“I assure you, there has been no mistake.” Mr. Carter offered an anemic smile. “I and my colleagues are nothing if not meticulous in our research. I would not be standing here were there any doubt as to the validity of the claim. You are indeed the heir to the late Marquess of Lockheade.”
Alex shook his head. Tossed the towel upon the washbasin. Spun in a circle, eyes inventorying the bottles of paregoric, calomel, and wormseed oil. Did he need to talk with the apothecary about—
He stopped right there, forcing a deep, slow breath.
In. Out.
A scream sounded from the hall beyond the closed door, causing Mr. Carter to flinch. Alex’s partner, Dr. John McNeal, was seeing to a young groom who had come in with his arm hanging at an unnatural angle.
“I am anEnglishmarquess?” Alex asked again. Was that an appalled catch in his voice?
“We Englishmen are not all a bad lot, I assure you.” Mr. Carter’s expression turned wry.
Coals settled in the grate, the red-hot glow pulsing in the dim light. The clock over the mantel struck the hour, reminding Alex that he did not have time for a life-altering crisis.
He was a doctor, dammit, not some pampered English aristocrat.
Mr. Carter had arrived not thirty minutes’ past, part of an entire phalanx of solicitors and clerks, primed to storm the bastion of Alex’s surgery. Alex hadn’t bothered to count them all, as he had been focused on stitching up a cartwright’s bleeding scalp.
What did one call a group of solicitors anyway? Were they apride, like lions? Amurder, like crows?
Several of Alex’s closest friends were naturalists. He should have a clever answer for this.
Aquarrel, perhaps?
Regardless, Alex had made the Quarrel of Solicitors choose an emissary for parley, and Mr. Carter had been selected, thrust from their midst, a black brief-bag clasped before him like a shield—
Alex was mentally babbling.
It was just . . .
Och! For heaven’s sake!
He was . . .flustered.
Alex did notdoflustered.
Not agitated or shaken or unsettled or rattled or . . . babbling—
Definitely not babbling.
This had to stop.
He turned back to Mr. Carter, shrieks echoing once more down the hall.
“I appreciate that this is something of a shock.” Mr. Carter swallowed, darting a wide-eyed glance at the door and commotion beyond. “Unfortunately, before we progress in our discussion, I must tell you that the matter is not entirely straight-forward.”
“Nothing ever is, is it?”
Snick.
Doctor McNeal opened the door, poking his head into the room.
“Terribly sorry to interrupt,” he said, giving Mr. Carter an apologetic smile, “but I need assistance to set this lad’s arm, Whitaker. The break is somewhat severe.”
“I’m coming,” Alex said.
McNeal nodded and shut the door.
