Freddie’s bed routine was invariably lengthy, involving both his mother’s and Lottie’s presence, if possible. First, he had to collect all the soft sock animals Lottie had made for him over the years. She knitted them into fanciful shapes—a sheep, a monkey—and then stuffed them with wool. Once all the animals had been assembled, Lottie cuddled him while Margaret told him a story. If Lottie attempted to leave the nursery before he fell asleep, Freddie would reach for her with a pouting, “Tottie stay!”
But tonight, Lottie had wanted to hear what was being discussed in the drawing room. Freddie refused to stay with his nurse and allow her to put him to bed. And so they had compromised, Lottie rocking Freddie to sleep in a drawing room chair.
Lottie had risked censure and peeked into Dr. Whitaker’s bedchamber as she went to the nursery to fetch Freddie. Some part of her was compelled to see how the doctor fared.
Dr. Whitaker lay motionless on the bed, his left leg in a box, cradled in a sling of leather straps. He slept, breaths rising in shallow bursts, skin pale and drawn in the flickering firelight. Even injured and sleeping, he radiated a sort of masculine intensity. The taut tendons in his neck. The acute angle of his jaw.
Dr. Smithson had advised them to give Dr. Whitaker laudanum, twenty drops every six hours. They were to allow the laudanum to wear off enough for Dr. Whitaker to eat and drink each meal. Then he was to be dosed again.
“He might fight it,” Dr. Smithson had warned, “but he needs to rest quietly and pain-free for the next several days. At that point, we will hopefully have a better understanding of how his leg will heal. But if his current fever worsens, summon me immediately.”
Even now, that same tightness banded her chest.
Worry, she supposed, that Dr. Whitaker would not heal properly from his injuries. That the threat of amputation still loomed large.
Fear that the doctor would decide to fight the attainder as retribution for Frank’s careless actions.
Lottie pressed another kiss to Freddie’s curls.
Ferndown paced before the drawing room fire.
“This is a most unfortunate turn of events.” The duke pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “Dr. Whitaker was close to agreeing to sign the Writ of Attainder, I’m sure of it. Now, however, it will be several months before he can travel to London to sign the necessary documents.”
Frank snorted. “Bit of a fool to get himself hurt—”
“Silence!” Ferndown scowled at his son. “’Tis your idiotic actions that landed us in this mess. You call yourself a Corinthian, and yet you were still so feather-brained as to fire toward the horses?”
It was a testament to Ferndown’s displeasure that he scolded his son in front of the ladies. Frank surely felt the censure, sinking lower in his seat and knocking back the rest of his brandy. He would likely be falling-down drunk within the hour.
“The gossips . . . they will be brutal,” Grandmère said, voice decidedly matter-of-fact, not bothering to raise her eyes. “They will say you tried to kill the doctor.”
Her French accent stretched out the vowels—keeel ze docteur.
“Grandmère!” Margaret gasped.
“’Tis true,ma petite. They will not be kind.” Grandmère raised her head and flicked her censorious eyebrows upward. “We have too much to gain from the doctor’s death. It is like you English say—all is fair in love and war. We fightune guerrefor themarquisat.”
Grandmère went back to stitching bright bluebells as if she were discussing weather with the vicar.
But then, her grandmother had a flair for Gallicsang-froid.
Lottie supposed once one had witnessed friends and family being sent to the guillotine, nothing else seemed quite as dire.
“Unfortunately, you have the right of it, my lady.” Ferndown tossed back his own drink. “Once the Committee on Privilege learns the specifics of this incident, they might be swayed to side with Dr. Whitaker on principle alone—”
“It was an accident!” Frank scowled. “An honest accident!”
“But not everyone will see it that way, Frank.” Margaret’s hand clenched tightly around her handkerchief. “Grandmère is right. The gossip will be vicious.”
Ferndown nodded. “Agreed, my lady. We must leave for London tomorrow. Frank, you have a meeting with the Committee on Privilege, and the King demands my presence. Margaret and Freddie will accompany us, of course. Oh . . . and Lady Charlotte, too,” the duke replied, flicking a look toward Lottie as if only just remembering her.
Lottie gave a wan smile, swallowing. She did not particularly wish to go to London, even with Margaret and Freddie there. The thought of shedding her mourning colors and being escorted around Town . . .
“But surely Grandmère cannot be left to deal with Dr. Whitaker alone?” Margaret’s brow drew down in concern. “That is asking much of her.”
Grandmère raised one critical eyebrow. “I assure you, Margaret, I am more than capable of directing servants to care for the doctor—”
“Yes, but the servants may not know what is best.Weneed to be seen as caring for the doctor.” Margaret twisted her handkerchief. “I should likely stay here with you.”
