Lucien grinned. “We dragon slayers have to take our work as it comes.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Why did you bring him here? Hoping that my cook will poison his meal? He looks perfectly healthy to me.”
“Hislop and I came to terms about Mrs. Ewing,” Lucien remarked. “But I had promised to bring him to your breakfast and he felt that, as a gentleman, I should keep my promise.”
Patrick snorted. “Sounds more like a mouse than a dragon.” But at that moment, Sophie sent him an unmistakable look of appeal over Hislop’s head.
“I’ll have his gizzard,” the duke said between clenched teeth as he lunged across the room.
SADLY ENOUGH, Bartholomew Hislop’s unexpected invitation to the Duke of Gisle’s breakfast did not go as smoothly as he could have hoped. For, as he told his close friends the following evening, he did nothing more than accidentally drop an apricot tart near the duchess. “Not on her bodice,” he painstakingly explained. “Near it.” And when he bent over to make absolutely certain that her gown was not stained, why, the duke went into a frenzy.
His friends’ eyes widened and they leaned closer.
“Naturally,” Bartholomew reported, “this small contretemps will not affect our friendship, and I have no doubt but that I shall be invited to many future events at the Gisle house. But I must warn you all to avoid the duchess. Frankly, Gisle is just a trifle bourgeois with regard to his wife. After all, Her Grace displayed her bosom to the whole of the Fester ballroom, didn’t she? So why would he mind if I happened to catch a glimpse?”
His friends entirely agreed with him, which mitigated the pain of a darkish purple bruise that had unaccountably appeared under his right eye.
“GABBY! What on earth are you doing in Abchurch Lane?” Sophie exclaimed. “I’ve never met another soul I knew here.”
Gabby smiled a bit shyly. “I came to visit an apothecary. How are you, Sophie?”
Sophie turned about and tucked Gabby’s arm into hers. “Bored, dearest. I am yawning with tedium. I visited Mr. Spooner’s bookstore in hopes of finding a Norwegian grammar book, for nothing more than curiosity. And he failed me. But I must apologize: I have been horribly remiss. I meant to call last week to congratulate you on your marriage.”
Gabby opened her mouth, but Sophie kept right on chattering. “You married the right brother, you know. Peter is a dear, but Quill…well, if I hadn’t already met Patrick by the time Quill emerged from his sickroom, I might have thrown my hat into the ring.” Sophie gave her a twinkling smile.
“In that case, I am glad that my husband’s illness lasted so long,” Gabby said. “I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
“Pooh! My Patrick says that Quill is besotted.”
Gabby laughed, but she felt a secret gleam of delight. “That sounds like foolishness. How could your husband possibly know whether Quill is besotted or not?”
“Oh, men.” Sophie gave her delicate French shrug. “Who knows how they understand each other? Sometimes I think Patrick must speak in code to his brother, Alex, because they rarely converse, yet Patrick always knows if something is wrong. They’re twins, you know.”
“I didn’t know that,” Gabby said with some curiosity. “Do they look alike?”
“People seem to think so. But I have never agreed,” Sophie replied. “I would love to introduce you, but Alex and his wife, Charlotte, are still in the country because Charlotte is expecting a child.”
“I see,” Gabby said, not seeing at all. Since they were in mourning, she and Quill had not attended many public events. But she had seen women everywhere who were large with child.
“Charlotte had some bother giving birth to her first child,” Sophie explained, “and Alex is simply rabid with worry and won’t let my poor friend rise from the couch. Patrick keeps complaining that he’s getting ulcers due to Alex’s nervous spates.”
“So each knows what the other is feeling?”
“Yes, I believe that’s the way of twins. Is this your apothecary, Gabby? I must say, it looks undistinguished.” They stood in front of a tiny shop with square projecting windows and small panes of filthy glass.
Gabby pulled from her reticule the advertisement she had clipped from The Times. “Yes, this is it.”
“I think we had better leave our maids here. We won’t all fit inside,” Sophie said dubiously. “Lift up your skirts!” she called as Gabby pushed open the dingy door, causing a bell to ring.
