Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (9 page)

"I thank you, aunt, but I fear I should see a physician."

Fanny chuckled softly. "Trust me, my dear, this will pass. A little too much champagne—"

"No, it is not that. I—I cannot speak of it just now, but I really must see a physician." Rosie had intended to find a physician in London, one in whom she would confide her condition with a strict promise of confidentiality. She had thought it best to have someone aware of her disease, in case she became really sick or certain medications became necessary. But she had been enjoying herself so much, she had almost completely forgot that she was ill. In fact, until this morning, she had felt perfectly well.

Fanny lifted a hand to Rosie's cheek. "Rosalind, my dear, if something is wrong you must tell me. I will help you in any way you need. Are you ill?"

Rosie sighed. "Yes. But you must not ask me any more questions, aunt. If you will just be so good as to send for a physician, I would be much obliged to you."

"All right, my dear, it shall be as you wish," Fanny said, her voice gentle and her brow furrowed in concern. "I have no desire to pry, only to let you know you may confide in me at any time. You must know I would respect any confidence. I have grown quite surprisingly fond of you."

"Thank you," Rosie said. Feeling uncharacteristically emotional at her aunt's words, her voice came out watery and weak. She took a deep breath to compose herself. She had no desire to fall apart in front of her aunt. "If there is something you must know," she said with more control, "I promise I will tell you."

"Good. Then I will have Sir Nigel Leighton sent for. He is the best man in London."

Violet helped Rosie to wash up and put on a simple morning dress before the doctor arrived. She could stomach no more than tea and toast when breakfast was offered. Violet's constant fussing, however well-meaning, became irritating and Rosie finally sent the maid away.

When Sir Nigel arrived, Fanny brought him up herself. She introduced them, then made a discreet exit, leaving them alone in the bedchamber. Sir Nigel pulled a finely carved arm chair close to Rosie's chaise and sat down.

"What can I do for you, Miss Lacey?"

The physician was short and stout, with a magnificent head of silver hair. His direct gaze and authoritative air made Rosie feel suddenly foolish and tongue-tied.

"I don't know where to begin," she said.

"At the beginning, I think."

"Well, it all began with my mother."

Sir Nigel lifted an eyebrow. "Go on."

"Before I do," Rosie said, "I must have your word that what I tell you will be kept in the strictest confidence. Even my aunt—especially my aunt—must not know what I am about to tell you."

"You have my word of honor. Now, tell me what troubles you."

And she did. She told him the same things she had told the Exeter physician who'd diagnosed her. She told him how, when Rosie was fourteen, her mother had suddenly become ill, and that in six months she was dead. Now Rosie found herself with the same symptoms. Another physician had confirmed the diagnosis, and predicted Rosie, too, would succumb within six months.

"Tell me more about your mother's illness," Sir Nigel said, and pulled out a small notebook from his waistcoat pocket. "What precisely were her symptoms?"

"I wasn't told everything, of course, but I do know that she suffered horrible headaches. She could always tell they were coming on because her hands and feet became cold. Sometimes she became disoriented and dizzy. When that happened, her nurse or my father bustled her away at once, and we sometimes did not see her for days. My father would come out of her bedchamber looking white-faced and drained, but he never told us what happened behind that closed door. He would simply say that Mama was ill and we must be very quiet and leave her alone."

She waited while he made some notes. He wore an uncompromising scowl and Rosie knew he was not pleased with what she told him. She had been accustomed to their gentle family physician back home. There was nothing gentle, nor even compassionate, about this man.

He looked up and asked, "Did these symptoms appear suddenly, or had you ever noticed anything similar when you were younger?"

"Oh, no. It was quite sudden. I remember it well. She had been out for a ride. When she returned, she was removing her hat and gloves in the hall, and she fainted."

"And then the headaches began." It was not a question. "Did they become more frequent?"

"Yes. And then one day, six months later, Papa came out of her bedchamber looking more devastated than ever, and told us she had died."

"Had a physician attended her during that six months?"

"Yes, Dr. Urquhart."

"A competent man, this Urquhart?" he asked, and made a note.

Blast. She ought not to have mentioned the doctor's name.

"Well?" he prompted with obvious impatience.

"Yes, I believe he is considered quite competent."

"And no one, your father or Dr. Urquhart or anyone else, ever told you what exactly ailed your mother? Her disease or condition was never named?"

"No. Papa said we were never to speak of it."

"Why?"

"I do not know. I suppose because it was too painful for him. He loved her very much, you see. A dozen years later, he still grieves for her."

He clucked his tongue, though Rosie did not believe it was out of sympathy. He fixed her with his formidable gaze, brows knotted together so tightly they formed deep ridges down the center of his forehead. "And what of you, Miss Lacey? What were your first symptoms and when did they begin?"

"About two months ago. I was walking in our park when I suddenly became dizzy and had to sit down. I thought I might faint."

"Did you?"

"No, but the dizziness was quite strong. And then my head began to throb like never before, and my vision became fuzzy."

"What happened next?"

"After a few minutes, the dizziness passed and I was able to make it home safely. I went straight to bed and thought nothing of it. Until two days later, it happened again. This time, I noticed that my hands were freezing, even though I wore gloves. That is what made me think of Mama."

She paused as the recollection of that first moment of panic almost overwhelmed her anew. "Go on," Sir Nigel said, without looking up from his note-taking.

