“Her wedding day!” the man exclaimed. “You don’t say! Well, if you would be so kind as to tell her that Dr. Oliver Hutchinson attempted to return her call, I would?—”
Rosalie surged from behind the potted palm, startling both the doctor and the butler. “Dr. Hutchinson, thank you so much for coming.” She gave Stephens a nod. “I will speak to him in the burgundy salon.”
Stephens glanced toward the cream parlor into which her mother had disappeared, his expression one of consternation. “My lady, are you sure you have time to, err…”
Rosalie nodded firmly. “I am. I will not take up much of the doctor’s time.”
Rosalie led the way to a large room toward the front of the house. She took a seat on a sofa upholstered in burgundy silk and gestured to one of the Chippendale chairs facing it. “Dr. Hutchinson, thank you so much for calling upon me today.” She gave a nervous laugh, unsure how to begin. “I’m going to pose you a series of questions that I fear you will find quite strange.”
The doctor shifted in his chair. “Not at all, my lady. But to think that it is your wedding day! I have managed to call at the most inconvenient time imaginable. I would be happy to return in a week or two, or whenever you return from your bridal trip.”
“It happens that your timing is fortuitous. You see, the information I am hoping you will provide me will determine whether there will be a wedding today.”
Dr. Hutchinson looked startled. “Truly, my lady?” At Rosalie’s nod, he said, “Well, I will do whatever I can to help.”
Rosalie smoothed her skirts. “Some questions have arisen regarding the man I am to marry today, Lord Valentine. Specifically, there has been an allegation that he mistreated his grandfather, the fifth viscount, in the years prior to his death. I believe that you were the previous Lord Valentine’s physician. Is that correct?”
Dr. Hutchinson inclined his head. “It is, my lady. I must say, I have heard nothing of this alleged mistreatment.”
Rosalie nodded. “Allow me to clarify. Was Lord Valentine under any sort of dietary restrictions?”
Dr. Hutchinson looked confused. “No, my lady, he was not.”
Rosalie had to be sure. “I know sometimes a physician will prescribe a special diet for gout or other complaints. You did not make any recommendations in this area, say, for his declining memory?”
“I did not. His lordship did not have gout. Physically, he was in excellent condition for a man of his age. And unfortunately, there was not anything we could do to help his memory, either dietary or otherwise. He was around eighty-eight when his memory began to trouble him. It was unfortunate, but not so unusual, given his age.”
Rosalie leaned forward. “Then you did not instruct that he should have plain porridge for breakfast, or only cold chicken and bread for luncheon?”
Dr. Hutchinson looked shocked. “Gracious, no! As you said, sometimes with gout, it is necessary to make changes to the patient’s diet. But I would never be so restrictive. It is entirely unnecessary.”
“I see,” Rosalie said sadly. “One final question—would there be any contraindication to Lord Valentine taking a weekly drivein the park and having a beefsteak and a drink at his club with his friends?”
“No contraindication at all, my lady. In fact, I believe such an outing would be beneficial. I am a great proponent of spending time out of doors, and the chance to socialize could only do him good.” The physician paused. “Your betrothed is not the one who was limiting his grandfather’s diet and social circle, was he?”
Rosalie stood. “No, that was his cousin. The one I didn’t marry.”
Dr. Hutchinson rose as well. “Thank heavens for that.” He bowed over her hand. “I wish you every happiness, Lady Rosalie.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucian was feeling rather smug as he strolled through the front door of Swanscombe House, a special license folded neatly and tucked in his pocket next to his heart. He was feeling grateful to that Brazen Belle woman, for all that she had spent the majority of her column denouncing him as a lecherous drunkard, because her harsh words had lit a fire beneath Rosalie’s mother. If it meant that he got to marry Rosalie today, he wouldn’t even be bitter about the fact that the Brazen Belle had referred to him in print as, “as randy as a hare,” and “akin to the beribboned pony at the town fair, in thateveryonehas had a ride.”
Of course, Rosalie would likely still require some persuasion. But after her conversation with the servants yesterday, it could not have escaped her attention that Lysander was not as lily-white as his reputation would suggest.
And Lucian? Well, he would never suggest that he hadn’t earned his soiled reputation. He absolutely had.
But perhaps he possessed one or two redeeming qualities.
He was nodding to Stephens as he handed over his hat and greatcoat when someone seized his elbow. He glanced down and was delighted to see that it was Rosalie.
“Rosalie,” he began. “My flower. My dove. My beautiful bride-to?—”
“Save it,” she hissed, dragging him down the corridor. “I need to speak with you.”
That made him smile. Straight to the point, that was his Rosalie.
She hauled him into a large room with burgundy and gold trappings, then shut the door and wheeled on him. “I presume you read theRake Reviewthis morning.”
