Lisa Bingham (20 page)

“Drugged?” Louisa echoed weakly. “But the medicine was prescribed by her physician.”

Browne shook his head woefully. “Many of the medicines being prescribed as miracle cures are mere quackery concocted in back-room laboratories.” When Louisa would have spoken, he held up a silencing hand. “I’ll say no more on the matter until I can investigate things more conclusively. In the meantime, I want you to watch Evie carefully. If she has been drugged over an extended period, she may show a serious reaction in the next few days—fever, delirium, agitation. If she gives any of these symptoms, contact me immediately.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I’d also like to see her gain a few pounds. She’s far too weak and slight for her age. Broths are the ticket until she asks for something more specific.”

Louisa stood. “I’ll collect her tonic for you.”

Slipping into Evie’s room, she paused only momentarily to tuck the blankets more securely around her chest and brush a strand of hair from her forehead. Then she took the bottle and returned to the sitting room.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any of the original medication. This is the dosage that Evie’s physician prescribed a few days ago.”

Dr. Browne took the bottle from her hand, removed the stopper and sniffed. Other than grunting softly to himself, he made no comment, but slipped the bottle into his jacket pocket and grasped his bag and his hat.

“I’ll see myself out, Mrs. Winslow. No need to trouble yourself.” He winked. “It appears to me that you could use a dose of beef broth yourself. Don’t be worrying yourself sick about the little lady. We’ll get to the bottom of her malady, I promise.”

The clock in the hall was striking noon when Louisa heard a soft clanking noise. Looking up, she saw that Beatrice had come into the nursery to relieve her. The noise was from the chatelaine suspended from her waist.

“You look in need of a breath of fresh air,” she commented, taking Louisa’s needlework from her hands and tugging her to her feet. “I absolutely forbid you to return to this room until you’ve had something to eat and some fresh air.”

“Y-yes, I…”

Fresh air.

A sudden thought popped into Louisa’s brain. She had no one watching over her shoulder, no one to tell her what she could or could not do. Why wasn’t she taking advantage of the fact?

“If you don’t mind, Beatrice, I think I’ll take a short drive into town. I’m in need of more embroidery floss as well as some other notions.”

“Go. Have a good time.”

Needing no other bidding, Louisa hurried from the room with a rustle of skirts. John Smith might have been the bane of her existence for the past few weeks, but he’d also done her a favor. He’d taught her to drive a carriage. Today she intended to use that fact to her own advantage. As soon as she arrived in Boston, she’d stop at the telegraph office. Since her letters had probably not arrived yet, she desperately wanted to get a message to Phoebe Gray.

“Chloe!” she called out as she entered her own apartments. “Chloe, I need your help in changing into my visiting attire.”

Louisa was just descending the front steps to the waiting carriage when the noise of a team and the faint scent of dust caused her to look up.

“Blast and bother,” she muttered under her breath when Grover Pritchard came into view.

“Good morning, Mrs. Winslow!”

“Mr. Pritchard.” Not wishing to be forced into returning to the house to pay court to the officious solicitor, she continued to tug on her gloves. “I pray you haven’t come looking for me to conduct business.”

“No, no.” He held up a basket filled with a nosegay of flowers and art supplies. “I heard Miss Evie was feeling under the weather, so I brought her a little something to cheer her up.”

“How thoughtful of you. I was just about to go into Boston for an appointment, but Beatrice is sitting with Evie. I’m sure she can help you.”

Pritchard’s face fell. During the past few visits, he’d made it clear that he would be willing to make their relationship far more personal. Louisa had purposely ignored the overtures, knowing that to give the man any encouragement, no matter how slight, would merely lead to awkwardness.

“If you’d care to wait a moment, Mrs. Winslow, I’d be happy to take you into Boston myself. I could bring you back later this afternoon—perhaps after a spot of lunch.”

Louisa took her handkerchief from her reticule, gazed at Pritchard mournfully, then whispered in a voice that she hoped sounded choked with emotion, “What a dear, dear man. Truly, Mr. Pritchard, your friendship touches my heart.” She sighed heavily. “But I’m afraid that I’m feeling rather melancholy today. I thought I would pick a few wildflowers and visit Charles’s grave on my way.” She held the handkerchief to her lips and paused as if struggling for control. “You’ll forgive me if I wish to make the pilgrimage alone.”

