. Not one other person. The young people had continued their fun as if nothing had happened, but they all skated over when John arrived to ask about Lady Sophie. He assured them she would be well.

With relieved smiles and happy waves, they skated on. John hoped he was right about Sophie’s condition. He was certain now that the chocolate in the “gentlemen’s” flagon had been the source. He was equally certain it had been intended for him, not his partner. He couldn’t forgive himself if she was injured in his place.

When he looked for the flagon, however, it had disappeared. So had the footman, George, who had been eager to dump out the remains after Sophie took the mug.

Why would a footman try to humiliate a guest? He wouldn’t. John pondered that issue as he marched back to the house, certain the footman may have been an accomplice, but he wasn’t the perpetrator.

By the time he reached the front steps, he was equally certain that, however much Belinda Westcott may have been an innocent victim in the episode at the Haverford venetian breakfast, she was guilty as sin this time.

But why?

John stood in front of Lady Sophie’s suite and feared he knew why. Guilt curled up his neck. He turned to leave. After all, he had no business in a lady’s room. Several steps later he stopped.

Miss Westcott didn’t intend her actions for her cousin, much less anyone else among the guests. She must be worried sick.

She answered his knock promptly. “Come in, George.”

“It isn’t George,” he said, a spurt of anger pushing other emotions aside. “How is she?” he asked from the doorway.

Miss Westcott glanced over her shoulder and back at the girl on the bed. “Better. We seem to have quieted her stomach, but she is weak.” The lady rested quietly, to John’s relief.

“If you have more instructions for your collaborator they will have to wait.”

Miss Westcott leapt to her feet and turned to face him; eyes wide. “I— I don’t…” she choked out.

“We’ll worry about George when we have that conversation that I promised you. I came to tell you no one else got sick. You didn’t hurt anyone else.”

The relief in her expression was palpable. Pride quickly brushed it aside; she raised her chin. “What do you mean? Are you assuming the Westcott Menace is at work here?”

He cringed when she threw the horrid nickname in his face. She had backbone; he’d give her that.

“There is no assumption. I’m sure of several things. We’ll speak about them when Lady Sophie is well.” He turned on his heels and gave her no opportunity to answer.