The Lady in the Tower (2 page)

Kat nodded.
“You would never do anything scandalous unless it was to save a life.”

Jo crumpled
the paper into a tight ball. “There! Now it’s rubbish only good for kindling. I
wondered if I should even bring it, but I thought it best you know. Oh, I wish
we knew who wrote this tripe, for I’d like to see them strung up.”

“And
quartered,” Catherine added. “Slowly.”

Kat’s eyes
gleamed. “I’d like to chop off their fingers with a really large sword so they
could never again write such foolishness!”

Jane laughed.
“Thank you, but no violence please. Besides, it’s not as if my patients will be
bothered by such.”

“They are all
so very glad you were nearby to help them,” Jo said.

Kat reached
across the table to squeeze Jane’s hand. “As are we.”

Feeling much
better, Jane smiled. “Thank you. Now, let’s forget this foolishness and have
some tea.

Jane put down
her pen and sighed, looking over the outline she’d written for her next
article. After her father’s death, she’d managed to convince the Royal Society
of Physicians that he’d left pages and pages of notes that only she could
decipher due to his horrible handwriting. As her father was highly regarded,
the doddering old fools who ran the Society had accepted her story and had
allowed her to present the “findings” at certain meetings.

The papers
were all hers, of course, and as it had been more than a year since her father
had died, she was quite certain the ruling board was very much aware of her
authorship. So long as she didn’t demand credit, however, they seemed content
to allow her to continue. A paltry victory, since it wasn’t in her own name,
yet she couldn’t help but feel proud, especially when other physicians used her
findings in their own work.

Smiling to her
herself, she moved to stand, an envelope falling to her feet. It was a simple
fold of cream-colored vellum with a red stamp of wax carrying the duchess’s
distinctive seal. Although it had been delivered yesterday, Jane had been too
busy to open it. She picked up the envelope now, detecting the faint outline of
a card within.
Ah yes, the tarot card
. Such silliness, but then that was
mystical, romantic Catherine.

Of course,
Jane didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t quantify in some way, an
occupational hazard from the surgical training she’d received from her father.
Still, she couldn’t help but be a little curious. She retrieved a letter
opener,
then
slid the flat blade under the seal. The
red wax cracked. She started to open the envelope, but caught sight of the
clock. Catherine was coming for tea. For some reason, Jane put the note back on
the desk. She’d look at the card when she had some time to examine it. She
wasn’t sure why, but the tarot seemed personal—like a secret not to be
shared.

There was a
quiet knock and then Jennings pushed the tea trolley into the room. The butler
was still a bit red-nosed, though his cough was gone as he poured her a cup of
steaming tea. “Mrs. Simms says that as it’s so cold, she made your special
brew.”

“Lovely. The
duchess will enjoy it when she arrives.” Jane took a sip of the tea, smiling as
a hint of brandy warmed her. “Please tell Mrs. Simms it’s perfect.”

“Very good, my
lady. And may I again say thank you? That tincture you gave me was just the
thing.”

“I’m glad to
hear it. I’ll check your lungs again by week’s end to make sure they’re clear.”

“Thank you, my
lady. I—”

The
unmistakable jangle of the bell filled the air and Jennings bowed and left.

A moment
later, he returned, but he wasn’t escorting Catherine as Jane expected. “Pardon
me, my lady, but a note arrived from the dowager duchess.”

Jane took the
note from the tray and opened it.
Jane, I’m unwell. Come when you can?
–C.

“Jennings,
please hail a cab. The duchess is ill.”

“Yes, my
lady.” He bowed and hurried into the foyer, Jane following. While he hailed a
cab, she secured her medical satchel and donned her pelisse against the October
chill. Moments later, she met the hackney on the pavement outside. The smell of
autumn leaves and wood smoke filled the air.

“Where to,
ma’am?” the cabbie asked as he handed her up.

“St. James
Square.” The cab lurched as the cabbie took his perch, and Jane clutched at the
open window, fighting the inevitable vertigo that often plagued her in vehicles.
She hated closed conveyances of any kind, but by taking deep breaths, she was
able to reduce the nausea caused by the rocking ride.

When the
hackney finally drew to a halt, she threw open the door and climbed down before
the cabbie could assist her. She pressed the necessary coin into his hand and
then, gathering her satchel, ran up the stairs to the duchess’s fashionable
townhouse. The door opened before her foot touched the top stair.

“Thank
goodness you’ve come!” The butler, Higgins, cast her a harried gaze, his gray
hair
wisping
about his head like a frenzied halo.
“Her Grace is ill, and I’m about to go to war with Mrs. Ballard.”

Mrs. Ballard
was Catherine’s housekeeper. “Whatever for?”

“Because while
I was sending Her Grace’s note to you, that harridan called for another
physician!”

Jane sighed.
“Is he already here?”

“Yes, my lady,
and I can tell Her Grace isn’t happy about it and neither am I! I told Mrs.
Ballard not to call for another—”

“Higgins,
please, you’ll have an apoplexy. Take a slow breath.” Once he complied, Jane
turned to immediate business. “Where is Her Grace?”

“The morning
room.” Higgins hurried to open the doors for her.

“Catherine,
whatever is—” Jane froze.

The duchess
lay upon a chaise, looking pale. Standing beside her, measuring her
pulse,
was the very last man Jane had ever expected or
wanted to see.

Sir Richard
Thornton once again loomed over someone she cared about.

“Get away from
her,” Jane demanded. “She’s my patient!”

Thornton
lifted sea-blue eyes to hers. A black brow, a shade lighter than his ebon hair,
lifted. “Hmm. One does not own a patient. We merely borrow their time.” He
stood tall and broad shouldered, a fashionable silver-tipped cane clasped by
one hand.

Jane’s hands
tightened into fists.

