Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
They returned to the practice, arriving in a hackney to find Reid’s coachman and Turner hauling Sofia’s dressing table up the narrow staircase.
Turner saw them, paused and sighed in relief. “Where the devil have you been? I sent word to Cavendish Square but received no reply.”
Bewildered, Reid said, “It’s Sunday. You’re on call this week.”
“We needed to speak to you urgently. I arrived to find the house empty and feared something dreadful had occurred. I would have visited your friends but have been swamped with work all morning.”
Guilt flared.
Turner had enough pressure without Reid adding to his burden. “Take the dressing table upstairs and meet me in the study. I’ll explain all then.”
“We have important news, too, though poor Hickman still hasn’t recovered.” Turner lowered his voice. “The man was a wreck this morning. I’ve given him a drop of laudanum to calm his nerves.”
Reid inwardly cursed. He’d neglected his work these past few weeks, and his loyal employees had paid the price. He made a mental note to treat them to supper and an evening relaxing in a mineral bath at Porretta’s.
Hickman shot out of his chair when Reid entered the man’s office. His red-rimmed eyes said he’d barely slept. “I swear I locked the doors last night. I did the usual checks upon leaving. Some devil broke into the dispensary and stole our supplies.”
Reid froze.
Cold dread crept over him.
Sofia should have been sleeping upstairs last night. Whoever broke into the premises would have encountered her.
Had hurting her been the plan?
He stormed out of the room and headed for the dispensary, coming to a crashing halt in the doorway. The shelves were empty, and the drawers overturned. Shards of glass littered the workbench.
Sofia was already there, crouched on the floor, brushing scattered herbs into a scuttle. “Why would someone do this?” Her voice quivered under the weight of emotion. “All those hours of hard work wasted.”
“Leave the herbs. There may be glass on the floor.” He cupped her elbow and brought her to her feet. “I’ll hire someone to clean up this wretched mess.”
She sagged against his chest, her distress evident in every shuddering breath. “Just when it feels like we’re making progress, something dreadful happens to set us back.”
He held her in a tight embrace. “Someone means to break our spirit, but we won’t let them. Everything here can be replaced. No one is hurt. That’s all that matters.”
The obvious culprits sprang to mind.
Did Algernon want revenge for the punch he’d received at White’s? Had his grandfather hired someone to destroy the dispensary? Perhaps he meant to scare Sofia and persuade Reid to take a position at Chesham Park. Would the lord agree to accept Sofia if Reid gave up the practice and managed the estate?
Turner entered the room. He glanced at them enveloped in each other’s arms and presumed their herbalist had crossed boundaries in her distress.
“I’ll take Miss Moorland to your study. A nip of something strong will do her the world of good.” Turner stepped closer as if to rescue Reid from an awkward encounter. “Come, Miss Moorland. I can make tea if you prefer.”
Turner reached for her arm, an innocent action, though Reid felt a possessive pang in his chest, a stab of jealousy unlike anything he’d ever known.
Perhaps that’s why he said, “Miss Moorland is my wife. We were married at Studland Park last night. I would have told you, but it’s a complicated situation, and we invited no one but the witnesses.”
Turner stared, his shock palpable in the gnawing silence.
“You’re married?” he said, gulping.
Turner liked Sofia and was always attentive. He’d lent her precious books and encouraged her quest to study medicine. They’d spent hours together in the dispensary. In marrying in haste, had Reid deprived his friend and his herbalist of an opportunity to fall in love?
The thought shook him to his core.
Not because he felt remorse for putting paid to Turner’s romantic notions, but because he had a sudden desire to prove himself worthy. To ensure his bride wanted him and no other man.
Good Lord. Did he want his wife to fall in love with him?
Sofia must have felt the crushing weight of Turner’s disappointment. She pushed out of Reid’s embrace. “I’m sorry for not confiding in you, Mr Turner. Mr Gentry offered me work so I could escape my stepmother’s clutches. In marrying me, he has saved me from a fate worse than death.”
Turner’s cold eyes warmed as he looked at her. “If you needed the safety marriage provides, you should have spoken to me.”
Sofia did not ask him why. “I had planned to leave England, but matters took an unexpected turn, and Mr Gentry agreed we should act quickly.”
