Too Dangerous For a Lady (15 page)

Yet she'd agreed to the antimonial powders, which would also be drastic. Perhaps she was as bad, willing to try anything, in blind hope. Not blind, no. Something had worked before, and the antimonial seemed the most likely.

She had the notion of a cure in her head now and couldn't let it go.

A cure, or even a miracle. She had to try.

T
he next morning Mark waited impatiently for the postbag to arrive. No letter arrived from Braydon.

That meant another day here. As the locals now thought him a lovelorn suitor, he didn't hide the fact that he was watching Riverview House. Of course, he was also keeping alert for Seth Boothroyd. He saw nothing but a rider on a slow horse who paused to nail up a poster by the inn door. He went to read it. A five-shilling reward was offered for the identification of a gentleman foully shot during highway robbery near the Chester road. Anyone with information was to communicate with Sir Peter Jarvis, coroner, Chester. The description fit Nathan Boothroyd too well, though the term “gentleman” could throw some off the scent. Dead, his clothes gave that impression, but no one who'd encountered him alive would think him that. All the same, the coroner's attention to duty was inconvenient. Mark hoped he wasn't going so far as to make extensive enquiries.

Even the notice was a problem. If one had reached Tranmere, the posters were being nailed up over a wide area. If Seth Boothroyd had come north to find his brother, he might see one and go to Chester. Once he confirmed that Nathan had been shot, he'd be after someone's blood. Whose would depend on what Solange had told him. If he knew about Hermione, she could be in great danger. Seth wouldn't care about true responsibility. He'd want someone to “scrag.” Mark needed to know that Seth was in London
and preferably arrested with the rest. Why the hell had he not heard from Braydon by now?

He took a seat in the taproom that evening, chatting to Jilly and a few local men mostly out of boredom. The clock was striking nine when a Riverview servant came in. This turned out to be Georgie, a local man who was courting Jilly. Mark listened, but learned nothing about what was happening in the house except that Lady Hermione took her meals with the old man, so there wasn't the dining room to bother with.

*   *   *

Hermione had just finished supper with Edgar, though he'd eaten little, despite her encouragement. The cook was preparing easily digestible dishes for him, but he pushed more around his plate than he ate. She'd been waiting for a good time to tell him about her discussion with the doctor, but it seemed there wouldn't be a better, so she explained and produced the bottles of medicine.

“I told him. No more quackery!”

“It's not quackery, Edgar. You've no need of bark, but James's powders are well-known and effective.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I nursed my father.”

“He died anyway, didn't he?”

“Yes, but his heart and lungs were failing. We all knew that. We should have let him go in peace.”

“See!”

“You're not in such shape. You're merely . . . afflicted.”

He grunted.

“Please try the powders with some opium. I'm sure you'll feel better, and that will be something, won't it?”

“You want me addicted.”

“Plenty of people take opium without becoming dependent on it, but if you're dying anyway, why would it matter?”

“You've a nasty twisted way of looking at things,” he
grumbled, but then added, “Oh, very well. If it'll make you happy.”

“Thank you,” she said with a big smile. “Peter, please prepare the dose.”

Still scowling, Edgar drank it, grimacing at the taste—perhaps more than was called for. “Now I've done as you want, read me some more from that issue of
The Gentleman's Magazine
.”

She'd searched the library for books that would interest him, but found nothing. In one drawer, however, she'd found some old magazines and yesterday she'd begun to read to him from a copy of
The
Gentleman's Magazine
from January 1815. Now she brought it from the sideboard, but flipped past the earlier pages, saying, “More affairs of Parliament and such.”

“Read 'em. I like seeing how foolish they sound with hindsight.”

“Is current opinion always wrong?” she asked, turning back to the second page. “Today everyone's in a panic over riots and in dread of revolution. Will we chuckle over our folly a few years hence?”

“Probably. Back in 1799 there were many as thought the world would end.”

She picked up an analysis of the state of Europe in early 1815, when Napoleon had been in exile on Elba and everyone thought him defeated.

“Everyone was certainly wrong then,” Edgar said, “but enough of that. Find something else.”

She flipped some pages. “Here's a recollection of the Frost Fair. I wish I'd been in London then.”

“You've been there?”

