“Petty,” Adrian observed, dipping a finger into the water. “But effective. She wants us unsettled from the start.”
“Then we’ll balance ourselves.” Marianne was already directing Sarah with brisk authority, ensuring her court dress hung in full view—bait for any curious servant’s tongue. “What’s the schedule?”
“Tea at four, dinner at eight, then ‘evening entertainments.’” Adrian lifted the card left on the mantel. “Tomorrow: riding, archery, and ‘leisure pursuits,’ which—given this company—could mean anything from whist to partners not one’s own.”
“Adrian!”
“I’m not exaggerating. Worthington’s gatherings have a reputation.” He crossed to the window, surveying the grounds with a strategist’s eye. “We’ll need signals. If you’re in distress, drop your fan. If you require immediate extraction, mention your mother’s roses—something innocuous but distinct.”
“And if I’m actually enjoying myself?”
He turned, incredulous. “Here? Highly unlikely.”
“Perhaps. But watching Venetia’s expression when I wear Mother’s emeralds may provide some amusement.”
His mouth curved. “There’s my bloodthirsty duchess.”
A knock interrupted them. Sarah entered, flustered.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there’s been a situation with Lady Catherine.”
Both Adrian and Marianne stiffened.
“What kind of situation?” Adrian’s tone could have frozen flame.
“She’s been placed with Lady Thornton’s daughter. The young lady’s... not well, Your Grace. Laudanum, the other maid believes. Lady Catherine’s with her, but—”
Adrian was already striding for the door, but Marianne caught his arm.
“Let me. A woman’s touch may serve better here.”
“Venetia’s behind this.”
“Of course she is.” Marianne straightened her shoulders. “Time to show her what merchant-class pragmatism can do.”
***
Catherine’s room was chaos. A girl—no more than eighteen—lay sprawled across the bed, eyes fluttering, skin pale with the telltale glaze of opium dreams. Catherine knelt beside her, coaxing weak responses, while Lady Thornton wrung her hands helplessly in the doorway.
“She’s been like this for hours,” the older woman wailed. “Ever since Venetia gave her ‘something for her nerves.’”
Marianne took command without hesitation. “Sarah, fetch strong coffee—and ice water. Catherine, help me sit her up. Lady Thornton, what exactly did she take?”
“Laudanum, I believe. But more than usual. She’s been using it for months, ever since—” She broke off, but Marianne could fill in the rest. Some scandal, some heartbreak, the usual society tragedy that left women broken and whispered about.
For an hour, they worked—forcing coffee and water between the girl’s lips, pacing her through groggy half-consciousness, monitoring each breath until, at last, she drifted into what appeared to be natural sleep.
“Thank you,” Lady Thornton whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. “I didn’t know what to do. Venetia said it would help—that all the fashionable ladies use it.”
“Venetia says many things,” Marianne replied evenly. “Few of them useful.”
When Lady Thornton departed to rest, Catherine sank into a chair, spent.
“She did this deliberately,” she murmured. “Put me with someone fragile, knowing I’d help, knowing it would drain me before the evening began.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