Grover Pritchard paled, clearly worried that he’d overstepped his bounds. “Oh! But of course… I wouldn’t dream…!”

He hurried to help Louisa step into the wagon. As he handed her the whip, he suddenly beamed. “Bless my soul! I have a piece of news that will brighten your day, and I nearly forgot to pass it on.”

Louisa prayed the man wouldn’t take too much longer. She really was anxious to get to the telegraph office.

“Your father has changed his mind about traveling to Italy for his health.”

Louisa waited, wondering why such news was supposed to prove so meaningful to her.

Pritchard paused dramatically before saying, “He’s decided to come here instead! To visit you!”

Louisa’s blood immediately turned to ice.

Oscar Haversham was coming here?
Here?

Dear sweet heaven above, what was she going to do now?

E
very muscle in Louisa’s body urged her to flee—now! She had to leave this place before the marquis arrived and her masquerade was revealed.

Granted, she and her friend Phoebe were quite similar in appearance, but a father would know the difference immediately. He would recognize her as the woman he’d hired to accompany his daughter to America.

Her stomach heaved and she felt suddenly unsteady.

“Mrs. Winslow?”

She waved aside Pritchard’s concern and the hand he’d put out to help her.

“I’m fine. I’m just…overjoyed with the news. I’ll have to pick up a few of… Papa’s favorites while I’m in Boston, to help him feel at home.”

Pritchard was eyeing her strangely, but she ignored the man. Climbing into the carriage, she prayed that she could make her way to the edge of the Winslow estates before she became deathly ill. Only after she was out of sight would she dare to stop the buggy.

Settling the woolen rug over her skirts absentmindedly, she urged the horse into a walk, and then, once she’d rounded the drive and was nearly out of sight of the house, a trot.

What was she going to do? What was she going to do?

As much as she might want to ride into Boston and never come back, she knew she couldn’t leave Evie. Not now, when the girl was at her most defenseless. Nor could she take the girl away when Dr. Browne felt that he might be on the verge of a diagnosis. If Louisa left, she was afraid that either Boyd or Beatrice would be tempted to return the girl to the asylum, since both of them doubted that anything more could be done for the child.

What could she do?

Now more than ever, Louisa knew that she needed to contact her friend in Oregon. Hopefully, Phoebe would have a solution to the dilemma.

The journey to Boston was made in a daze. Once at the station, Louisa found a gaggle of boys waiting near the boardwalk for the opportunity to carry baggage into the station for pennies. Offering one of them a dollar, she asked him to watch her horse while she went into the telegraph office.

Once inside, it took only a moment to send the message, pleading for Phoebe’s help and advice. Louisa was turning to leave the establishment, her mind still focused on the thought of Oscar Haversham suddenly appearing on her doorstep, when she accidentally ran headlong into another patron.

“Excuse me, I…”

Whatever she’d been about to say slipped away as she stared up, up, up into the piercing gaze of John Smith.

“Oh.”

He didn’t speak, merely took her by the elbow and led her outside. Tossing a handful of coins to the boys who huddled near her buggy, he lifted her bodily onto the bench, then climbed up beside her. Within seconds, they were barreling down the lane.

“You shouldn’t be here,” John stated gruffly.

Louisa knew that she should stiffen in indignation, berate the man for his high-handedness and demand that he leave her alone, but she was so tired. So, so tired.

“Have you been following me?”

“No. One of my men followed you.”

“Your men?”

“I’ve had two men watching the property since we arrived in Boston.”

“I see.” Again Louisa supposed that she should rail against John for failing to inform her of such precautions, but she couldn’t. Nor could she control the jolt of joy she experienced when she realized that John had not left her completely alone even after she’d forced him off the property.

“How are you, Louisa?”

Ill. I am truly ill and there is no one I can turn to for help.

A faintness was stealing over her. Her head ached abominably and she couldn’t seem to think. She didn’t even resist when John pulled her tightly against him, resting her cheek on his chest.

“As soon as we arrive, I’m summoning a doctor,” he said firmly.

No. Tell him no.

But Louisa was unable to tell him a thing. Instead, she wound her arms around his waist and focused on the beating of his heart as if it were the last tangible grasp she had on reality.

As they made the journey home, Neil was beset with worry. Louisa looked pale and weak, and he was sure that she had lost weight. What could possibly be the matter? How could she have deteriorated so much in only a day?

