Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Fulham Palace, the Bishop of London’s residence, exuded an old-world elegance, its ivy-covered walls and quaint leaded windows giving a sense of storied history and quiet charm.
Mr Gentry’s need to have the bishop process their application quickly, reflected a deep concern for the future. Had rumours about the auction reached his ears? Had he discovered something sinister in Mr Merrick’s past? Did fears of the unknown assailant drive his urgency to secure the document?
The answer became apparent when Mr Gentry’s carriage pulled into the cobbled courtyard and they alighted to speak to the Earl and Countess of Berridge. The couple stood at the palace’s heavy oak doors as if preparing to leave, not seek entrance.
“You’ve had a wasted journey,” Aaron Chance said, a thread of annoyance in his tone. “We arrived as your grandfather was leaving. The bishop agreed to a fortnight’s grace before considering your application.”
Mr Gentry stiffened. “A fortnight? On what grounds?”
Joanna looked rather pale as she took a calming breath. “Your grandfather seeks confirmation of Miss Moorland’s age and marital status. He was quite insistent. The fact she has no dowry causes the viscount some concern.”
“But I do have a dowry,” Sofia informed them, “from my paternal grandmother. The document is held at Waters & Finch solicitors in Newcastle Street.”
It was her only safeguard from an uncertain future.
Mr Gentry blinked in surprise. “You never mentioned it.”
“I would have if we’d decided to marry. With the interest gained, it’s worth a thousand pounds and is tied to a marriage contract until my twenty-eighth birthday. If I remain unwed, I can draw the funds as an allowance.”
“Do the Merricks know?” Joanna said.
“I suspect so, but Judith avoided the topic.” Her stepmother had taken every document from the study to store in a secret location. Whenever Sofia asked questions about money or her father’s will, Mr Merrick’s menacing stare rendered her mute.
“So you planned to hide abroad for the next five years,” Mr Gentry stated as if the idea had merit, “and return to claim a yearly portion.”
“As you know, that was my second option. A foolish idea to pursue a career in medicine led me to think I might hide in London.” The prospect of working was like a beacon of hope in the darkness, one Mr Gentry had lit with his own hands. “One’s passion can be a hindrance.”
“Not always,” he said as if referring to their last kiss.
Aaron Chance spoke up. “I doubt news of your dowry will appease the bishop. Now that questions about the marriage’s legality have been raised, he will proceed with caution. Perhaps a letter from the solicitor would suffice.”
Sofia nodded. “I can visit the office on Monday, though we no longer need a licence. We’ve settled on a plan that suits us better.”
A simple plan that didn’t bind them together for life.
“Yet I’m determined to acquire one,” Mr Gentry said with some vehemence. “If only to spite my grandfather.” He explained they had agreed on a fake marriage until the murderer was caught, and the Merricks gave up their pursuit of her virtue. “He’s visiting his country estate for a few days and cannot discount the claim.”
“We will confide in the viscount when he returns from Chesham Park,” Sofia added, feeling happier now she wasn’t forcing Mr Gentry up the aisle with a metaphorical blade to his back. “We’ll make no formal announcement but will ensure the Merricks hear the news.”
Joanna gave a disapproving frown. “And when the truth comes to light, what then? Mr Gentry will remain unscathed while your reputation lies in tatters. He’ll receive a congratulatory slap on the back at White’s while you will be shunned and called a harlot.”
Shame, as heavy as a falling tombstone, crushed Sofia’s chest.
Perhaps running was her only option. It was better than spending her life tied to a man whose desire mellowed to indifference. It was pointless pretending she could marry for convenience, not when her admiration for Mr Gentry might develop into something more profound.
“I shall do what all scandalous women do,” she said, determined not to cry. “I’ll leave England for the Continent.”
“How very Byronesque,” Joanna said, pausing to take another deep breath. “Let’s pray those abroad admire your rebellious spirit.” She shared a strange look with Mr Gentry, a silent message that caused him to give a curt nod.
“We’ll meet at Daventry’s office on Monday,” Aaron Chance said. “Hopefully, his investigators will have information from those working at the Hare and Hounds. Finding the fiend who murdered O’Connor will bring us closer to the truth.” He glanced at his wife as she gripped his arm to steady her balance. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine.” Joanna’s strained smile said she was not fine.