The shop of Mr. J. Moore, Apothecary, was crowded with oddly shaped bottles, each adorned with a scribbled label. There was no one behind the counter.
Sophie bent over one of the bottles. “Just look at this! Worm powder. Do you think it’s made of worms?”
Gabby shook her head. “I doubt it.” Where was the proprietor? She clutched the advertisement in a gloved hand.
“No, it’s not made of worms,” Sophie was saying. “It brings away worms of all sorts of lengths and shapes and leaves the body in perfect health.” She snorted. “Gabby, what are we doing in this place?”
Just then an old man entered through the curtained back door. Gabby almost stepped back in dismay. His eyes were covered with a milky-white film, and he felt his way along the counter to stand before them. “Hello! Hello! I’m Mr. James Moore,” he said cheerfully. “Purveyor of real and effectual medicines, fit for the use of old and young. How may I help you?”
“I’ve come in response to your advertisement,” Gabby said, wishing she’d never opened The Times that morning.
“Ah, my lady, so you suffer from gip in the guts? Windy belches? Or perhaps …” He paused. “Wind in the bowels?”
Sophie took Gabby’s arm. “I don’t believe we are in the right shop,” she murmured.
“So there are two lovely ladies,” Mr. Moore exclaimed. “All the better! Now, a trifling anxiety is natural in these circumstances. But is it better to be a bit mortified here or to suffer true mortification when an eruption occurs in a crowded place?”
Gabby felt purple with embarrassment. “I’ve come because you apparently cured a woman who had violent headaches,” she said.
“Quite right! Quite right,” Mr. Moore said, rubbing his extremely filthy hands together. “That would be my lovely niece, Miss Rachel Morbury of Church Lane. She insisted—positively insisted—that I allow her to place that testimonial in the paper, my dear madam. Suffered for two years, she did. The headaches had become so bad that she was like to lose her place. She has a good place with Mrs. Huffy, who lives in Church Lane. Finally, Miss Rachel allowed me to give her a dose of my effectual medicine.
“And she hasn’t suffered a bit since!” he said triumphantly, beaming at the wall just over Gabby’s shoulder. “Miss Rachel placed that advertisement of her own free will, ladies. For the benefit of mankind, she said. She’s a good niece to me.”
Sophie’s hand had been tightening on Gabby’s arm during Mr. Moore’s little speech. “Gabby,” she hissed, “the medicine is quite likely unsafe.”
Gabby cleared her throat. “How do you make your headache medicine, Mr. Moore?”
“I can hear that you are delicate ladies,” he said jovially. “So I won’t tell you the ingredients. Because I’d hate to turn a ladylike stomach and possibly stop you from taking one of my real and effectual medicines!”
Sophie was positively tugging on her arm, but Gabby stood firm. “I won’t buy the medicine unless you tell me the ingredients.”
“Very well, very well. I use rare ingredients, madam. Very rare. That’s why the headache cure is a trifle more expensive than many of my other medicines, to tell the truth.”
“Yes?”
“Well,” Mr. Moore said reluctantly. “It’s a mercurial powder, madam. The same as the noted Emperick Charles Hues ordinarily took. And by mercurial powder, I mean that it has a tincture of quicksilver in it.”
“What else?”
“Tartar emetic and just a drop or two of opium—”
“There’s nothing very unusual abou
t that remedy,” Gabby said bluntly.
“It’s a mystery ingredient that does the trick, madam. But I can’t tell you the last.” Mr. Moore put on a regal air. “A doctor has to keep his mysteries, madam. Or else every ruffian in the street will be selling my real and effectual medicine.”
“In that case, thank you very much for speaking to us.” Gabby turned to go.
“Wait!”
“My husband will not try any medicine without a full understanding of its ingredients,” Gabby replied. “I bid you good day, Mr. Moore.”
“For the good of mankind,” the apothecary gabbled. “For the good of mankind and, more especially, to relieve your good husband, madam, I will tell you. But I must have your solemn word that you will breathe a word to no one. My secret ingredient is a tincture of Indian hemp, madam. The medicine is to be repeated every two or three hours.”