“A few times. We went there for the premature victory celebrations in 1814. They were wonderful. Visiting monarchs from around Europe, naval reenactments, concerts,
fireworks. Everyone was so happy.” No more fear of invasion. No more casualty lists. No more families cast into mourning.

And then came Waterloo.

She returned to the magazine and read the recollection of the frozen Thames, and then an article about the shortage of timber. That seemed to bore Edgar, so she flipped over births, marriages, and deaths, seeking something better. “Here's an article about the increased production of coal gas for London illumination.”

Edgar did perk up. “I'd like to see the city streets bright at night.”

“You will as soon as you're well. It's even in the theaters now. How splendid that must be. I never thought about how the gas gets to the pipes that feed the lights, but it explains it here.
‘The gas is provided in stations owned by various companies, and gathered in mighty gasometers, from which it is delivered by pipes to the area thereabouts. The gasometer at Great Peter Street illuminates the illustrious buildings of Westminster.'
It says there are already fifteen miles of pipe.”

“A modern miracle.”

“Gas does give a brilliant light,” she said, “but it smells. I never noticed the smell from the streetlights, and generally shops lit by gas keep their doors open, but I remember going into one that had them shut. I left very quickly.”

“How do they manage in the theaters, then?” he asked.

“I don't know. Perhaps it isn't so noticeable in a large space.”

“Didn't a pagoda somewhere burn up when lit with gas?”

“It did. I think it's dangerous.” She looked for other interesting items. “An improved way of bleaching using charcoal. Black into white? That makes no sense.”

“Chemistry's descended from alchemy. There's still a lot
of mystery about it, though no one's found a way to turn lead into gold.”

“They've found a way to turn coal into gold.” When he looked a question, she told him about Porteous's successful development of coal mines.

“Good for him. Your family had the chance. No point resenting him.”

“You're right, but it's galling to think of Porteous as cleverer than I am.”

Edgar chuckled. “Don't like him one bit, do you?”

“I try to have no opinion of him at all.”

“He must be a miserly sort of fellow not to be sharing his wealth with you and your sister.”

She couldn't tell Edgar about Porteous's proposal, because it would touch on money. That would lead to his will, and from there to his death.

“I'm no pinch-purse,” Edgar said abruptly. “You deserve a gift. Where's Peter?”

“Eating his meal.”

“Bottom drawer over there. Rosewood box inlaid with mother-of-pearl and other bits.”

She went to get it, noticing that the drawer contained a number of boxes and packages, but that the rosewood one was the finest. “It's beautiful,” she said, stroking the gleaming wood.

“The gift's in the box. Open it!”

She did, and the slight spicy perfume told her the fan inside was made of sandalwood. She took it out and slid it open, smiling at the prettiness and the perfume. “Thank you.”

“A nothing.”

“Any gift is something,” she said, sitting back down but continuing to waft the fan. “This is something I'll always value.”

“Good.”

An oriental artifact at last, she thought. Polly would have loved to see it and all the others in that drawer, and probably build much from it, but neither box nor fan was sign of great wealth.

“Where did you acquire it?” she asked, hoping for more about his travels.

He screwed his face in thought. “Goa, I think. So many places. Read me some more.”

She put aside the fan and picked up the magazine, scanning the pages for something that would interest him. She certainly found it.

“Edgar, there's an article here about tropical diseases! Malaria and cholera and . . . Listen to this.
‘Dr. Theophilus Grammaticus gave a presentation to the Society of Curious Creatures'
—what an odd name—
‘on a new regime of treatment for the Black Disease, sometimes called kalyzar in the East.'
”

“Kala-azar!” Edgar corrected, but his gaze was sharp. “Go on, go on.”

“
‘Dr. Grammaticus is lately returned from North Africa, where he claimed to have treated a number of people who were suffering from this generally fatal disease with a preparation of antimony'
—antimony, Edgar!—
‘combined with the essence of Fungus Mirabilis. He gave accounts of a number of cases but disagreeably refused to identify the fungus, admitting that he had concocted the name so as to keep his secret, which he hopes to sell to the government for use in India, where this disease is also prevalent.'
Disagreeable indeed, but now you see why the antimony has helped you.”