“I said there was something off about the salmon last night,” the earl complained. “You looked pale when you woke this morning.”
“It’s not the salmon,” she said, turning her attention back to Sofia. “Ask the solicitor for written proof of your age, marital status and dowry, and we will give it to Mr Daventry. He has friends in Whitehall who will speak to the bishop. Regardless of your plans, gaining a licence is a wise move, and Aaron can secure a clergyman at a moment’s notice.”
Mr Gentry agreed. “We must prepare for every eventuality. I’ll not allow my grandfather to manipulate me as he did my parents.”
Matters had become complicated, Sofia realised.
Marrying was about more than saving her from the Merricks or from ruin if they did something sinful when they kissed. The more his grandfather tried to control him, the more Mr Gentry rebelled.
“I shall visit the solicitor first thing Monday morning and have the information with Mr Daventry before noon. We can—” Sofia stopped abruptly when Joanna closed her eyes and clutched her chest.
Aaron Chance looked like his world was about to come crashing down. He captured his wife around the waist. “Let me carry you to the carriage. We’ll have Gentry examine you.”
“I don’t need a doctor, just a chamber pot and a fan. The nausea and dizziness will pass. Besides, I saw Dr Fisher this morning when you met with your brothers at Fortune’s Den.”
“Dr Fisher?” The life drained from the man’s face. “Why the devil didn’t you mention it before?”
Joanna laid a calming hand on her husband’s chest. “I planned to tell you at home tonight, but you’ll probably die of apoplexy if I don’t settle your fears.”
“You’re not sick?”
“No, Aaron. I am with child.”
He stilled, though his throat worked tirelessly. “With child?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. You’re an intelligent man. If you consider what happens between us most days, you can make the calculation.” She smiled as she smoothed her hand over her abdomen. “With God’s grace, you’ll be a father in early autumn.”
Sofia tried to avert her gaze to allow the couple a private moment, but tears welled in Aaron Chance’s eyes, the shocking spectacle holding her entranced.
He coughed to clear his throat.
He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t.
Joanna swept her arms around his neck. “Are you happy, my love? Is your heart full of joy like mine?”
Mr Chance gazed at his wife like she was the air he breathed. “It’s so damn full it might burst.” Warmth radiated from him, an inner glow of love he could not disguise. “You know I’ll not let you out of my sight.”
“I know,” she said, sounding happy in her surrender.
Mr Gentry cupped Sofia’s elbow and drew her away.
His touch had the restless thrum of desire coursing through her, a fickle feeling without substance. “I dare you to look at them and tell me true love does not exist,” she said. “Love can transform people, whether it lasts a month, a year or a lifetime.”
What must it be like to feel that level of devotion?
As a woman without means, she had no choice but to focus on earning a living. But to love someone unconditionally, was that not the greatest of life’s gifts?
“I’ve seen what happens when love turns to despair,” he said, his cynicism like a medal of honour he wore with pride. “Love is like a slow walk off the plank. Few are destined to survive.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Of course not. I avoid it at all costs.”
Was that why he’d made such a grand gesture at the Hare and Hounds? Did he believe they were in no danger of being anything more than friends and perhaps occasional lovers?
“May I ask why?” Should they be forced to marry, it was important to rid herself of any delusions. “At this stage, I feel it’s vital we’re honest.”
Mr Gentry’s sigh sounded like it came from the soul. “My mother loved my father until the day she died. My father loved her enough to sever ties with his family, but those feelings dissipated as quickly as a morning mist. Losing him broke her heart.”
Sofia’s parents had shared a stoic love rooted in respect and friendship, not a burning desire to kiss rampantly and live under each other’s skin.
“Love is imperfect. There is still beauty in its impermanence, in a sunset that fades, in a rose that blooms in the summer sun, in an embrace that lives in the memory long after a loved one has departed.”
“There is no beauty in betrayal,” he snapped.
Sofia stopped to consider the point.
“No, you’re right,” she admitted. Judith’s betrayal was a blight on every happy memory. Sofia found it hard not to blame her father, not to see him as a weak fool instead of the kind, intelligent man she loved. “I’m sorry for suggesting otherwise.”