“There was no time to consider other options,” Reid said, knowing it wouldn’t ease Turner’s dismay. It was also a lie. Time was against them, but he’d married Sofia because he wanted her. And this strange intimacy they shared mattered more than it should.
Was he beginning to feel a deep affection for his wife?
“Well, there’s nothing to be done,” Turner said with a sad sigh. “Might you have the marriage annulled? Once your problems are over, that is?”
It was already too late.
Reid recalled their night of exquisite lovemaking, the strange feeling that flooded his chest when he entered her, her plea for him to push deeper. Yet he couldn’t explain that to Turner.
Thankfully, Sofia was tactful in her reply. “I made a vow I cannot break. I promised to be a good wife and intend to keep my word.”
Turner inclined his head respectfully. “I would expect no less from a woman of your good character, Miss … Mrs Gentry. I wish you both well.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
Would this be the moment Sofia never forgot?
The day she learned there had been a better option?
Reid prayed Hickman hadn’t marriage in mind, too.
“I had to move some appointments,” Turner said, swiftly changing the subject, though his tone was noticeably cooler. “Lord Brigham refuses to see anyone but you. Other patients are of the same mind. The rest I’ve managed to squeeze into my tight schedule.”
Reid took the veiled reprimand on the chin. “I’ll be living above the practice for the foreseeable future. It means I’ll be available around the clock. It will give me time to catch up on missed appointments.”
He made it sound like work was his priority.
A desire to protect his wife was the only motive.
“Is that wise? Living upstairs, I mean?” Turner glanced at the mess on the floor. “The person who broke into the dispensary picked the lock. There’s no sign of forced entry, and we’ve accounted for all the keys.”
“Did Hickman not bolt the dispensary door?” Reid said before realisation dawned and he answered his own question. “He didn’t bolt the door because he expected Mrs Gentry to return home.”
Turner nodded. “We presumed she might be staying with Lady Berridge but couldn’t be sure.” He shifted, his expression tightening. “There’s another problem. Your grandfather came here this morning, demanding to know where you were. He told me to ‘fetch the herbalist’ but I explained Miss Moorland wasn’t here either.”
Damnation!
His grandfather was supposed to be at Chesham Park.
An internal war with his conscience ensued. Who married without inviting their grandfather? The man had kept a roof over Reid’s head for fifteen years. Yes, Reid had inherited his father’s home and personal wealth, but his grandfather cared for him until he came of age.
A faint whisper of suspicion breezed through him.
One he’d dismissed many times before.
Did his grandfather care, or were his actions self-serving?
“If he comes here, don’t tell him we’re married.” A deep sense of trepidation sent Reid’s pulse skipping. “If he has questions, you’ll refer him to me. Is that understood?”
He knew the viscount could be persuasive. It’s why Reid lived with him in Cavendish Square, not in a house he personally owned.
Be your own man.
No matter the cost.
In his father’s last letter from Brussels, he had underlined both statements. Reid always thought it meant he should follow his own ambitions. It’s why he’d been so determined to train in medicine. But perhaps his father referred to the pressure to please one’s kin.
Turner grimaced. “You know how Hickman panics. It doesn’t help that your grandfather knows his uncle, Sir Phillip. The need to appease the privileged is in Hickman’s blood.”
Reid felt a frisson of alarm. “What did Hickman tell him?”
“That Miss Moorland’s family lives in Dean Street and he might find her there. Hickman stuttered so badly the viscount had him repeat it. Then he blurted that her stepmother’s surname is Merrick.”
Sofia failed to see the problem. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Mr Merrick has no use for me. He’ll probably take one look at your grandfather and slam the door in his face.”
But his grandfather was persistent and desperate to learn everything he could about Sofia. “My grandfather will pay Merrick for information. Victor will be more than accommodating then.”
She shrugged. “What can Victor tell him, other than we’re married? Your grandfather will discover the truth soon enough.”
Perhaps they should visit his grandfather together, just as they had with the Merricks. “We’ll tell him ourselves. I’ll arrange a meeting.”
He asked for an update on their patients, praying no one else had died under suspicious circumstances.
“I can spare an hour now if you want to discuss medical cases,” Turner said, his tone more formal than friendly. “And you need to let Hickman know whether to call a constable. In light of your sudden absences , we weren’t sure what to do.”