“But never enough.” Edgar Peake had slumped back.

“We need that mushroom.”

“It'll be pure invention. Look at the name. What honest doctor would be called Theophilus Grammaticus?”

“If I were a charlatan, I'd call myself Brown or MacKay.”

“That's because you have sense and he doesn't. What's
the date, 1815? If anything had come of it, I'd have heard of it. Out in the East there were rumors that antimony helped, but out there they think antimony's a panacea. That's why I suggested it to Onslow, though.”

“He made it appear to be his suggestion.”

“Because he's a charlatan, too. Stop hoping for a miracle.”

“But you'll keep taking the medicine? Please?”

“Very well, very well, but it'll do no good in the long run.”

Hermione wouldn't give up hope. She put aside the magazine. “I'm going to the library to look for information about mushrooms likely to be the ones Grammaticus used.”

“If he used anything. You're a dreamer, girl!”

“Dreams sometimes come true!” she called back.

W
hen the postbag arrived the next day and brought no letter, Mark became concerned. Beau Braydon had survived the many dangers of the war, so Mark had never considered that he might fall victim to Solange. Had she discovered Braydon was his ally and had him killed? It seemed impossible, but she'd learned enough of Hermione's involvement and movements to send Nathan Boothroyd after her. Braydon wouldn't be easy to kill, but as he'd said, a pistol or a rifle could dispose of a strong, well-guarded man with ease. If he was alive, Mark should have heard from him by now.

Mark wrote a hasty letter to Hawkinville explaining the situation and asking for news. He sent it by ferry to Liverpool, which would get it to London at best speed. It would still take at least a day, and any reply would take as long to get back. If only he had messenger pigeons.

If Braydon hadn't survived, he hadn't passed on the knowledge Mark had poured into him. That meant he should set out for London immediately, but Seth Boothroyd could already be in the area, seeking those who'd killed his brother. Damn it all to Hades! Why couldn't Hermione have returned to Yorkshire with her family?

He pulled himself together and forced his mind to calm assessment. Even if Braydon had gone astray, his own letter would have arrived in London. That should have put Solange and Isaac in prison. Without habeas corpus they could
be held there indefinitely. Seth could be with them. If not, perhaps Solange hadn't had time to spill the whole story into his mind. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. He'd stay one more day and then he'd have to leave for London.

In the afternoon he saw Hermione in the garden. He didn't wait for an invitingly open gate. He went up and accosted her.

She got in the first word. “I commanded you to leave me alone.”

“You should have returned to safety in Yorkshire.”

She raised her chin. “I have remained to care for my elderly relative.”

“At risk of your life.”

“That again. Nothing has happened, sir.
Nothing.
And may I point out that I'm no closer to London here than in Yorkshire. I see you hadn't thought of that.”

“In Yorkshire you'd be safely with your family.”

“Which would put them in danger. If there is still any danger, which I greatly doubt.”

“There is.”

“You have proof?” It was a challenge and not at all fearful. Despite everything he fought a smile.

“I don't have proof against it.”

She rolled her eyes. “On those grounds we'd all live in fear every day everywhere.”

“Not everyone is abducted on the road,” he pointed out. “And Nathan Boothroyd knew which road your party was taking. He might have known your destination.”

Her face twitched, but she rallied. “If anyone wanted to harm me here, they've had time. I won't live under a sword. I won't.”

“I understand. The truth is, I haven't heard news from London and it worries me.”

“The woman might still think I have your letter? I can't believe she'd send her other brute all this way for it. If she exists at all.”

“Would I be haunting you like this if she didn't?”

She glared at him. “If she exists, name her.”

“Which proves what? Very well, she's a Mrs. Solange Waite, a Frenchwoman married to an Englishman.”

“The decent, middle-aged one?”

“Only in appearance. Hermione, you have reason to be angry, but don't let your anger at me lower your guard. She's a dangerous woman in her own right. She's killed in the past, during the revolution in France. These days she uses others, but she's without conscience or mercy.”

His sober words melted Hermione's resistance. She could see that he truly did regret involving her and was genuinely worried. “Others such as that Boothroyd man who abducted me,” she said. “But he's dead.”

“And has a brother, remember.”

She did remember. “Who's like him.”