Mr Gentry’s blue eyes softened. “Don’t be sorry. Friends value each other’s opinions, even when they disagree. Which is why we must be honest about the nature of our relationship.”
It was hard to know what they meant to each other.
“In that we’re friends and colleagues who’ve kissed?”
Kissing failed to describe what happened when their mouths met. It was more an explosion of raw emotions. A desperate need for something she could not define. When nothing mattered but the next taste or tender touch.
He smiled, and her heart skipped a beat. “You speak like there’s no hope of us kissing again, Miss Moorland.”
Yet she would devour him in a heartbeat.
“Had I not arrived at the Hare and Hounds when I did, I doubt we’d have ever kissed.” Then she would have thought kissing a chore, the taste of a man’s lips as potent as watered-down wine, not something hot and intoxicating.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
Her heart stuttered as he stepped a little closer. “Do you think we’ll kiss again, Miss Moorland?”
His husky tone caused a swirl of heat in her stomach.
“Would you like to kiss me again, Mr Gentry?”
“You know damn well I would.”
Upon their return to the practice, and as a result of Mr Gentry’s relentless questions, Mr Hickman confessed to knowing nothing about the tincture sent to Mrs Ludgrove.
“I—I assure you, sir, the sleeping draught was not among those sent out with the delivery boy.” Mr Hickman scanned the open ledger on his desk. He found Mrs Ludgrove’s name, his finger shaking as he prodded the entry. “You prescribed a sleeping remedy during your last visit in March. It came from the supply you carry in your case.”
Mr Gentry strode to his office and returned with his black leather bag, popping open the brass clasps as he plonked it on the chair. He rolled out a velvet wrap, removed the small brown bottles nestled inside and placed them on Mr Hickman’s desk, next to the bottle taken from Mrs Ludgrove.
“What do you notice?” He struggled to keep his anger at bay but did not let Mr Hickman speak. “While the bottles are identical, the contents are not.”
“May we smell them all?” Sofia said, encouraging Mr Hickman to help her remove the cork stoppers and inhale the infusions.
“That bottle did not come from my bag.” Mr Gentry pointed at the offending article. “Mrs Ludgrove might have overdosed on opium had I not made a house call today.”
Mr Hickman’s breath came in shallow pants. “I can’t explain it. Miss Moorland makes the tinctures now, though it may have been part of an old batch and it’s the apothecary’s mistake.”
Sofia shuddered. Was the panicked fool trying to blame her? “The mistake is not mine. I had the scales rebalanced and ordered new measuring spoons.”
“You’re missing the point, Hickman,” Mr Gentry countered. “Who the hell delivered the tincture to Mrs Ludgrove?”
“I’ll speak to the delivery boy tomorrow. Perhaps he can shed light on the matter.”
“I want answers today. Search the ledger. Make a list of all patients we’ve supplied with sleeping draughts and send out replacements. Write to them. They’re not to accept a delivery of laudanum without an accompanying letter.”
“I’ll dispose of those in the dispensary and make a fresh batch,” she suggested. “Mr Hickman can work with me to ensure there are no mistakes.”
Mr Gentry nodded. “Make Turner aware of the problem upon his return.” He glanced at Sofia, his anger dissipating slightly. “Be ready in an hour, Miss Moorland. You’ll accompany me to the apothecary to ensure he’s not at fault.”
Mr Wiggins, the grey-haired apothecary in Long Acre, scratched his head as Mr Gentry bombarded him with questions. “My reputation is at stake. Are you telling me anyone can walk in off the street and purchase the same tincture? Is there nothing to differentiate the bottles you sold me from those you sell to the public?”
Mr Wiggins shook his head. He took two bottles from the oak shelf behind him. “See the label in red? That’s fifteen per cent opium, only prescribed to those with severe pain and who agree to sign the register. The one with black writing is a ten per cent solution for those with minor ailments. There’s even less in a paregoric.”
Sofia removed Mrs Ludgrove’s bottle from her reticule and showed it to Mr Wiggins. “Would you mind smelling this, sir, and advise what percentage is opium?”
