The Lady in the Tower

October 12, 1815

London

“Thank
goodness you’ve arrived.” Jane Doherty, Baroness
Kilkenny
,
reached through the open door and pulled her guest inside.

Catherine
Breckinridge, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, lifted a blond brow. “Answering
your own door? What’s amiss?” Her Grace was Russian by birth, a fact that
showed not only in her light accent, but also in her choice of bold colors. Not
for her the pastels of the current season, but the rich colors of her native
Russia.

“Jennings is
ill, so I–”

A hacking
cough sounded behind them. Jane turned to see her butler standing in the foyer.
“Jennings, I told you to remain in bed.”

“But, my lady,
I couldn’t leave you to answer your own door.”

“Nonsense! I
opened the door and her grace came in.
Easy as could be.
Now go back to bed.”

The duchess
smiled as she removed her gloves. “I’d do as she says. Being a patient of your
mistress’s, I can vouch she is quite stubborn.”

“So I am. Off
to bed with you, Jennings, and take another dose of the tincture I gave you
last night.”

He sighed
deeply, which set off another round of coughing. Unable to speak, he managed a
bow as he coughed his way downstairs.

“Poor man,”
Catherine observed. “How serious is his ailment?”

“It’s curable
if he’ll stay in bed, which I am determined he will do.” Jane shook her head.
“Quite a busy morning. All of London seems to have caught the ague.”

“Except you.
You never catch the ailments you treat.” Amusement lit blue eyes darker than
Jane’s own. In a certain light, they might be mistaken for sisters, but
Catherine’s blond hair was much lighter than Jane’s straw-color.

“Father always
claimed I had the health of a farm horse. It helps when one’s physicking.” She
was so blessed to be able to help those in need. Her father, Sir Reginald, had
taught her most of the valuable lessons he’d learned over the years, including
some of his apothecary skills. Granted, because of the restrictions placed on
females, she’d never be allowed to fully pursue a career in medicine, but that
didn’t stop her from practicing wherever and whenever she could.  Indeed,
she enjoyed a far better than average rate of success.

And yet, of
all the people she’d helped over the last few years, she hadn’t been able to
save her own husband, Albert. It had been eight months since his passing, and
guilt still dug at her with spiked spurs. He’d been a very kind man and despite
his straight-laced commitment to convention, and their repeated disagreements
about her “place” in society, they’d been very fond of each other.

When he’d
grown ill, she’d wracked her brain and her books for a cure, but all for
naught. While she worked, often falling asleep digging through her father’s
books and journals, Albert’s family had secretly called in another physician,
Sir Richard Thornton. She’d been furious at her in-laws’ lack of faith,
especially when Thornton had done nothing more than
examine
Albert a mere half an hour before declaring his situation hopeless. The news
seemed to have sped Albert to his death that much faster, despite everything
she tried.

So much for
Richard Thornton’s physicking. Now, months later, she could admit that perhaps
Albert’s situation
had
been nearly
hopeless. But Thornton’s manner—abrupt, arrogant, taciturn, and
completely dismissive of her thoughts and suggestions—had not helped
matters. If she ever saw the man again she’d probably wallop him with her
medical bag. Fortunately for them both, that was highly unlikely. Since
Albert’s death, she’d made her way tending to those in need, not those who
could pay the most. Thornton, meanwhile, had gone on to become one of the
leading physicians of the ton, no doubt raking in hundreds, if not thousands of
pounds, all with that same arrogance.

The thought of
it rankled and Jane had to force herself to stop thinking about it as she took
the duchess’s coat and hung it on the rack. “The others have arrived. Kat’s in
a bit of an upset.”

“I take it the
consult did not go well?” Catherine looked concerned for their friend, Katelyn
Worthington, the Dowager Countess Tyndale.

 
“No.” Jane glanced at the open doors of
the drawing room before she leaned in to whisper, “Apparently her client
believed sitting for a portrait meant he should be naked.”

The duchess
raised her brows. “Was he at least a fine specimen?”

“From what Kat
has said, only if you find a rotund belly and foul breath attractive.”

“Why is it
always the fat ones who wish to be naked?”

Jane smiled,
but said, “I fear it was more than that; he also thought he could take certain
liberties.”

All amusement
fled the duchess’s face. “The nerve! I shall see him ostracized.” As she was
both a duchess and the widow of a former diplomat, Catherine had the clout to
do it, too.

 
“It seems we’ve all had a somewhat
difficult week. Fortunately—” Her Grace removed something from her
reticule. “I brought something to distract us.” She drew out a small bundle of
black silk. Opening the folds of cloth, she displayed a deck of cards.

Jane frowned.
“I don’t see how a card game will—”

 
“Not a game. A reading! They are tarot
cards. Oh, don’t look like that! It will be fun. After what we’ve all been
through, we could use some fun.”

Jane could not
disagree. The Widows’ Club, as she liked to call it, had become a collection of
close friends, all of whom had suffered a loss—some admittedly greater
than others—over the past year. “It can’t hurt.”

“Exactly. And
who knows what the cards will reveal?” Catherine smiled mysteriously.

