The worst part?
Lottie could not swear that Frank hadnotacted maliciously.
Her brother-in-law was desperate for Freddie to inherit the marquisate. He wanted his son to be the beginning of a powerful dynasty. Moreover, as Freddie’s father and guardian, Frank would assume control of the marquisate until his son came of age. Frank would have nearly two decades of living with all the trappings of a marquess. He would only lack the title itself.
But would that lead Frank to attempt murder?
Lottie couldn’t say.
The only thing shecoulddo was that which women had done since time immemorial—wait and hope.
And so, she waited, one hand pressed to her stomach, desperately ordering her nerves to settle.
Before Dr. Smithson arrived, the grooms returned with Dr. Whitaker on the litter, his eyes open and wild. He was bleeding from a cut to his head. His greatcoat and tailcoat were torn and muddy, revealing more scrapes. But worst of all, he hissed loudly with every rock and jolt, as if there were more severe injuries that Lottie could not see.
As no one else was about to advise her, Lottie had them place the doctor in the marquess’s bedchamber—the set of rooms that had once belonged to her father.
The room was large and comfortable with an excellent vantage over the surrounding countryside. It also contained the most comfortable bed.
Given how Dr. Whitaker winced and groaned as he was laid upon the feather tick, Lottie feared he might be there for a while. The misery of his situation set her heart to thumping painfully in her chest. She wanted to rush to his side and grasp his hand, lending him what strength she could.
Instead, she ordered the fire built up to roaring proportions and sent a maid to fetch the softest pillows and quilts in the house. She could at least ensure Dr. Whitaker didn’t catch a chill in addition to his injuries.
The man lay distressingly still upon the counterpane, eyes closed, breaths shallow, his face drawn and tense.
Dr. Smithson arrived a few moments later.
Lottie greeted him on the upper landing.
“Thank you for coming, Doctor,” she said.
“Lady Charlotte,” Dr. Smithson bowed, shooting her a small grin. Even in an emergency, he was a capable, cheerful sort. “I only wish that this visit were under more auspicious circumstances. I understand a cousin was injured in a hunting accident?”
Lottie managed a faint smile of her own, leading him toward the bedchamber. “Something of the like.”
She motioned for him to precede her into the room.
Dr. Smithson made it three steps toward the bed before swearing loudly and rushing to Dr. Whitaker’s side.
“Alex! Alex Whitaker?! Is that you?” Dr. Smithson ran his eyes frantically over Dr. Whitaker’s body. “What the hell happened?!”
Dr. Whitaker looked up, eyes bleary as he tried to focus.
“Michael? Of all the luck.” He laughed, strained and bewildered. “I havenae seen ye since we graduated. You’re here? In Wiltshire?”
“Yes, I took a position near to my family. You’re lucky I’m here to tend to you and not the old sawbones the village calls a doctor. What happened?”
Dr. Whitaker winced. “Damned idiot peppered my horse with bird shot. Horse bolted. A low hanging branch swept me to the ground. I hurt everywhere. Cuts. Bruises. Maybe a concussion. But I’ve definitely broken my left tibia, damn it all. I could practically hear thecrepitusall the way back to the house.”
“Blast.” Dr. Smithson set down his bag and set to.
Lottie wondered if she should summon hot water from the kitchen. Or would ice be better?
Regardless, she needed to leave.
She would leave.
Shewould.
