Andrew Lord of Despair(54)

A barrister masquerading as a physician, two reasons to rearrange the fellow’s handsome face.

“And I don’t see that you are wearing a collar,” Andrew shot back. “Moreover, this child you are so concerned about, if male, will divest the present viscount of the title, won’t he? To whom do we then attribute nefarious motives, Doctor? And do you mean to tell me you believe Lady Amery coincidentally fell down an entire flight of stairs earlier this same week?”

DuPont ran a pale hand through fashionable blond curls and eyed the door. “My practice depends on my ability to gain and keep the trust of my clients, particularly those like the viscount, who are, shall we say, well placed. You obviously care for the lady, so I will tell you this much: yesterday, the viscount himself was in my office, asking me all sorts of questions that sought to establish whether she might have tossed herself down the stairs in an attempt to rid herself of the child.”

The doctor’s expression conveyed impatience with the entire situation.

“I told the viscount, in so many words, a woman would have to be near crazed to attempt such a thing, and many, many less risky options would have presented themselves to her before now. He did seem somewhat reassured, but I can guarantee you, he will be back in my office, asking even more pointed questions after today. And unless you are the lady’s husband, I really have no business talking to you at all.”

When he would have turned to go, Andrew stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Doctor. Do you believe the viscountess was administered a deadly poison?”

For a moment, there was little sound, except the ticking of the clock in the nearby parlor and the jingle of a passing harness.

“Yes, and no,” the doctor said, his hand on the door latch. “Not a deadly poison, but a deadly combination of poisons. An opiate was involved, probably to render her unconscious, to deaden the ability to retch, and possibly to deaden the worst of the pain. In addition to that, her ladyship ingested a toxin of some sort, though there’s no way to determine which one. If you hadn’t been here and reacted as quickly as you did, we would be summoning the watch.”

Andrew swore in Italian and German both—the doctor would likely know French—his worst fears confirmed. “And have you seen the viscountess behave in any way that suggests she would do harm to herself or her child?”

The doctor shook his head, and was gone before Andrew could ask the next question.

“He thinks you were poisoned,” Andrew said when he returned to Astrid’s room, “and he won’t be able, in all honesty, to assure Douglas you did not administer it to yourself.”

“Dear God.” Astrid sank back against her pillows and turned her head, when such an accusation should have had her charging about the room and ranting.

“Astrid, listen to me. Douglas has already asked the doctor if your recent tumble down the steps could be an effort to hurt, or even lose, the baby. The doctor told him you would have to be crazy to attempt such a thing. Douglas could be laying a trap, creating a wealth of evidence to prove you unfit, if not insane, prior to the child’s birth—if he doesn’t succeed in killing you altogether.”

She plucked at the coverlet, which was embroidered with ducks and daisies. The design was not a married woman’s choice, much less a widow’s, but it reassured Andrew to see it.

“Had you not come calling today, I doubt I would have survived.”

“The doctor confirmed as much.” And how Andrew hated to see Astrid pale and fearful. “I want you to write a note to Lady Amery. Tell her you have gone off to pay a call on your brother, and tell me which of your things you want me to gather up.”

She put a hand over her belly, a hand that sported no wedding ring. “My stationery is in the escritoire, and there’s a small valise under this bed.”

As Astrid wrote a note to Lady Amery, her penmanship less than exemplary, Andrew wrote a different note to David, Viscount Fairly. Astrid sat on the bed and allowed Andrew to dress her—he did not want her even standing if he could preserve her from the effort. He tossed some clothing and personal items into her valise, and then made up the bed while Astrid sat in the rocking chair and stared at the carpet.

“You’d best heed nature’s call,” he reminded her, “and I’ll get the carriage.”

Andrew soon had her up in his phaeton, his tiger tearing off with the note for Fairly. Minutes later, Andrew drew his vehicle to a halt in Lady Heathgate’s mews. As he escorted Astrid up the back walk, he bellowed for a running footman to retrieve Mr. Brenner from Gareth’s town house, and sent another messenger on a fast horse to head for Willowdale. Both were off in their respective directions before Andrew and Astrid had gained the back entrance of the house.