Remorse hit him squarely in the chest. “Have Hickman join us in my study once he’s summoned a constable. We’ll discuss business matters, then spend the afternoon tidying the dispensary.”
It was seven that evening by the time they cleared the debris, made fresh tinctures and bid Turner good night. Hickman had left an hour earlier, eager to return home to feed his cat.
Reid’s thoughts turned to the only pleasure in his life. He stood watching Sofia add the last of the ground herbs to the new bottles. She had barely eaten today. A problem he was keen to rectify.
“Fetch your bonnet and pelisse.” He closed the gap between them and prised the bottle and funnel from her hands. “I’m taking you out to supper.”
She looked at him, a soft curl caressing her cheek and he remembered why he’d insisted she tie back her hair. “I need to wash and change. Perhaps we could visit Antoine’s and make it a working supper.”
He did want to question the waiter. Algernon claimed the man was paid to keep score for the wager at White’s. Perhaps he knew the elusive Mr Fellows.
“We’ll take a hackney rather than walk to the livery stables and disturb Nokes. Can you be ready in half an hour?”
When she smiled, he considered altering the plans and spending a cosy evening at home. Home? He rarely felt content anywhere. Yet here, in the simple dispensary, he felt a sudden wave of peace.
“I can be ready in ten minutes.” Sofia laid her palm on his chest, reached up and kissed his cheek.
He drew her close, claiming her mouth in the same desperate way he wanted to claim her body. A need like he’d never known sparked a fire in his blood. Every silken stroke of her tongue chased away his demons. The sweet taste of her lips stirred?—
She broke contact on a ragged breath. “Reid, we’ll be stripping off each other’s clothes if we don’t stop now. If you want to miss supper, we can retire early.
Let’s go to bed , he imagined saying.
But her stomach growled in protest.
“You need to eat.” He pressed a tender kiss on her forehead. “We’ll be each other’s dessert when we return home later.”
The need to feed their addiction had them holding hands in the hackney cab. He must have drawn her fingers to his lips three times or more. He wondered if this was a male form of hysteria. Bedding his wife seemed like the only thing capable of calming his rampant spirit.
Antoine’s inviting atmosphere did little to temper his need.
Candlelight cast a soft glow over the wooden walls and tables. The gentle murmur of couples in conversation added to the sense of intimacy. Heat from the fire warmed him, and the rich aroma of coffee and a hearty stew teased his growing appetite.
A waiter came to greet them—a slim man, light on his feet, who introduced himself as Francois. The faint beads of sweat on his brow belied his calm composure.
“Might we have a booth?” Reid gestured to a darkened corner of the room, where no one would notice a couple kissing across the table.
“But of course, monsieur.”
“We mustn’t forget to ask about Mrs Ludgrove,” Sofia whispered as they followed the fellow to their table.
“Let’s wait until we’ve ordered. The man might be more amenable then.” He guided his wife into the booth and sat opposite. Upon noting they served a decent enough burgundy, he asked for a bottle and two glasses.
Sofia met his gaze and smiled. “Thank you for suggesting this. I’ve already had a lovely time, and we’ve not eaten yet.”
The strange feeling rose inside him again, a tidal wave of emotion that left him somewhat giddy. “I enjoy your company. And after the stress today, it makes a change to sit and relax.”
He wished they had no agenda. That he wasn’t scanning the room, searching for men taking part in a stupid wager. That he could ease his suspicious mind and enjoy this simple pleasure.
They ordered from the basic bill of fare: onion soup and bread, beef stew and dumplings. Sofia spoke about her grandmother as they sipped their wine, absorbed in the intimate atmosphere.
“Having her dressing table means the world.” Her smile revealed more than gratitude. The warmth in her eyes and voice had him reaching across the table, his fingers engulfing hers as he clasped her hand. “My grandmother always said people would judge me for my lack of experience. That I must strive to prove I’m capable.”
He smiled. “It sounds like you inherited her indomitable spirit. Both my grandmothers died before I was born. Perhaps life would have been different had they survived.”
Sofia looked at him like he was a prince amongst men. “My grandmother would have sung your praises. You hired a woman to work in your practice. You gave me a chance to prove I’m capable.”