“Close to identical.”

“I can't get that man out of my head. Last night, I had a dream. . . .”

He took her in his arms.

She allowed it. She shouldn't, but she needed comfort and strength.

“I'll keep you safe,” he said.

She was sane enough to snort at that. “It wouldn't be necessary if I'd never met you.”

“Don't sound so hopeless.” She felt his kiss on her hair. “I prefer you spicy, as in the bedroom at the King's Head.”

That gave her strength to push away from him. “Your preferences, sir, are nothing to do with me.”

“Alas.”

“Reprobate.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You seemed such a hero once,” she protested.

“It was mostly the regimentals. I was wet behind the ears, part brash confidence and part terror that I'd not stand up to fire and battle.”

“Did you?” But then she winced. “I'm sorry. Of course you did.”

“Yes, thank God, though it's easy to understand how some men's nerves break. After a couple of years I was moved to other work, which meant less time directly facing enemy fire and blade.”

“What work?”

“Organizational duties in the Quartermaster's Division. It sounds less useful, but it's not.”

“You'd rather have been in the thick of the fire.” She knew it. She knew him.

We've fallen again into intimate conversation again, and I'm powerless to resist.

“It would have been easier at times,” he said. “Simpler, at least.” But then he shook his head. “I didn't come up here for this. I came to tell you I must leave tomorrow.”

The shock was a good part dismay. “You just said you'd keep me safe!” She recovered. “No, it's good news. I'll be safer with you gone.”

“I hope so.”

He sounded calm, but she knew he wasn't. Her heart told her he felt exactly as she did, that parting was painful and unfair. That life was cruel.

“
Why
is there danger?” she demanded. “Why are these people so desperate to retrieve that letter? If it's only a letter, why did you steal it?”

“Better you not know.”

“Ignorance hasn't kept me safe thus far.”

He gave a short laugh. “Always to the point, but truly, there's nothing more for you to know. Be on your guard. Stay in the house and gardens. If you must venture further, take an armed servant.”

“Armed? I'm not sure the footmen here know how to use pistols.”

“I don't suppose you do, either.”

“Of course not.”

He sighed. “Do your best.” He touched her cheek. “Farewell, Lady Hermione.”

The use of her title was like a step away. “You're going into danger, aren't you? Those people might not pursue me here, but you're going to them. The brute's brother will want to slit your throat.” His only response was a wry reaction to her use of that phrase. “Will
you
stay safe?” she demanded with exasperation. “Will
you
take an armed guard?”

“Luck's favored me so far.”

“Luck!” She turned away to hide her tears. “Oh, go away, you wretch, and good riddance.”

But when she heard the gate creak, it broke her heart.

*   *   *

Hermione stayed where she was until she'd conquered her tears and then hurried into the house. She tried to find the anger she'd used as a barrier against him. Spicy indeed. Only a wretch would refer to her folly like that. Anger turned irreversibly to worry, however, even dread. She remembered his throat-slitting gesture back in Ardwick. She'd doubted it then, but no longer. He could be going to his death, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She took refuge in her room, looking down at the Ferry Inn as if doing so could keep him safe, trying to think of some way to avert fate. Why was she always so powerless in her life? She'd not been able to prevent Roger dying, or Jermyn, or her father and mother. She'd failed to discover coal. She'd probably fail to cure Edgar. . . .

She pulled herself out of her dismal mood. “Spicy” gave her an idea of something that might help. The cook here, Mrs. Kenwick, was an amiable woman who produced good, plain food, but Hermione was worried by Edgar's poor appetite. The antimony with opium was improving him, but he needed nourishment. She went to the kitchen.

“Do you know any spicy dishes, Mrs. Kenwick?”

“Cinnamon cakes, milady?”

“No, I mean pepper or Eastern dishes.”

“Sorry, milady, but I can't say as I do.”

Hermione smiled to reassure her. “And why should you? But I think we should try to add some stronger flavors to Mr. Peake's food. I'm sure oriental food is spicier and he may have become accustomed to that.”

“I'll see what I can do, milady,” the cook said, “but it's not what I'm used to for an invalid.”

“Perhaps we can find advice in Liverpool, with so many vessels there from around the world.”

