Chapter Eight
Embleton House
Half-past one in the afternoon
Mark despised laudanum for far more reasons than a potential dependence on the drug.
Laudanum brought sleep. And sleep brought nightmares.
Dangerous dreams that caused Mark to struggle, aggravating his injuries.
The doctor had wrapped his chest to immobilize his broken ribs, but Monday night had been an excruciating round-robin of thrashing dreams and pain, chills, and sweats that awoke him with new levels of agony.
By ten Tuesday morning, as he encased Mark’s arm in a sling to rest the shoulder, Dr. Oakley had suggested either increasing the laudanum until Mark was truly unconscious or abandoning it entirely in favor of willow bark tea rotated with strong coffee, so that he could doze, but so lightly he would not dream.
Mark chose the latter, and his mother had ordered mounds of pillows brought to his bedchamber so that he could be propped up in a way that he could drink without choking and rest without hurting himself.
She compared it to the nest she had made for herself as she recovered from her last lying-in, scowling as Mark reminded her that his pain emanated from a slightly different location.
But the change in his care seemed to be working.
The soreness in his shoulder eased, and the last of the laudanum fog lifted.
He had dozed, not deeply enough to dream, but in short bouts that found him resting more easily.
The pain had returned, sometimes in waves if he moved too suddenly, but the willow bark tea made it reasonably bearable.
He had suffered infinitely worse, he reminded himself, on the battlefield.
The violent dreams were, after all, reflections of a past he had survived, not imagined.
His family had also visited in pairs and groups, such as he did not usually see except on occasion at a holiday—or a funeral.
Matthew stayed nearby, of course, but his older brother frequently arrived with one of their four youngest brothers in tow. Peter, James, Theophilus, and Timothy had returned home from school for the summer and had been occupying themselves with their friends and their horses.
Luke, the next in line after Mark, remained on the continent with Wellington, even as their sister Daphne stayed ensconced with their aunt somewhere in Greece.
Paul, the fourth of Phyllida’s surviving oldest sons, had taken over their country estate following their father’s death.
Now he, too, had returned to the city, ostensibly to confer with Matthew about the estate.
Mark had his doubts about that last explanation.
Paul had been a capable manager for some time, but his desire for a wife stood out from his and Matthew’s reluctance.
Mark did wish his brother luck in finding a young woman of the ton willing to abandon life in London for a permanent residence in the country.
But Paul had hope—an admirable quality Mark did not share. And had not for some time.
At one that afternoon, Matthew and Paul had just left his bedchamber when a kitchen maid arrived bearing a tray with a salty broth, more willow bark tea, a cup of coffee, and a baked custard that tasted lemony enough to make his nose wrinkle.
She stayed to stoke the fire in the bedchamber’s grate, then curtsied and made her exit.
Mark set aside the tea and lay back against the pillows.
His mind drifted over his conversation with his mother about Olivia, still wondering if he remembered it correctly or if it had been part of a laudanum fog.
He had explained who Olivia was, and the duchess took with an unexpected grace the news that her second son had produced a by-blow on an actress.
She merely expressed her surprise that he had not done so earlier and asked his plans for the girl.
She agreed that Olivia was best left where she was for now.
Then Phyllida patted him on the hand and left.
Possibly, facing the idea that her son might have killed his lover made any other scandalous news pale by comparison.
Although he doubted it. Mark suspected a return battle lay in store when his health improved.
For now, Phyllida had executed a strategic retreat.
For all his insolence toward her, his mother sometimes terrified Mark.
Her ability to maneuver through and manipulate members of the ton had given her more strategic skills than a battle-hardened general.
“Are you still awake?” Matthew’s voice came through a slight opening at the door.
Mark reached for the coffee. “I am.”
His brother entered with two folded sheets of paper in one hand. He crossed the room, stopping to stare down at the tray on the bedside table. “That looks disgusting.”
“The doctor thinks I should avoid anything heavy or solid for a day or two.” He nodded at the papers. “Mail?”
Matthew gave a slight grin. “I have a meeting Saturday with a potential bride. Your suggestion turned out to be more beneficial than I expected.”