“Indian hemp? Where did you get that idea, Mr. Moore?”
Mr. Moore clearly felt that since he was in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound. “I bought the remedy off a traveling Indian, some sort of a doctor, he called himself. It has worked miracles, madam, miracles!”
Gabby paused. “All right. I’ll take one bottle.”
Mr. Moore beamed. “That will be five sovereigns, madam.”
“We are leaving,” Sophie said, her voice fierce. “Don’t you pay this mountebank a penny, Gabby!”
“I’ll give you one sovereign.” Gabby laid the shining coin on the filthy counter.
Mr. Moore grabbed it, placing a grubby brown bottle in its place. “There you are, madam. A better bargain you never made. One large spoonful to be repeated every two or three hours while in the throes of an attack. And”—he bowed—“may I say how very pleased I would be to serve you again, madam? As I may have said, my real and effectual medicine for wind is esteemed throughout the country.”
“Thank you,” Gabby replied. “Good day, Mr. Moore.” She followed Sophie from the shop.
“If you weren’t my friend, I would begin to worry about your wits,” Sophie said. “You just gave that sovereign away.”
“Very likely,” Gabby said, feeling dispirited.
“And I would be very surprised to learn that Quill agreed to take that medicine.”
Gabby didn’t want to say that she could guarantee he wouldn’t take it. It was too humiliating; the whole business was so humiliating. Tears pricked her eyes.
Sophie took one look, tucked her arm under Gabby’s, and began walking back down the lane to where their carriages were waiting. “We shall have to discuss this, Gabby,” she said firmly. “I take it that Quill’s headaches are quite severe?”
“Yes, they are,” Gabby mumbled.
“All the same, who knows what Indian hemp might do to him? I find it hard to believe that Quill would take such a medicine—even a real and effectual one,” she said, mimicking Mr. Moore’s voice, “without knowing the consequences. What if it caused him further injury, Gabby?”
“I know,” she said miserably. “It’s just that when I saw the advertisement in the paper …” Her voice trailed off.
“His niece, ha! Moore placed that advertisement himself, the old quack.”
“You’re probably right.” Gabby couldn’t keep the bleak tone out of her voice.
“We need tea,” Sophie said suddenly. “Here. I’ll tell your carriage to follow, shall I?”
Gabby allowed herself to be handed into Sophie’s carriage by a footman. They went to Madam Clara’s Teashop for Ladies.
“This is my favorite place to drink tea in all London,” Sophie said cozily. “All the gossips watch one another while pretending not to, and since the tables aren’t close enough for eavesdropping, they suffer agonies of curiosity.”
Despite herself, Gabby started to cheer up at Sophie’s irreverent chatter. And then, over a cup of steaming tea—and after ascertaining that Sophie was indeed right, and no one could hear them over the chatter—Gabby blurted out the whole story.
“But you have to promise not to tell your husband,” she said at the end. “Please, Sophie!”
“Of course I won’t tell Patrick,” Sophie replied absently. “This story is nothing for a man to hear. Make him nervous and he’d start giving himself headaches out of sympathy.”
Gabby chuckled, but Sophie was still thinking out loud. “Quill’s old injury obviously triggers the migraines. How?”
“He has a large scar along his hip,” Gabby said dubiously.
“Too far from his head,” Sophie said.
“Well, perhaps not,” Gabby exclaimed, feeling a twinge of excitement. “What if the headaches are caused by using that hip?”
“Using? Oh, I see what you mean! Does it pain him to move that leg normally?”
“No, he’s never said that,” Gabby said. “But he does limp. And I have noticed that the limp is more pronounced when he’s tired.”
“Then let’s assume that it hurts most of the time,” Sophie said. “Men are positively idiotic about admitting pain.”
“Well, then, what if the migraines are caused by straining his leg?” Gabby frowned. “It wouldn’t be a question of the leg, in that case. More likely his hip.” She could feel that her face was a rosy pink.
“It could be either,” Sophie pointed out. “I mean”—she paused and then plunged ahead—“he likely supports himself on his knees and moves his hips.” Her eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “So tonight you must refuse to allow him to move his hip or put weight on his leg.”
