6
They brought Dr. Whitaker back to Frome Abbey on a litter.
Lottie directed the four footmen carrying each end of two poles up the front stairs. The doctor lay slung between—bloody, battered, and teeth gritted in pain—but alert.
It clutched at her heart.
Of course, rumor had run ahead like wildfire.
It had started with Frank racing into the front hall, calling for the butler and explaining the situation, eyes wild and frantic.
Lottie had caught the words ‘Dr. Whitaker’ and ‘accident’ and ‘badly hurt’ before needing to clutch the banister for support.
Frank disappeared into the study with his father, defending his actions in a loud voice that carried throughout the house.
“How was I to know the doctor would be unseated so easily!” Frank roared.
“You shot toward a man seated on a prized stallion!” the duke roared.
“The horse is fine. Merely a minor wound on his left flank—”
“The horse is the lesser of my concerns here!”
The rest of their conversation was garbled but Ferndown’s scathing tone was clear.
Margaret had gone white as a sheet and ensconced herself with Grandmère in the music room—the room closest to the study—listening intently to her husband pleading his case.
The immediate crisis of poor Dr. Whitaker’s situation—lying injured on the frosty ground somewhere on the estate with only the steward at his side—had been all but forgotten.
Lottie leapt into action.
Footmen were dispatched to arrange a wagon and litter to bring the doctor back to the abbey. The head groom was ordered to fetch the local veterinarian to tend to Galahad and bind his superficial wounds.
A footman was charged with summoning the local doctor. Lottie had the presence of mind to ask the footman to fetch young Dr. Smithson, rather than the elderly Dr. Graves her late father had preferred. She suspected that Dr. Whitaker would be more likely to trust a younger man, and Dr. Smithson was reputed to be excellent.
But once the immediate hubbub subsided, a strained quiet descended on the house.
A tense waiting.
That was when servants’ tongues began wagging.
Dr. Whitaker had gone on a morning ride with the steward, Lord Frank, and the Duke of Ferndown.
Lord Frank had shot at the doctor.
His lordship insisted it was an accident. A miscalculation.
But one footman muttered that Lord Frank was far too experienced a sportsman to make such a mistake. The shothadto have been deliberate.
Regardless, the doctor’s mount had been peppered with bird shot, panicking the poor animal, and eventually sending Dr. Whitaker tumbling to the ground.
Accident or no, Lord Frank stood to gain a great deal with Alex’s death. A marquisate was at stake, a position of immense power and a king’s ransom in wealth.
As Lottie heard one maid whisper to another:Many men would commit murder for such power.
All Lord Frank had to do was make the incident appear accidental.
The butler was heard asking the housekeeper if there should be an investigation? If the magistrate should be summoned?
