AT PRECISELY EIGHT O’CLOCK the following morning, a portly gentleman was seen rubbing the sleep from his eyes in the tastefully designed vestibule of the Cadogan House Hotel on Gay Street. Two cups of strong black coffee—Sally Lunn’s Gamblers’ Blend—had not provided even half the energy he needed to perform the role required of him.
As the marquess had been compelled to sell off his equipage in order to satisfy creditors, which is why he had endured the journey to Bath in the mail coach, Lady Dalrymple had arranged to have her brother’s coat of arms painted on one of her own carriages. She had paid dearly to achieve the appropriate effect on such short notice.
Now Albert Tobias, Lord Manwaring, fiddled with the shiny brass buttons on his new coat—a gift from his sister—remarking upon the fact that the glint they made in the bright sunlight produced no adverse effect whatsoever on his head. Perhaps this was the first morning in many that he had not awakened suffering from the aftereffects of too much brandy, wine, or gin. He had not been particular of late when it came to a preference in spirits. Come to think of it, he mused, running a plump hand along his blond, balding pate, this was the first day in many that he had awakened in the morning at all. Ordinarily, Nesbit, an ever faithful valet—and his sole remaining servant apart from the housemaid—would bestir him with a glass of brandy sometime during the midafternoon hours.
A conveyance that looked remarkably like the ghost of his own carriage rumbled up to the portal. It was being driven by the burly coachman whom Manwaring recognized as an employee of the countess.
A plump hand, also quite similar to his own, though bedecked with rubies and opals, gestured wildly for him to ascend. “Get in, Bertie. Heavens, you dawdle!”
The liveried and periwigged footman practically whisked the marquess into the barouche, where he sat facing his sister and Lord Darlington.
Lady Dalrymple fished in her reticule and, after some searching, retrieved a small envelope. She handed the packet to Manwaring. “There are one hundred pounds in here, Albert. I have spoken with my solicitors in London, whom I have authorized to write you a draft for another nine hundred should you play your part to perfection this morning.”
It was a bloody windfall. “Oh, Euphie,” the marquess slobbered. Tears of gratitude coursed down his florid cheeks.
“Don’t blubber, Bertie, you’ll ruin your new waistcoat.”
Manwaring took his sister’s hands in his own, clutching them so tightly that his palms bruised from the pressure made by Lady Dalrymple’s enormous rings. “I always knew you were the kindest, dearest sister a creature could ever hope to have,” he continued theatrically.
“You shall see how kind I can be if you do not win the day,” the countess scolded. “I hope all the liquor you have consumed over the years has not destroyed your memory. You will need it for what I am about to remind you, as it concerns the history and particulars of your daughter, Cassandra Jane.”
“JOHN HASLAM, RESIDENT APOTHECARY,” the tall, gaunt man said as he extended his hand to Lords Manwaring and Darlington. “Perhaps your ladyship would prefer to wait in our garden—it’s quite lovely, very restful—while the gentlemen and I see to business.”
“Her ladyship will do nothing of the sort,” Lady Dalrymple snorted. “If your conditions here are tolerable enough for female patients, they will be tolerable enough for female visitors.” The truth was the countess desperately wanted to be in her brother’s company should he require any prompting. Besides, she was curious about the institution itself. From the façade, it seemed no more threatening than an average hospital, but from the fetid smells lingering in the air and the stifled cries that she could hear from where she stood in the vestibule, she surmised that there was a goodly degree of barbarism practiced here. What vile, inhumane things had these monsters already inflicted upon her “niece”? It was too horrible to contemplate.
“And what might bring your lordship here?” the apothecary asked Darlington.
The earl kept a hand on his sword hilt. “Merely an interest in how you treat your patients, Mr. Haslam.”
Haslam led the way down the dingy corridor to the cell where C.J. was incarcerated, still in her black iron birdcage, an immobile bundle slumped on the straw below her. Lady Dalrymple gasped. Her hand fluttered to her heart. Her “niece” looked as though she had not had a bath since her arrival, her rosy color had turned pale, her usually glossy dark curls hung limp and lifeless about her face. Even C.J.’s eyes had taken on a dull sheen.
“My niece,” the countess cried, stretching her arms toward the cell.
By way of greeting, C.J. regarded her with a swollen, tearstained face and pointed at the body lying in the straw beneath her.
“What is it, child?” asked Lady Dalrymple, her handkerchief to her nose.
“The last act of a tragedy.” C.J. quietly wept, the tears coursing down her grimy cheeks. “That was Lady Rose. She’s dying and no one would come to her aid. They killed her; they all killed her,” she muttered. “And her innocent babe as well. A double murder,” C.J. added, placing her hand on her own womb.
“Lady Rose,” sneered Haslam. “She’s naught but a lying doxy,” he grunted to a shocked Lady Dalrymple. “Claimed she was ravished by a dozen different upstanding members of the ton—lord this and earl that—the finest men in Bath. Help her? She deserves all the suffering she brought on them for blackening their good names!”
“Heavens!” the countess gasped.
“Release my daughter this instant, you quack!” thundered the marquess in his finest theatrical timbre.
“Y-your daughter, sir?” Haslam stammered.
“Of course, my daughter, you nitwit. Release her from this barbaric contraption immediately, before I have the law on the lot of you
