When Silvercroft Manor appeared before them, Matthew let out a low whistle.
Henry had to admit, it looked impressive. The manor house was actually a Tudor-style chateau with smoking chimneys, a red brick facade like St. James Palace, and rolling hills stretching in every direction.
“That’s not a house,” Matthew breathed. “That’s a bloody castle.”
The carriage pulled up to the entrance. Henry climbed out, with Matthew scrambling after him.
A butler appeared at the door, face arranged in polite inquiry that turned to recognition when he saw the signet ring on Henry's finger. "Your Grace. We weren't expecting?—"
“Dr. Fernando. I need him immediately. Medical emergency.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Fernando is attending to the guests. Perhaps tomorrow?—”
“Now.” Henry’s voice went hard. Ducal. The tone that said this wasn’t a request. “A life is at stake.”
The butler hesitated, then nodded. “If you’ll wait in the entrance hall.”
Henry didn’t wait. He pushed past the butler into the manor. Matthew followed, eyes huge.
The magnificent entrance hall had marble floors, paintings in gilt frames, and a sweeping staircase that probably cost more than Margaret’s entire cottage.
Voices drifted from a drawing room to the left. Laughter. Music. Henry strode toward it.
“Your Grace, perhaps it would be better to?—”
He ignored the butler and pushed open the drawing room doors.
The room fell silent. Thirty or so faces turned to stare. Ladies in silk gowns. Gentlemen in evening dress. The murmur of conversation died. The crowd parted.
All eyes fixed on Henry and Matthew—muddy, disheveled, and completely out of place in this glittering room.
Henry didn't care. He scanned the faces, looking for anyone who might be the physician. "I need Dr. Fernando." His voice cut through the silence. "Medical emergency. Where is he?"
A distinguished man with black hair and a dark coat stepped forward from the center of the crowd. “That’s me.”
Relief flooded through Henry. “Good. I need you. Now.”
The doctor’s brow furrowed. “Your Grace? I wasn’t aware you were?—”
“Medical emergency. Apoplectic fit. A man’s life is hanging in the balance.” Henry closed the distance between them. “I have a carriage waiting. We need to leave immediately.”
Dr. Fernando glanced at some other men and they nodded. Were they doctors, too?
Silence.
Dr. Fernando placed his glass on a nearby table and kissed a regal woman on the cheek — evening gown, gem-studded tiara, the whole picture.
“Very well, Your Grace. Let me get my bag.”
Relief flooded through Henry.
Within minutes, Dr. Fernando, Henry, and Matthew were in the carriage, racing back through the dark countryside.
“The patient’s condition?” Dr. Fernando asked, all business now.
Henry relayed what he’d seen. Matthew added details—when Mr. Foley had first complained, what he’d eaten, how quickly he’d deteriorated.
The doctor asked sharp, efficient questions. Matthew answered as best he could.
