At that, Cressida lifted her head resolutely.
“I do not presume to be a great thinker, or to be admired for my intellect. But what I do know, Henry, is how to outmaneuver a villain, whether by cards or by idle gossip. And you shall too, mark my words.”
Henry grunted dismissively.
An enticing idea had come to her, delicious in its simplicity and its myriad benefits.
Some might accuse her of coddling, but Cressida adored her children. Anything she could do to set them on the correct path in life, she would. One day, she knew, she would not be there to protect them. So just as it would not do for Arthur, as the viscount, to be a poor conversationalist with no head for figures, she could not have Henry running around losing money all over the place. Something had to be done.
“I shall handle this vicious rumor—ah, now, don’t fret, I shall be clandestine. And as to your poor showing at cards, I’ll engage a tutor. Someone who will teach you to play anything: cassino, faro, whist, piquet,vingt-un. And to not merely play, but win.I can’t have you blundering about our circles like a clueless degenerate.”
“A tutor?” Henry cried. “How could you be so heartless? It’s nearly summer holiday!”
“Oh, but I am serious,” she said, turning her gaze to the elegant secretaire in the corner where she often penned her morning correspondence. “In fact, I have just the gentleman in mind.”
With a protracted sound resembling something between a dying cat and a braying ass, Henry flopped back onto the sofa with his arms stretched wide, upsetting the plate of buns. Without shifting his position, he reached down and plucked a milk roll from the pile, angrily cramming the entire thing into his mouth.
Where her day had begun on a low note, Cressida now found herself aglow with anticipation. If she treaded lightly, she would soon have the wonderfully built Dr. Matthew Collier at her beck and call, teaching Henry how to turn games of chance into games of skill. But what could compel him to do so? Inducing him with payment was out of the question; he would no doubt take offense. The middle classes were ever so prickly when it came to matters of money. And one should never dally with someone they employed. She cupped her chin, thinking.
Well. Cressida grinned. The only thing to do was give it a try, wasn’t it?
Chapter Six
Where was that blastedthing?Matthew silently cursed to himself, scanning the shelves one last time before picking up the stepladder and shifting over to the adjacent wall. These volumes, at least, were shelved correctly, standing straight with spines facing outward. The previous bank of shelves was a travesty; piles of books stacked haphazardly, leaflets and journals spilling out from between their pages, a taxidermized eagle-owl watching him from the highest shelf with reproachful glass eyes.
He stood back, one hand on his hip, the other covering his mouth as he thought. Had it been a journal article, or within a book? The memory of a fascinating piece of information tickled his mind, just out of reach.
“Er, Doctor?”
Matthew turned about, still dredging his brain, only partially aware of his surroundings.
“Might we get on with it, then? I’m sure the regular preparation will serve just as well. It’s only that my wife is bound to wonder after me.”
The thin, reedy voice belonged to a Mr. Brobbey, who sat before him at his desk, clutching a well-used handkerchief. The man complained of nightly paroxysms that impeded his breathing, consistent with a diagnosis of asthma.
Matthew tapped a thick finger against his cheek, then burst suddenly to life. He remembered.
“The Lancet!” he exclaimed with a snap of his fingers.
He turned back to the shelves, digging about for the correct issue of the medical journal.
“Ah… of course,The Lancet,” Mr. Brobbey echoed, sounding very unsure of what was going on.
Now that Matthew had recalled where he’d read the pertinent study, finding it was the matter of a moment. He flipped the journal open and leafed quickly through the pages.
“Aha! See?” He held it up with a grin, and then began to read aloud: “Remarks on Hydrate of Choral; With Cases.”
When he looked up, Mr. Brobbey was shaking his head.
“Begging your pardon, Doctor, but I don’t follow.” He looked down at his handkerchief. “Had I mentioned the feeling in the chest? Almost an oppressive sort of crush.”
“Exactly. Asthma, no doubt.” Matthew scanned the case history, nodding his head along. “I believe you should tolerate this treatment well—I’ll have a draught made up.”
“A draught? But, er… Dr. Cowgill had always recommended beef tea.”
Ah yes, the beef tea enema. The dubious panacea to every problem plaguing the country physician. It was all Matthew could do to keep from rolling his eyes.
“So had everyone. Beef tea is widely regarded as a strengthener. This is a mistake. The nutritious matter is the wasted mince beef itself, not the water. But this, this isscience.” Matthew rolled the journal up and smacked it against his hand.