Gabby’s heart bounded and then thudded back to earth. “I can’t, Sophie. I told him that I didn’t like…didn’t enjoy…so that I wouldn’t be responsible for any more migraines. He’s not angry. But now, it’s been several weeks, and he doesn’t even kiss me good night.” To her shame, her eyes filled with tears again.
“Change your mind,” Sophie said bracingly.
“I can’t! What if it doesn’t work?”
“It will work. And you can’t go on like this, buying filthy medicines from cracked apothecaries. You’re like to kill Quill one of these times.”
“I’ve never actually given him any of them,” Gabby said miserably. She had a secret little collection in her desk. “I was waiting until he had a migraine attack.”
“Well, he’s never going to have an attack if you don’t take him back into your bed,” Sophie pointed out.
“He said he would visit a concubine,” Gabby whispered. One tear spilled down her cheek.
“Absurd! Quill is undoubtedly lying abed at night planning to break down your door. Patrick and I stopped having relations for a time during the first year of our marriage, and he never visited a concubine. He glowered at me for his entertainment.”
“You did, really?” Gabby was fascinated.
“You’d be surprised at the foolish things we did,” Sophie replied dryly. “But I’ll save them for our next cup of tea, because I promised to take a young guest to see the Tower this afternoon.”
Gabby bit her lip. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, Sophie. It—”
“Poppycock!” She laughed. “I sounded just like my mama there. Have you met my mama yet?”
Gabby shook her head.
“Count your blessings. Now—” She leaned conspiratorially across the table. “I shall think of you tonight, Gabby. Be of strong heart.”
GABBY RETURNED HOME to find that two letters had arrived from India. She snatched them from the salver, only to discover that neither was from Sudhakar.
She read the first letter with keen interest. It appeared that her plan to save Kasi Rao was well in train. She felt a little gleam of pride at the idea that one of her fantastical ideas might actually be useful.
Then she turned, reluctantly, to the letter bearing her father’s handwriting. Richard Jerningham’s letter was like to blister Gabby’s fingers as she read it. Her father had never heard of a request so absurd as hers. Was she aware that no right-minded Englishman would take a foul brew handed to him by a
vaidya? What was good enough for an Indian person would kill the delicate constitution of an Englishman. Did she want to kill her husband? Under no circumstances would he allow any person from his village to be involved, let alone help her, with her infernal plans.
And he suggested, rather as an afterthought, that she repent her sins and confess all to her husband.
Gabby was well-aware of her father’s low opinion of her, but this was rather surprising. She wouldn’t have thought he would accuse her of murder!
With a sudden jerky movement, she tore the parchment in half. And in half again. She was staring at a desk covered with small scraps of paper when her husband entered her bedchamber.
“What on earth are you doing?” Quill asked.
Gabby colored and hastily swept up the scraps of paper. “It was nothing more than—”
“Love notes from another man?” he suggested, with just a flash of seductive humor.
“No!” Gabby said, and then, “Oh, Quill—”
But he had turned away, and to her horror, he picked up the small brown bottle she had brought home from the apothecary. She had forgotten to secrete it away.
When Quill looked at her, his face was closed and tight. “Where did you buy this rubbish, Gabby?”
“Abchurch Lane,” she said miserably. “I thought perhaps—”
“But I was under the impression that you had declined to sleep with me,” Quill said with great politeness. “When were you planning to administer this…medicine?” He held it up.
“You said you would visit a concubine,” Gabby said, stumbling.
“Oh? I see. Since you dislike connubial relations, I am to visit a concubine. And then when I incur a migraine due to my labors, you are planning to administer this medicine?”
Gabby felt as if she must be purple with embarrassment. “I saw an advertisement. And it looked—”
“How many medicines have you bought, Gabby?” he interrupted.
She blinked.
“You see,” he continued, “I watched my mother do exactly the same thing. She bought medicine from every quack who placed a false testimonial in the papers. After she almost killed me, I swore not to take any more medicine. And I shall not break that vow.”