“You’re more than capable. People are creatures of habit. You’ll be a visible presence in the practice, and they’ll soon come to trust your word.”
Something deep and unnameable lingered in her gaze.
Something that warmed him for reasons he didn’t quite understand.
He hoped she never stopped looking at him like that.
Their soup arrived, and he found himself absorbed by her: the way she laughed, the way the candlelight danced over her flawless skin, the way she popped a piece of bread into her mouth like it was a sin, and she hoped no one would notice.
Somehow, the conversation turned to Judith and betrayal.
“Is it wrong I’m glad Judith is dead?” she asked. “She made my life miserable, and I cannot rouse an ounce of sorrow.”
The comment touched on his own dilemma. “It’s natural under the circumstances. She ruined the illusion that your father was perfect. And it’s normal to feel relieved, not sad when someone’s hurt you.”
Being intuitive, she focused on the remark that revealed more about him than her parent. “Learning about your father’s mistress must have caused similar feelings for you.”
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “One letter shattered the illusion of a happy family. Like you, I have questions no one can answer.”
They fell silent and ate.
“Did you ever find your father’s mistress?” she said, and he almost choked on a slither of onion. “Perhaps she might shed light on his thoughts.”
He felt heavy, like his blood had turned to lead. “I know nothing more than her Christian name. It would mean speaking to those who served with my father, and I cannot tarnish my mother’s memory that way.”
She nodded like she understood.
Strangely, it took nothing more than the brush of her leg against his beneath the table to chase the uncomfortable thoughts away.
Francois came to clear their dishes.
Reid stole the opportunity to discuss the wager. “I expected to see a handful of young aristocrats wooing older women to win a bet.”
“It must be hard keeping track of the points,” Sofia added.
The Frenchman shook his head. “They fill the tables on quiet nights. Profits have never been better.”
“How do you know who’s taking part in the bet?” Reid inquired.
“They hand me a token. A brass jeton with a clover design.”
Sofia clutched her chest. “My heart goes out to those ladies looking for love and are oblivious to their machinations.” She sighed. “A friend comes here to dine with a much younger gentleman every Wednesday. Now she’s heard about the bet she doubts his motives.”
“You might remember her.” Reid described Mrs Ludgrove and what he knew of the insidious Mr Fellows. “Did he show you a token? Knowing the truth would help to ease her fears.”
Francois didn’t need to think. “ Oui , monsieur. They ask for this table because it is away from prying eyes.” He glanced behind before whispering, “The gentleman showed me his jeton, and I marked his card before he left. That was over a week ago. And the last time he came here.”
Reid kept an impassive expression.
Inside, his blood boiled.
So, the villain was a man listed in the betting book at White’s. It had to be Algernon. The motive was greed and jealousy. Algernon wanted Bretton Hall. And the only way to win their grandfather’s favour was to discredit Reid.
Relief flooded through him.
He’d deal with Algernon tomorrow. There’d be no more deaths. No more sleepless nights spent imagining himself cramped in a cell at Newgate. And yet he couldn’t imagine his foppish cousin slicing O’Connor’s throat.
Sofia was quick to satisfy a query. “You said you marked his card. I know they’ve been coming every Wednesday for a month. Did he dine with other older ladies?”
Francois chuckled. “A few. But this is just one place where they have their card marked. There are others. I know an attendant at the British Museum gives ten points if the player can steal a kiss near the bust of Rameses II.”
“Then the men carry their cards with them?” she said.
“ Oui , though the cards, they are numbered. The men involved in the wager, they remain anonymous.” The sudden tinkle of the overhead bell caught the waiter’s attention. He glanced at the door and gave another chuckle. “Here is one now. But the poor fellow, he lags behind the pack.”
Curiosity piqued, Reid peered discreetly around the waiter before shooting back into the booth in shock. While Francois went to greet his customers, he could barely catch his breath.
“Don’t look, but we know the man who’s just entered.” His heart pummelled his ribcage, anger rising again because he had been a bloody fool.
Sofia’s eyes widened. “Who is it?”
He slid deeper into the shadows. “Hickman. He’s here with one of our patients, Mrs Morris. It won’t surprise you to learn she’s fifty and takes a sleeping draught for her nerves.”