“Good. Look at these words carefully.” Bel pointed to the names of the herbs printed on the bottom. “Ask Mrs. Wesley to let you in my laboratory and fetch the jars with these names on them. Only these two. Can you do that?”
“I think so, Miss. Will it help my lady?”
“Yes. It should. Tell Mrs. Wesley we need hot water, a large teapot, and a footman to help you fetch and carry. Do you understand?”
“Yes, miss.” Susan dashed off.
Bel sank to the chair, and picked up Sophie’s hand, wallowing in guilt and fear. Perhaps Sophie had expelled thecephaelis ipecacuanha syrupcompletely—all Bel could do was hope, soothe her, and try an herbal tisane to calm her stomach.
Aunt Violet burst through the door. She leaned over to Bel’s ear and whispered. “I heard… That is, did Sophie become ill on the ice? Carlton told me Ridgemont marched right through the house and up the stairs carrying her.”
While Bel took a moment to formulate an answer, Aunt Violet went on breathlessly. “Ridgemont! Think of it. And several people saw. There is talk downstairs, and Dinah Beckwith is quite out of sorts over it.”
“Ridgemont was a perfect gentleman. Her stomach was?—”
“Yes, yes!” Aunt Violet waved unpleasant words away. She dropped her voice again. “Talk may reach London. Whatever will her mother say to me.”
“There is no scandal, here, Aunt,” Bel said. “At least not to Sophie.”
Aunt Violet gasped. “Has anyone else been sick? This isn’t another one of those… Those accidents, is it?” She didn’t have to explain what she meant by “another.”
“There was nothing deliberate,” Bel said through clenched teeth. That was not entirely true; Bel intended the tainted hot chocolate. But Sophie hadn’t been the target. “I don’t believe anyone else has taken ill. Ridgemont has gone back to make certain.”
“Then Sophie got some spoiled food. This time I will truly fire the cook. Even you can’t keep her tip top.” She rose and shook out her skirts. “We’ll just have to contain the scandal.”
Susan interrupted them, followed by two footmen carrying two teapots, fresh sheets, and fresh towels. Susan bobbed a curtsey to the countess, glanced from one woman to the other, and handed Bel two vials. “I hope I did this right, Miss.”
Bel examined the containers of herbs. Peppermint and yarrow. “Exactly right, Susan. Thank you.
“Sophie will get well, won’t she?” Aunt Violet asked belatedly, a slight squeak in her voice.
“I believe so, though she may be weak for a day or two. We’ll do our best to ease her upset,” Bel replied.
“Good. I will manage the talk. Still, Ridgemont’s care is all to the good, I expect.” With a swish of skirts, she left Bel to attend her cousin, clean up the sick room, and try not to worry about the loss of the compliant Mrs. Wesley in the kitchen.
No oneelse had become ill. Not one other person. The young people had continued their fun as if nothing had happened, but they all skated over when John arrived to ask about Lady Sophie. He assured them she would be well.
With relieved smiles and happy waves, they skated on. John hoped he was right about Sophie’s condition. He was certain now that the chocolate in the “gentlemen’s” flagon had been the source. He was equally certain it had been intended for him, not his partner. He couldn’t forgive himself if she was injured in his place.
When he looked for the flagon, however, it had disappeared. So had the footman, George, who had been eager to dump out the remains after Sophie took the mug.
Why would a footman try to humiliate a guest?He wouldn’t. John pondered that issue as he marched back to the house, certain the footman may have been an accomplice, but he wasn’t the perpetrator.
By the time he reached the front steps, he was equally certain that, however much Belinda Westcott may have been an innocent victim in the episode at the Haverford venetian breakfast, she was guilty as sin this time.
But why?
John stood in front of Lady Sophie’s suite and feared he knew why. Guilt curled up his neck. He turned to leave. After all, he had no business in a lady’s room. Several steps later he stopped.
Miss Westcott didn’t intend her actions for her cousin, much less anyone else among the guests. She must be worried sick.
She answered his knock promptly. “Come in, George.”
“It isn’t George,” he said, a spurt of anger pushing other emotions aside. “How is she?” he asked from the doorway.
Miss Westcott glanced over her shoulder and back at the girl on the bed. “Better. We seem to have quieted her stomach, but she is weak.” The lady rested quietly, to John’s relief.
“If you have more instructions for your collaborator they will have to wait.”