He took one whiff and frowned. Wetting the end of his finger with the infusion, he dabbed the liquid onto his tongue, giving a sharp hiss. “That is my label, but I didn’t make the tincture. It’s too strong. I’d say the fool who cut the opium failed to dry it out properly, or maybe there’s a problem with his scales.”
Mr Gentry pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “So you’re saying it’s impossible to trace the fellow? How the devil am I meant to prevent it from happening again?”
Mr Wiggins gave an apologetic shrug.
“Might we scan the register you mentioned?” Sofia asked, though she doubted the villain had recorded his name. “You could leave it open, and I might steal a glance while you’re serving a customer. You could hardly be blamed for my snooping.”
The apothecary shook his head. “It would be a betrayal of trust.”
“Sir, perhaps you fail to understand what’s at stake here,” she said, pressing her case. “The bottle can be traced to you. If a patient dies of an overdose of laudanum, you’ll be the first person questioned. Can you prove you didn’t make a mistake with the measurements?”
The man couldn’t argue with her logic. He glanced furtively at his busy assistant and whispered, “Give me a minute, then come through to the back of the shop.”
Sofia gave a discreet nod as Mr Wiggins slipped away.
She felt Mr Gentry’s hand skim her waist the second they were alone, the gentle glide of his fingers making her stomach flip.
“What happened to the woman who stuttered when asking to examine my implements?” he whispered against her ear. “This newfound confidence is having an odd effect on me, Miss Moorland.”
Sofia swallowed deeply. The rich timbre of his voice had an odd effect on her, too. “You’re not the only one who gives lessons at The Burnished Jade. When a lady debates a topic with Aaron Chance, she learns the power of persuasion.”
“You should use your talent more often. Perhaps persuade me to show you the cure for hysteria. I could give you a private lesson. One I guarantee will feel vastly superior to the experiments you conduct alone at home.”
An image of them kissing shot into her mind, them panting into each other’s mouths as his hand dipped between her thighs.
She turned her head a fraction and gazed into his mischievous eyes. “I find it hard to believe you’d not fumble,” she lied. He knew how to heat her blood. “I know myself extremely well, whereas you hardly know me at all.”
“I learn quickly, Miss Moorland, and was always top of the class at Cambridge. I know exactly where I would begin.” He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “I’d stroke you everywhere, saving that tight little bud until last.”
Desire struck like a fire bolt to her core, the bud in question now hot and pulsing. “Anything more than kissing would be dangerous.” And pleasurable beyond measure.
“Avoiding danger is why we kissed in the first place.”
Mr Wiggins popped his head around the door, breaking the spell, and beckoned them into a tiny office crammed with boxes and bottles and reams of brown paper. “I’ll wait in the shop and tell my assistant the lady felt faint. Be quick. You’ve a few minutes, no more.”
The thick tome on the desk drew Sofia’s attention. She squeezed past Mr Gentry, the mere brush against his hard body sending tingles dancing over her skin. “Thank you, Mr Wiggins.”
The apothecary kept a record of those who purchased poisons and potent tinctures. His diligence was commendable. Many didn’t care about the consequences when selling remedies.
“Come and examine the list,” she said, flicking to the section marked ‘high concentrate opium preparations’. “We’ll begin in November last year, a month before the first suspicious incident.”
With space tight, Mr Gentry moved to stand behind her. His presence made it hard to focus on the names written on the page. He leaned into her while looking over her shoulder.
“I know Henry Jackson of New Street.” He slid his arm over her hip and pointed to the entry on the page. “His usage is recreational. He believes he’s a gifted poet and spends his days seeking enlightenment.”
Her pulse quickened. “Might he have a gripe against you?”
“Not that I’m aware.” He shifted, the movement teasing the ache between her thighs. She could feel his gaze on her, not the register. “Nor does he fit Mr Fellows’ description.”
“Mr Fellows may have worn a disguise—a wig or blocks in his boots—though it’s harder to fake an athletic physique.”
She closed her eyes against the potent scent of his cologne as he bent his head to study the list.
“This reminds me of that night in my study, Miss Moorland. It began much like this. Me, standing behind you at the desk. The delightful press of your buttocks against my groin.”