"I kept experiencing the headaches, the dizziness, the cold hands, as well as a ringing in my ears. It was just like Mama. I became scared."

"Did you go to Dr. Urquhart?"

"No."

He looked up. "Why not?"

"I cannot explain it, but I didn't want anyone to know. If my family knew I had Mama's disease, they would know I was going to die. I did not want them to know that. I could not bear it."

"But you said a doctor had confirmed the diagnosis?"

"Yes. I decided I had to know for sure, but I could not go to Dr. Urquhart, who would feel obliged to tell my father. So I went to Exeter one day with my sisters. I told them I wanted to visit the lending library while they shopped. Instead, I went to see a physician, using a different name."

Sir Nigel's mouth puckered with disdain. "And what did he say?"

"He said I had the same disease as my mother."

"But he did not name the disease?"

"No."

He dropped his notebook onto his lap and glared at Rosie with undisguised contempt. "And what did you want of me, Miss Lacey? A more positive diagnosis? I assure you I have not achieved this level of my profession by telling people what they want to know rather than what they need to know."

"Oh no, sir," she said, surprised he would think such a thing. "No, I am quite certain of the diagnosis. I wanted to see you simply to have a physician in London aware of my condition. You see, the headaches have begun again."

"What do you mean, begun again? They stopped?"

"Yes. Since I've been in London these last few weeks, I've had no headache until today."

"And you experienced the same symptoms this morning?"

"Yes. Well, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"It... it was not exactly the same this time."

"Was there dizziness?"

"Yes."

"Disorientation?"

"Yes."

"Blurred vision."

"No."

"Coldness in your extremities?"

"No."

"Ringing in your ears?"

"Sort of, though not the same as before. Every sound seemed to echo in my head like a Chinese gong."

"And how do you feel now?"

"Much better, thank you."

"The headache has passed?"

"For the most part."

Sir Nigel rose to his feet and began to pace. He massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, as though he, too, suffered the headache. "Miss Lacey, your story confounds me. You say you have your mother's disease, yet you have no idea what that disease is. Based on a few very common symptoms, I cannot help but believe you are making a gross assumption of fatality."

"You did not see my mother, Sir Nigel. I tell you, I have exactly the condition she had."

He stopped pacing, turned, and skewered her to the spot with his steely glare. "You will, I trust, allow me a tad more expertise in this area, Miss Lacey. You develop symptoms and do not tell the one doctor who might be able to help you, who treated your mother's illness. You visit another doctor, quite unknown to you, who confirms your own diagnosis, without even knowing what he is diagnosing. I suggest to you, Miss Lacey that no physician worthy of his profession would confirm an unknown diagnosis. I promise you I will not, if that's what you had hoped."

"I do not need your confirmation, Sir Nigel," Rosie said, exasperated at the man's arrogance. Just because he did not make the diagnosis, he found it suspect. The pompous ass! "No, sir, I thought only that you might perhaps prescribe something to relieve the headache, when it comes again. I cannot avoid death, it seems, but I should like to be as comfortable as possible in the meantime."

"You've been in London how long?"

"Almost three weeks."

"And this is the first occurrence of the headache?"

"Yes."

"What did you do last evening, Miss Lacey?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did you go out last evening?"

"Yes."

"To several parties, I daresay."

"Yes. And the theater."

"The theater, too. How nice. And did you have anything to drink at these parties?"

"Yes." Rosie could see where this was heading and she did not like it one bit.

"What did you drink, Miss Lacey?"

"I do not believe it signifies—"

"What did you have to drink?" His tone brooked no equivocation.

"Wine. And champagne."

"Quite a lot of it, I would wager."

Rosie shrugged and would not dignify his implication with a direct answer. The truth was she had consumed a substantial amount of champagne. But it had tasted so very good.

"Miss Lacey," Sir Nigel said through clenched teeth, "you have wasted my time. The symptoms you have described to me are exactly what one might expect after a night of too much champagne. That is the source of your headache, not some mysterious disease."

"That's as may be, Sir Nigel. I admit I am not accustomed to champagne. But that does not mean that I do not also suffer severe pain due to my condition. I am not one of your swooning, vaporish females, I promise you. I do not feign illness to draw attention to myself. Quite the contrary. I do suffer from my mother's disease. Of that I am quite, quite certain."

"You may be right," he said. "You may indeed have contracted a fatal condition, one that is perhaps hereditary. However, I have too little information to go on. And despite my professional instinct that this is mere foolishness, I confess I am intrigued. Your mother's case was real enough, and that interests me. I should like to contact this Dr. Urquhart and get all the medical details of your mother's illness."

"No!"

He gave her another one of those flinty looks that surely intimidated all his other patients into doing exactly what he asked. "I promise not to mention your name, if you insist on this ridiculous secrecy, Miss Lacey. I shall simply tell him I have a patient who is related to the late Lady Lacey and suspects she may have the same disease. I will ask for your mother's history so I may be more precise in my own diagnosis."

"I don't know. I don't want—"

"I promise. No names. And when I hear back from him, I will let you know what I have discovered."

Rosie gave a deep sigh. She could tell the man was not going to give up. "All right. But I will have your pledge of confidentiality."

"Have I not given it, Miss Lacey? More than once? Now, I will have the direction of Dr. Urquhart, if you please."

Chapter 7