“Excellent. Anyone I know?” Mark had connected Matthew with Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, owner of a gambling hell called the Lyon’s Den and a woman known for matchmaking among the ton, which would allow Matthew to avoid all the complications of doing a season of balls and soirees when he wanted to rejoin Wellington so desperately.
A wedding with a suitable bride would allow him to settle his affairs here and return to France.
“No. But I will tell you more after the meeting.” He gestured at the other note. “Smith wants to meet with us later this afternoon. Would you be up for it?”
“I am slightly more coherent than last night. But you might want to make sure I’m awake. Apparently, six months of not sleeping leaves one prone to abrupt naps.”
Matthew sombered. “You should do something about it.”
“I am considering investing in a boxing salon—”
“Mark—”
“Open all night. No one notices if you have not slept or have drunk a bit too much or scream too loudly—”
“You cannot—” His brother shook his head, glancing away.
“Matthew.”
At Mark’s solemn tone, Matthew stilled, studying him again.
Mark smoothed the covers beside his leg.
“I am doing all I can. All I know to do.” They fell silent, watching each other a moment.
Finally Mark nodded. “The doctor is returning as well. Have Smith come at four. I would like to have an early supper, if possible. Or perhaps just tea. Real tea. Surely the doctor cannot object to a bit of clotted cream.”
The doctor, who arrived at three, did not object and was cheered by Mark’s returning appetite, although he advised continued caution about food and simple things—like moving.
But Mark insisted on dressing before the Bow Street Runner arrived, and his valet, Howe, helped him to get out of bed and appear reasonably presentable, including a waistcoat and cravat—an intriguing process given the sling for his arm.
Another cup of coffee provided a bit of fortification, and he settled into a chair before the fire just as the door opened and Matthew ushered the runner into his bedchamber.
Jeremy Smith’s eyes widened as he entered, his hat-mussed hair adding to a slightly crazed look in his eyes. He stared around at the aspect of the room, pausing on each feature, as if memorizing the furniture.
Mark fought a sense of amusement. Laughing was definitely not recommended. “Is something amiss, Mr. Smith?”
The man swallowed hard and focused on Mark. “Forgive me, Lord Mark. I have never been in a gentleman’s bedchamber before.”
Mark’s eyebrows arched. “Truly? A man in your line of work, I would have thought you would have been in every possible environment.”
Smith shook his head. “As you know, the aristocracy has their own rules when something untoward happens. I have been in many kitchens and a few drawing rooms, but the two unexpected deaths I was called to, the bodies had been moved to a more respectable room.”
Matthew cleared his throat. “That must not bode well for the investigation.”
Smith shook his head. “No. It does not.”
Mark motioned for the runner to sit in the chair opposite him. “Forgive me for not standing. My health does not allow for that at this time. What do you have for us today?”
The runner eased down on the edge of the chair as if afraid he would soil it. “I have a few questions for you, and I wanted to let you know that you have been dismissed as a potential suspect in the death of Miss Ashley.”
Matthew let out a long sigh and sat on the bench at the end of Mark’s bed. “So we are out of it.”
Smith shook his head. “Not . . . precisely.” He focused on Mark again, his fingers twitching a bit.
“I found one man who had been a part of your . . . row . . . in the Rookeries, but he could not be considered a reliable witness. But Dr. Oakley’s information is reliable and without question your best defense.
It lends credibility to the first, and my superiors think that is enough for me to pursue other possibilities.
But I need to ask you a few more questions.
” Smith took a deep breath but barely paused.
“Do you know about any other . . . associations . . . that Miss Ashley had engaged in?”
Mark gave a twisted grin. “You mean other paramours.”
Smith glanced down but nodded.
“You need not glaze over anything where this is concerned, sir. There is little decorum about it. My arrangement with Miss Ashley was supposed to be one of mutual benefit. I protected her, provided her with a decent place to live, and additional funds for amenities. In return, she was to provide me a safe and reliable place to bed a woman. The deal we struck meant that she would have no other lovers. In return, I paid for Dr. Oakley to care for her, her mother, and her child. ‘Safe’ meant she would stay free of disease.”
“This is why you were upset when she violated your agreement.”