The devil liked to tease her. It was her own fault for admitting her heart fluttered whenever he mentioned the Adelphi.
“How could I forget?”
He drew his long, elegant finger slowly down the page like he was tracing a tantalising path from her throat to her navel. “There’s something desperately erotic about two people being rampant when still fully clothed. It’s hard to read these names when I want to toss up your skirts and take you while you’re still wearing sensible shoes and stockings.”
She pursed her lips tightly so as not to whimper. An inner battle ensued. A shy woman should blush and change the subject, yet she liked this game. She liked this game far too much.
“What did you enjoy most about our amorous night in my study, Miss Moorland? Don’t be shy.” The warmth of his breath tickled her neck as he turned another page. “Tell me while I scour the list.”
She should have ignored the challenge but couldn’t.
“I liked it best when you were on your knees.” She should stop there and allow his imagination to run riot, but the sudden rasp in his throat betrayed an eagerness to hear more. “And when you rose between my legs like Poseidon—your eyes as dark and mesmerising as the sea’s hypnotic pull—ready to take what you wanted without abandon.”
A soft groan escaped him. “What a surprising woman you are, Miss Moorland. You’re a better storyteller than you are a herbalist, and you excel at making potions.”
“Perhaps I’m an oracle, not a storyteller, and you should keep the lid on your ink pot. One never knows when a prediction may come true. I would hate to ruin your Aubusson rug while in the throes of passion.”
“Minx,” he whispered against her neck. “Do you know how hard you’ve made me?”
“So that’s not a granite pestle in your pocket?”
“Were we anywhere else, I’d suggest you take it out and inspect it yourself. It’s a rather good grinding tool.”
The door creaked open, making them both jump.
Mr Wiggins peered through the gap. “Any luck searching the register?”
“Give us another minute,” Mr Gentry said with his usual authority.
Mr Wiggins nodded and closed the door.
“No more games.” Sofia stepped aside, motioning to the tome. “Concentrate on the list. We mustn’t waste this opportunity by acting like randy rascals.”
He laughed but rolled his shoulders and took on a serious expression. His finger followed the names and the reasons listed for the purchase: rotten teeth and gout being the most common ailments.
When he got to the record for February, he inhaled sharply and looked at her. “You said you lived with the Merricks on Dean Street near Soho Square.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Every muscle hardened, bracing for an impact. “Why? Have you found something important?”
“Mr Merrick of Dean Street purchased two tinctures of high-strength opium for a tooth abscess.”
Sofia’s blood ran cold. “But Mr Merrick doesn’t have an abscess. Sadly, he’s in excellent health.”
“Wiggins!” Mr Gentry called. He waited for the apothecary to enter before demanding he explain the sale of two potent tinctures on the same day. “It’s enough opium to knock out a horse, let alone numb pain.”
Mr Wiggins came to inspect the records. “Ah, yes. Mr Merrick is a regular customer who’s been suffering with toothache for months. He was off to Scotland and begged for an extra bottle to take with him on the road.”
“Did you examine the abscess?”
“No. Is that a problem?” Mr Wiggins asked nervously. “Maybe his cheek looked swollen. I can’t recall. Mr Merrick was happy to record the purchase in the register. As you know, society gents are less forthcoming.”
“No, they prefer to keep their opium addiction a secret. Most refuse to send a servant, fearing the gossipmongers will find out.” Mr Gentry spoke like he knew the identities of these men.
It’s why Mr Wiggins jumped to an assumption.
One that proved to be the lead they needed in the case.
“I pride myself on being discreet, sir. I know your cousin puts on a brave face, but that illness he caught in Athens left him in desperate need of relief. Praise the Lord he’s on the mend.”
Mr Gentry’s eyes flickered, a brief sign of surprise before he hid behind his polished veneer. “I hoped my cousin’s need would be temporary. I’m sure you understand why I preferred not to prescribe the tincture myself.”
Mr Wiggins nodded. “He said something similar when he bought one of the weaker preparations, and I pointed out that you supply the same bottles.”
“What did the gentleman say?” Sofia asked, anticipation a prickling unease beneath her skin.
“He said it was time he took matters into his own hands and dealt with problems himself.”