I was, to my surprise, and the surgeon hadn’t yet departed. In Denis’s study under Denis’s watchful eye, the surgeon listened to my questions with his usual stoicism.
When I finished, he shook his head. “Valerian root is used for sedation. Its effects are mild—you would have to take quite a lot to inebriate you.”
“If it were given to me in alcohol? Such as in strong port?”
“No, Captain. My suggestion of pure opium is the most likely answer.”
I saw an emotion in his eyes now. Arrogance. He wanted to be right—was certain he was right. The arrogance was tinged with scorn at me for doubting him.
Denis, who sat at his desk, clearly agreed with the surgeon. “Why would you suppose one of the Quakers wished to murder Colonel Isherwood?” he asked me.
“I am running out of possibilities,” I said in frustration. “Speaking to you both now, I see it is unlikely I was fed anything out of their garden.”
“I did not mean to imply they had nothing to do with it,” Denis said. “The surgeon’s opinion is only that what you took was stronger than valerian. They may not have made the opium concoction themselves, but could have had it on hand. If you can find a reason why any of the Quakers wanted Isherwood dead and for you to take the blame, you can send Mr. Quimby to them and be done.”
“Isherwood was a career soldier,” I pointed out. “The Quakers are pacifists. They refuse to take part in any war.”
“A potential conflict there. Perhaps one of their members has gone a little mad about his pacifism and sought to destroy a man he thought personified war.”
I considered the suggestion a moment. “Farfetched.”
“But possible.” Denis signaled one of his guards to open the door, indicating the interview was at an end. “Examineallpossibilities, Captain, until you find the right one.”
* * *
Upon my return,Bartholomew gave me a note from Mr. Quimby that said he would call on me tomorrow. The missive indicated nothing more than that, and I was confident the man was busily investigating leads of his own.
The social whirl of Brighton continued. The death of a colonel of Preston Barracks and a Quaker lad did not affect the upper classes who’d come to the seaside to play.
We attended a ball that evening in a well-appointment mansion at an estate not far from Brighton. The festivities spilled into the gardens, where paper lanterns hung along the paths, the air warm enough for a stroll.
Comte Desjardins arrived with a young lady who turned out to be his niece. She began chattering to Gabriella, walking away with her, which unfortunately left me alone with Desjardins.
“You aren’t armed tonight, are you, sir?” I asked, making a show of checking him over.
The man laughed. “No, no, my Purdeys are at home. You know I didn’t shoot at you intentionally, my good man.”
He spoke in French, far less awkward in that language. Or was he? Many a Frenchman of my acquaintance who’d lived in England since childhood, as Desjardins had, spoke English fluently, with little accent. I wondered if he affected the awkwardness for his own purposes.
“No?” I countered. I thought about the height and build of the figure in the park, the gleam of moonlight on a fine pistol. “What about during the fireworks in the Steine last night? Was that not you in the shadows, with another gun?”
Desjardins lost his fatuous smile. “What do you mean? You accuse me? You English—I have always been onyourside.”
“He’s got you bang to rights.” Lord Armitage had wandered to us, glass of champagne in hand, lantern light touching his sleek dark hair. “It was indeed the good count taking shots in the park. Again, you got in the way, Lacey.”
My temper splintered. “Why the devil were you shooting away in the dark? You could have hit anyone. You could have hit mydaughter, damn you.”
“I wasn’t aiming at you,” Desjardins snapped.
“Who then? And does it matter? We are all lucky you are such a rotten shot.”
“I spotted a traitorousfemme,” Desjardins said, his scorn rife. “As you might say, a turncoat bitch.”
My hand tightened on my cane, eager to draw the sword within. “If you are speaking of Marguerite Gibbons, there is no evidence of that. Only Armitage’s word.”
Armitage’s brows climbed. “Oh no? I know damn well she went through Isherwood’s dispatches and stole papers. Who can say what else she did? And she shared your bed—everyone was rife with that gossip. Did she pass information to you? Whisper secrets while she lay in your arms?”
I gazed at him in amazement. “Why on earth should she?”