The moment they arrived at the castle, Neil sent Beatrice to find a groomsman to summon the doctor, then carried Louisa up to her room. But when he set her on the bed, an icy finger of warning slid down his spine. On her pillow he saw several strands of brilliant red hair.

Damn it, why hadn’t he realized? Why hadn’t he guessed? Louisa had never been pregnant, she’d been ill. Gravely ill. Instead of succumbing to his pride and his suspicions, he should have taken her symptoms seriously.

As her breathing grew labored and her skin clammy, Neil realized the depth of his love for this woman. He could only pray that he’d sent for the doctor in time.

Don’t let her die. Please don’t let her die.

If she recovered, he would do anything she asked. He would be John Smith, forsake his life in Oregon and live out the rest of his days as her bodyguard if that was what she wanted.

Please, God, don’t let her die.

It was much later when Neil looked up to see Evie standing in the doorway. With her bare feet peeking from beneath the hem of her ruffled nightdress, she looked younger than her sixteen years. Her eyes, still retaining a portion of their sleepiness, bounced from Louisa to Neil then back again.

As the severity of Louisa’s condition sank into her consciousness, the blood drained from Evie’s face. She came into the room slowly at first, then started running toward the bed. Darting past him, she reached for Louisa’s hand, grunting, tugging on her arm, clearly wanting her to rise.

When she didn’t respond, Evie became frantic. Rushing to Neil, she beat her hands against his chest, her mouth working, primitive noises ripping from her throat. Slowly, as if priming a rusty pump, she began to produce words, becoming more and more coherent.

“‘Ouisa…’ick.”

Even with his concern over Louisa, Neil felt a burst of pride. Evie was speaking. According to what he’d learned, she hadn’t spoken since her mother’s death.

“Yes, Louisa is sick.” He tried to take Evie’s hands to calm her, but she shook her head, her breathing coming in strident gasps.

“Ma…ma…sick…”

Was she remembering the last time she’d spoken? Was she remembering the night her mother had committed suicide?

Evie grasped his hands, pulling him toward the bed. “Sick…mur…mur…er.”

Neil offered soft shushing noises, hoping to calm her before she woke Louisa. “She’ll be fine, Evie. I’ve already sent for the doctor.”

“No!” The word was more a scream than an order. “Mur…mur…er…poi…son. Mama. Murder. Poison.”

Murder. Poison.

Evie’s warning became stunningly, startlingly clear.

“Poison? Your mother was poisoned?”

Evie nodded, still frenzied.

In a flash, all the pieces to the puzzle fell into place and Neil realized what a fool he had been. He had been guarding against an overt outside threat, when all the time Louisa was being systematically poisoned from within her own home.

By a woman.

Badger had said that a woman had been hired to kill Louisa. He’d said that Horace had insisted that the attempts on her life be suspended until Horace and Oscar Haversham arrived. Neil had assumed that he had time to fortify his defenses and investigate the staff at the castle. He hadn’t realized that the murder weapon had already been used.

The knowledge sank into his brain like a bitter brew, chilling his body and coating his tongue.

A woman. The assassin is a woman.

Who had access to Louisa? Who could have offered her the lethal dosages without causing suspicion?

Evie tugged on his hands. “Be…trice.”

Just as the word reverberated in his brain, Beatrice appeared in the doorway and leveled a pistol in his direction.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, her tone hard as flint.

Easing into the room, she closed the door behind her. Her features were cast in bitterness, adding years to her appearance.

“So,” she drawled, her eyes momentarily cutting in Evie’s direction. “You’ve finally remembered.” Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I should have killed you long ago. Heaven only knows you haven’t been worth the effort of keeping you drugged and exiled all this time.”

She grimaced. “But then, you were so honestly traumatized by your mother’s death. The physician I bribed to admit you to Hildon Hall assured me that your memory loss was most likely permanent. I should have taken him for the fool he was.”

Sighing, she eased closer, supporting the pistol with both hands. “Honestly, I would have taken care of things in my own way if I hadn’t been so sure that Charles would catch on to my shenanigans if something happened to you.”

“Shenanigans?” Neil repeated. “Don’t you mean murder?”

Beatrice shrugged. “Call it what you will. The truth remains that Charles could barely be bothered by the death of his wives. He considered each of their premature demises unhappy accidents—or sheer carelessness on their part. But if something had happened to his sole heir…” She shuddered at the mere thought.