Jane just
shook her head and led the way into the drawing room where flame-haired Kat
stalked back and forth before the hearth. Kat could be more mercurial than a
feline, and that passion made her the artist she
was,
yet she was just as quick to laughter as she was to anger. Of the four of them,
only she had a child, her daughter Lilly. In some ways, Lilly was Kat writ in
miniature with the same red-gold hair, and green eyes. But where Katelyn could
be a hurricane, Lilly was the calm eye to her storm. Even now, while her mother
paced the room, Lilly quietly played with her dolls.

Next to her on
the floor, her skirts gracefully pooled about her, sat Josephine Whitfield, the
last of their group and the youngest. Fair
complected
,
with soot-black hair, and sherry-brown eyes, Josephine had slim lines and a
gamine face that belied an innate grace. The most recently widowed, Jo had
suffered perhaps the greatest loss among them, having lost both her husband and
her father to Napoleon’s ambitions. Yet, of them all, Jane believed Jo had the
greatest resilience.  

Today, however
. . . Jane’s gaze narrowed as she looked at her friend. Something was bothering
Jo. It showed in the way she kept sliding glances Jane’s way only to look away
when their gazes met.
I shall have to get
to the bottom of that mystery.

Kat stopped in
front Jane and the duchess. “Did you hear?”

Her Grace
moved to the younger woman and put an arm about her shoulders. The duchess
stood the tallest, slender still and handsome, despite her thirty-four years.
“It shall be remedied, Katelyn. This Lord—what’s his name?”

“Hammond.
Hammond the Hound I’ve heard he’s called.”

“Ha!” Jo
scorned. “That’s an insult to hounds everywhere.”

Catherine’s
mouth quirked. “Indeed. I shall see it taken care of,
milachka
.”
The fact that she’d slipped into Russian indicated her earnestness. Jane noted
that her friend rarely mentioned her Russian background; indeed, it seemed
whenever anything Slavic came up, the duchess’s health often declined. Jane had
no idea why, nor had her friend been forthcoming. Today, however, she seemed in
fine spirits.

 
“He was quite angry when I rebuffed him.”
Katelyn’s eyes flashed. “What if he goes to my mother-in-law with some made up
story? Amelia would love any opportunity . . .” Brows drawn, Kat paused by
Lilly and ran a hand lightly over her daughter’s curls.
The duchess nodded. “Have no fear
. I will take care
of it all and when I’m done, no one will believe his lies. But in the meantime,
I brought something for our meeting.”

At
this Lilly’s interest sparked. “For me, too? Is it a sweet?”

“Not
a sweet,
lapochka
. This is for the adults.”
She moved to where a settee stood between two chairs, took a seat, then removed
the cards from the black silk. “These tarot cards aren’t as old as the ones
from my grandmother, but they’ll suffice.”

Jo
and Kat sat across from her. Kat picked up a card from the deck, scanning it
with her artist’s eye. “The illustration looks Flemish.” She offered Lilly a
look as the child moved to sit on her lap.

 
“How do these work?” Jane sat next to
Catherine. “What do they do?”

 
“They tell your fortune of course.”

At
this, all three of them exchanged a look. The duchess noticed and laughed. “I
know the tea leaves and crystals were something of a disappointment, but I
promise you,
these
cards are
special.”

Jo
picked up a card, her eyes wide at the illustration. “’The Devil’? Well, I’ll
admit that’s a bit more exciting than tea leaves!”

 
“That card doesn’t mean what you think.”
Catherine took the card and replaced it on the stack.

 
“What’s this, Mummy?” Lilly held up a
card that featured a naked couple entwined.

 
“Oh dear!” Face red, Kat snatched the
card away and tucked it under the deck. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

 
“I hadn’t thought of Lilly being here.”
The duchess bit her lip. After a moment, she gave a decisive nod and then
carefully, almost reverently, wrapped the cards back in the silk. “I shall send
you each a card.”

Jo
frowned. “I thought we had to pick one ourselves?”

“The
deck can choose, too.” The duchess looked at them each in turn, her smile as
mysterious as ever. “Then you will see.
All
of you.”

Jane
and Kat exchanged a humorous glance, but agreed.
Catherine
added so much to their little gatherings and besides
,
they
had nothing to lose
. It was all silliness and nothing more.

Slipping
back into her role as hostess, Jane pulled the teapot closer and filled the
waiting cups before turning to Jo. “You seem quiet today. Is anything wrong?”

Kat’s
and
Catherine’s gazes locked on Jo, who grimaced. “I should have known you could
tell.”

“What’s wrong,
Jo?” Jane asked.

The younger
woman sighed. “You would find out soon enough, and I thought I should at least
warn you.” She dug in her reticule to pull out a paper clipping. “It’s from
this morning’s paper.”

Jane’s jaw
tightened. “Not again.”

Jo nodded.

Stomach
knotted, Jane took the clipping. It had been cut from the scandal sheets. Bold
typeset claimed WICKED WIDOW STRIKES AGAIN:

A certain
wicked blond baroness is up to her old tricks! She was found just three days
past undressing a gentleman right in the center of the fabulous Burnham Hotel!
Even reclusive owner J.
Highbridge
was shocked by the
brazen actions. Is there no limit to what this shameless hussy dares? One
shudders to think what she might have done if Other Parties had not been
present . . .

Disgusted,
Jane thrust the paper back. “Do you want to hear my version of what happened?”

“We don’t need
to,” Catherine said instantly.