Hermione went to Edgar's room to ask him, but also to check that he was out of his bed. She'd coaxed him into spending time in a chair yesterday, and even walking around the room a little. She suspected some of his weakness was from lying in bed all the time. Now he was taking his medicine again, he had a bit more strength.

He was sitting in his big chair, watching the river. She wasn't sure watching the river was healthy for him, but he had to look at something.

She went to sit nearby. “Do you have some favorite Eastern dishes?”

“Don't care if I ever eat again.”

“Well, I do. I'm going to send George to Liverpool to seek out an Indian cook.”

“I keep telling you, I didn't spend much time in India, and I don't like curries, so stop this.”

“Where did you spend much time?” she persisted.

“Here and there. Stop pestering me.”

She did, but she returned to the kitchen to pore over the few cookery books. She found some recipes for curry, but little else except a few using ginger and cayenne.

“Very well, Mrs. Kenwick, we'll improvise. I want you to add cayenne to your excellent ragout of chicken. Ginger, too. Then for a sweet, make an especially rich cinnamon pudding with rum sauce.”

“For an invalid, milady?”

“We can only try. He's not eating much as it is.”

Hermione had taken to eating her dinner with Edgar in his room. That night he didn't comment on the ragout or the pudding, but he ate a little more of both and drank some claret she'd had opened.

Then he surprised her. “What if we went in search of that Grammaticus?”

“In search? How?”

“At the last place we know of. The Curious Creatures in London.”

“London! You can't travel there.”

“I can sit in a chair, so I can sit in a coach.”

She hated to mention it, but said, “The medicine will make it difficult.”

“Spewing and liquid bowels? I'll stop taking it before it gets a hold on me.”

“You can't do that.”

“Don't tell me what I can and can't do. You can watch me die here, or you can take me to London.” He had on his stubborn face, but it relaxed into wistfulness. “I've not seen London for fifty years. Sailed into Liverpool nigh on a year ago, and I've been stuck here since. I want to see the gaslit streets and all the fine new buildings. The London Docks.”

“Docks?” she said, bemused by anyone wanting to see those, but she couldn't resist the yearning in his voice. He'd been a man of action all his life. No wonder he wanted to take action now. Instead of lingering here until he died, he wanted to embark on another adventure—a quest that might kill him but that held the slim hope of a grand reward.

“How would we travel?” she asked.

“The same way anyone does. Hire a chaise.”

“Just the two of us? Edgar, I'm sorry, but—”

“You're right, you're right. I'll need Peter. You'll need a maid. A coach, then. Not hired. Buy it.”

“
Buy
a coach?”

“Hard to hire a coach for a long journey. Probably only get it for a stage or two, then have to settle into a new one. Buy one. Sell it in London. I've done that sort of thing before.”

“I suppose it's possible, but it would be very expensive.” He'd never given a hint about how much money he had.

“I've money enough for that. Peter! My writing desk.”

Edgar was suddenly full of vigor and she could imagine how he'd been in his prime, but she could also imagine this burning him into a collapse.

His servant arranged his writing things, but when Edgar picked up the pen, he dropped it. “Plaguey hands too weak. You write for me.”

Hermione arranged the desk on her lap and at his dictation wrote a letter to his solicitor in Liverpool requesting him to purchase a comfortable traveling carriage for him at whatever cost necessary, and to have it delivered here with four post-horses as soon as possible along with four hundred pounds, transported securely. The sum made her stare, but she wrote it before commenting.

“That's a great deal of money, Edgar. Will it be safe?”

“Should be, unless you or Peter decide to run off with it. New letter. To my bank.” That was authorizing his solicitor to draw the funds to cover the purchase and the hire of the first set of horses, plus the money.

Hermione sanded the letters, wondering whether she should try to prevent this extravagance. She'd seen no evidence that Edgar Peake had huge wealth, so he might be spending the last of his money on this wild venture, leaving nothing for Polly. It was his money, however, and if he wanted to spend it in pursuit of a cure for his disease and to enjoy illuminated streets, it was his right.

She took the letters to him for his signature, which he made carefully. “Want them to recognize it.”

As she folded the letters, he picked up his seal. She
dripped melted wax over the edge and he stamped it. The design was some kind of oriental letter.