“Why, Beatrice?”

Her grip on the revolver trembled as anger swept through her body.

“I should have inherited the business. But, no…my father was old-fashioned and wouldn’t hear of it. But Charles—he was a man of the world. I was so sure he would do the right thing once Father died.”

Her voice became shrill as her fury increased. “But Charles was a stingy, greedy bastard. He kept everything for himself—the business, the money, the estate. Boyd and I received nothing. Nothing!”

A sob burst from her throat. “He denied me everything—my future, an education, even the man I loved. My brother wouldn’t part with a penny on my behalf.”

As her rage increased, the mask of refinement dropped completely away. “So I swore that I would get even with him. Moreover, before I was finished, the Winslow fortune would be mine.”

Her laughter sounded more like a cackle. “It was easy, so easy. Charles’s first wife taught me a good deal about poison. I’m afraid that I allowed her to die too quickly. I worried for months that Charles would choose to investigate the matter. But he didn’t. When he decided to marry again, I took my time, poisoning her bit by bit over several years until she finally snapped and went mad.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Evie, registering the dawning realization that began to fill the girl’s eyes.

“Yes, my dear. She caught on in the end. I was fortunate that no one believed her ramblings, but I was forced to take matters into my own hands. Everyone believed that Mary threw herself from the rampart. In reality, I offered her some…help.”

When Evie would have launched herself at Beatrice, Neil caught her around the waist, holding her fast.

Beatrice made a tsking noise. “Poor pet. All of this time you thought the images were merely the remnants of your nightmares. You had no idea that the dreams came from reality. It was so easy to convince Charles that you were as ill as your mother and a danger to yourself as much as those around you. And since he was a busy man, he told himself there would be other children, other heirs. If not, there would be time enough to deal with your illness. Little did he know that I made sure that none of his other wives lived long enough to ever conceive.”

Neil held Evie tight as she fought against him.

Beatrice sneered. “I should have known that you would cause problems the moment you left the asylum. You were developing a tolerance to the tonic your physician prescribed. Mrs. Bitterman reported to me that you were more aware of your surroundings. But I was so sure that Louisa would prove to be no different than Charles’s other wives. I didn’t think you would last the week before she sent you back.” Beatrice frowned, then took a deep, calming breath.

“It’s too bad, really. If Louisa hadn’t interfered, you would have been wallowing at Hildon Hall in a laudanum-induced haze. As it is, I’m afraid I won’t be able to let you leave this room. I haven’t quite decided how to explain your death to Boyd—or those of Louisa and her bodyguard. But I suppose I can blame it on a reoccurrence of the same madness that afflicted your mother.”

Screaming, Evie wrenched free, running for the door. With Beatrice’s attention diverted, Neil dived toward the older woman, knocking the gun from her hands.

But Beatrice was filled with hatred. Grasping a pair of scissors from the chatelaine she wore, she whirled, plunging them into Neil’s arm.

Blackness swam in front of his eyes as he fell to his knees. He was unable to grasp the woman as she ran past him, heading toward Louisa’s supine shape, her arm upraised.

“No!”

Neil lunged forward, trying to grasp Beatrice’s skirts, but fell to the ground, blood pouring from the wound on his arm.

A gun shot sounded through the din. For a moment, Beatrice seemed frozen in place, then she crumpled to the floor, a pool of blood forming beneath her. Gripping his own injured arm, Neil looked up. Above him, Evie stood with her arms still outstretched, Beatrice’s pistol held in a death grip.

It was later that evening when Louisa awakened to find John leaning over her bedside.

“John?”

“Shh. The doctor has been here. I’m afraid rest and plenty of beef broth are all he could prescribe. That and time.”

“Am I dying?” she asked, appearing confused.

John’s smile held a tinge of sadness. “No, no thanks to me. You’ll be right as rain soon enough.”

She shook her head, still confused by the odd dreams she’d experienced. Troubling dreams that involved screams, angry shouts and the report of a pistol.

Then her eyes fell upon a bandage wrapped around John’s arm. The bright stain of blood was unmistakable.

“What happened?”

Taking her hand, John began to explain a fantastical tale of murder and madness—with Beatrice as the author of the tragedy. As each twist and turn of the events unfolded, Louisa discovered to her horror that her dreams had been a reflection of what had really occurred.