“Mrs. Ballard
sent for Sir Richard without my knowledge,” Catherine said, looking up at the
physician. “But I must credit the good doctor with his speedy response to my
housekeeper’s rather histrionic summons.”

“What happened?”
Jane asked.

“It appears
Her Grace suffered—”

“I beg your
pardon, but I asked
her
not you.”

That brow
lifted again. “Hmm.”

Jane couldn’t
tell if he was clearing his throat, searching for words to set her on her
heels, or what, but the noise annoyed her.

The duchess
made a face. “All this fuss over nothing.”

Jane simply
waited. Catherine made light of a great many things, one of the most
significant being her health and state of mind, which Jane believed were
inextricably linked. She would never forget how their paths first had crossed
two years ago. She’d been attending a garden party with Albert, and had retired
to one of the rooms set aside for the ladies. She’d just entered when Catherine
burst into the room, white-faced. She would have collapsed if not for Jane
helping her through the episode with breathing techniques and conversation.
Later, when she was able to speak, Catherine had said she’d never recovered so
quickly or easily. She and Jane had been friends ever since, a friendship that
had grown closer when they’d both lost their husbands within six months of each
other: Jane’s to a wasting illness, and Catherine’s to suicide.

Jane took
Catherine’s wrist and measured her pulse.
A bit fast, but
steady.
“When did this spell begin?”

“I was at
breakfast, reading through the newspaper and—” Catherine paled, pressed a
hand to her throat, and clenched her eyes shut.

Jane opened
her leather bag. “Dizziness again?” At her friend’s murmur of assent, she took
out a small wooden box from the case, and removed a small brown bottle. “Did
you lose consciousness?”

“I just asked
the same question.” Thornton’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. “I
do
know how to take a patient’s
history.”

“Good for you,
Thornton. I’m sure that comes in quite handy when you’re with one of
your
patients.” Jane looked up at him,
and hated the fact that she had to do so to make eye contact. His face was more
tanned than she
remembered,
yet there was a gauntness
to his cheeks that had not been there when last they met. What had the man been
up to? His gaze narrowed and she detected a bit of ice had entered his eyes.
Good
.
Turning back to her friend, she asked, “You were saying?”

“No, I didn’t
faint.” Catherine frowned. “At least I don’t believe so.”

Jane could
feel Thornton’s gaze like a weight across her shoulders as she moved to
unstopper
the bottle, releasing scents of lavender and
peppermint into the air. “How did you come to be in the morning room?”

The duchess
hesitated. “I think I walked. I thought that if I could just rest upon the
chaise for a moment, I might feel better.”

“Do you
remember walking here?”

“Vaguely,” the
duchess replied.

“I see.” She
made to dab a bit of the oil concoction on her friend’s hand when Thornton
seized Jane’s wrist.

He scowled.
“If Her Grace is dizzy, smelling salts will only make her feel worse.”

“Agreed.” Jane
jerked her hand free, his fingers leaving an odd trail of warmth. “And ammonia
would only make her headache worse, which is why this isn’t
hartshorn
.”

His gaze
flickered to Catherine. “Do you have the headache as well, Your Grace?”

“A bit, yes.”

Thornton
scowled. “You didn’t mention it when I questioned you earlier.”

“You didn’t
ask,” Catherine said, covering her eyes with a hand.

Thornton’s
gaze narrowed and he gestured to the bottle in Jane’s hand. “What is that?”

“Essential
oils to soothe her nerves.”

His mouth
quirked, and even though Jane desperately wanted to erase his smug look, she
couldn’t help noticing what a sensual mouth he had.
I never noted that
before.
Her gaze flickered over him, eyeing with approval his blue coat,
buff breeches, and black boots. Her memories of Sir Richard were so tinged with
unpleasantness,
she’d only remembered the bad aspects
of his person.
Which is how it should be. He’s nothing more than an
inconvenience.

Turning away,
Jane rubbed a spot of the oil on Catherine’s wrists, then moved behind the
chaise to massage a little oil on the back of the duchess’s neck, and at her
temples. “We’ve been through this before,” she said softly. “Remember what you
must do?”

Dutifully,
Catherine closed her eyes. “Breathe deep and remain still.”

Jane squeezed
her shoulder. “That’s it.
For now, rest.
I’ll draw the
curtains and ring for Higgins.”

“Oh, please do
not. The man is a menace. I shall lie here like a good girl.” She cracked an
eyelid. “For once.”

“That would be
a lovely change.” Jane stoppered the bottle,
then
slipped it into her friend’s hand. “Just in case,” she whispered.

The duchess
murmured her thanks, and returned to her concentrated breathing. When Jane
packed up her case, she realized Thornton had gone.  She told herself it
was relief she felt, and not disappointment. The man frayed her nerves, and
while she wasn’t sure why, the realization that he had any effect on her at all
aggravated her.

She was
tiptoeing from the room herself, when Catherine called her softly. “Did you get
the tarot card I sent?”

Jane sighed.
“I thought you said you were going to lie there like a good girl?”

The duchess
opened her eyes to level a look that only she could manage. “I will. But
there’s something you should know.”

“About the
card?”

“No, about
Thornton. He was quite attentive and listened very carefully to me when he
first came.” Catherine leaned her head back against a pillow, though her gaze
remained locked on Jane. “He’s not the dismissive physician you led me to
believe.”

Jane
stiffened. “You weren’t there when Albert died. You didn’t see how Thornton
was.”

“You were
quite upset. Perhaps Thornton was, too.” Catherine closed her eyes and pressed
a hand to her forehead. “It’s possible neither of you remember that time
correctly.”

Jane bit back
a retort. Catherine was ill, so it wouldn’t do to argue with her.
Not now,
anyway.
She turned back to the door when Catherine’s soft voice
stopped her again.