"Good." Foxmoor mused a moment. "Doesn't your uncle have a daughter with a soft spot for you? Perhaps she will argue on your behalf."
"Jane is on her father's list of witnesses, so I doubt she'd help
me
."
He had only himself to blame for that. He should have kept in better touch, visited to see how she was doing. But once he'd escaped that wretched house, the very thought of speaking of what they'd endured had frozen his heart. At Eton, he'd ignored her few letters, and they'd stopped once she'd married the new headmaster of the school in Telford.
A pang of guilt gripped him. He should have written then, if only to congratulate her. But marriage to a headmaster implied that she'd succumbed to her mother's rigid ideas, and he couldn't endure hearing her also voice Aunt Eunice's platitudes, claiming that their punishments had been "necessary" for their "discipline." He couldn't bear to hear that she'd become what he'd escaped by going to Eton. There'd been no school for Jane.
Shoving his hand in his pocket, he fingered his snuffbox. Well, there'd be one for Tessa, damn it.
As Foxmoor's rig arrived, it occurred to Anthony that the duke might know more about the person who held Tessa's future in her hand. "Foxmoor, do you ever visit Mrs. Harris's school yourself?"
He could feel Foxmoor's gaze on him. "Occasionally, with Louisa. Why?"
"There's a peculiar teacher there named Miss Prescott. What do you know of her?"
"You mean the blond beauty with the unusual eyes?"
"I hadn't noticed her appearance," he lied, "but now that you mention it…"
With a suspicious snort, Foxmoor headed for the door.
"Oh, for God's sake," Anthony grumbled as he followed the duke into the carriage. "I'm merely curious because she claims to be a naturalist, and Tessa is interested in gardening." All right, so that was a lie, but he'd be damned if he'd have Foxmoor speculating wrongly about Anthony's interest in Miss Prescott.
"I can't tell you much." Foxmoor knocked on the ceiling for the driver to go on. "The headmistress of a school in the country— I forget where— recommended her to Mrs. Harris when she and her father moved to Richmond."
"Can't her father support them?"
"I honestly don't know. From what I understand, she is very private. Keeps to herself, doesn't even bring her father around the school."
Interesting. Did she even
have
a father? Or was that some invention to make her appear respectable? "And the mother? What about her?"
"Dead, I think." With a sly lift of an eyebrow, Foxmoor added, "I could ask Louisa to be sure."
Anthony stiffened. "No, it's only idle curiosity." The last thing he needed was the duchess trying to marry him off to a woman of dubious background.
Settling against the squabs, Foxmoor eyed him closely. "Does this have to do with the 'friend' who wants you to instruct his daughter about fortune hunters?"
"No," Anthony clipped out. Good God, had he been
that
transparent? Not even to Foxmoor would he confide what the ladies of the school had convinced him to do. The duke might be a pillar of the community, but he would still laugh his ass off at the thought of Anthony teaching anything to anyone…if he didn't rise up in outrage and have Mrs. Harris put a stop to the "rake lessons."
Whatever
those
were.
He stared out the window. Well, Miss Prescott would just have to explain her proposal more thoroughly if she wanted his compliance.
Otherwise, she wouldn't be getting her nitrous oxide party.
* * *
A loud scraping noise in her tiny cottage woke Madeline from a dead sleep. She came instantly alert, a talent she'd had to cultivate of late. Hurrying from the bed, she dragged a wrapper over her night rail, then went in search of her father.
She found him in the parlor, stabbing a poker into the fireplace. A glance at the clock made her groan. "Papa, it's three o'clock. Why are you up?"
"Too damned cold in this place," he mumbled. "Can't sleep."
With a weary sigh, she took the poker from him. She was in no mood for dealing with Papa, not after she'd tossed and turned half the night, replaying the viscount's naughty kiss. "Go back to bed. I'll heat you some milk."
He turned a frantic gaze on her, as he sometimes did after his nightmares woke him. "I had a dream."
"Yes, yes, I know." She guided him toward his bedchamber. "You shouldn't take that sleeping draught. It always gives you wild dreams."
"But I can't sleep without it. I keep…hearing her whisper at the end, hearing her labored breaths— "
Madeline engulfed him in her arms, wishing she could banish his painful memories. Mrs. Crosby, the vicar's wife, had been Papa's last patient. Why had this one death tormented him for months now?
She clutched him tightly. It was that horrible Sir Randolph's fault. Papa had done nothing wrong while treating Mrs. Crosby. He certainly hadn't committed the disgusting acts Sir Randolph claimed. Sir Randolph hated Papa for trying to bring reason to a town where ignorance held sway, so he'd seized on this nonsense to drum him out of town.
"You did your best, Papa. It was Mrs. Crosby's infection that killed her."
"How many times have I lanced abscesses with no ill effect?" He pulled free and went to stare dolefully at the fire. "I shouldn't have given her anything for the pain, but the poor lady cried so pitifully…"
Papa had a bias against laudanum, so he'd decided to try the nitrous oxide after what Sir Humphry had written in his book about its pain-relieving properties.
He glowered at the hearth. "The nitrous oxide killed her— I just know it."
"It did not." Madeline took his arm. "Otherwise, all those reckless lords imbibing it for fun would be dead by now."
"You see, you see?" he cried. "It is good for nothing but frivolity."
"That's not true. We both know it has other untapped properties. Besides, you said yourself that Mrs. Crosby's abscess was worse than it at first appeared."
"Yes, but to have it provoke acute fever and a racing pulse within moments…" He shook his head. "That never happened before with a patient." As sudden as the anger came, it fled, replaced by his all-consuming sadness. Dropping into a chair, he buried his head in his hands. "She went so very quickly…a breath, two breaths, and she was gone." Tears rolled down his cheeks.
The weeping was what tore at her. Madeline had only seen her father cry at Mama's funeral, until the vicar's wife died. Since then he cried with no provocation, sometimes sobbing like an old man, though he was only fifty.
"I killed her as surely as if I'd shot her," Papa choked out. "Sir Randolph is right— I
am
a murderer for trying that nitrous oxide on her."
"Sir Randolph is a vicious fool, and you know it," she protested.
"Aye, but that doesn't change the fact that she's dead. His other nonsense might be lies, but that part was true. And I deserve to be punished for that part alone." With a woeful shake of his head, he dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.
Seeing him like this made her want to run Sir Randolph through with a rapier. It was bad enough that Papa was questioning his medical judgment, but he might have got through that if Sir Randolph hadn't raised such a clamor over it. Then, to accuse Papa of giving Mrs. Crosby nitrous oxide in order to have his wicked way with her— what a ghastly falsehood!
Sir Randolph and Papa had fallen out years ago, but people had believed Sir Randolph's lies because Papa was a widower, and Mrs. Crosby had been the beauty of the town. They'd always been suspicious of his advanced scientific learning, since old wives' tales formed the basis for most remedies in town. He'd spent his life caring for the townspeople, only to have them turn their backs on him at the first hint of scandal.
Her hands curled into fists. The worst part was that he had let them. Once upon a time, he would have fought back. But his misplaced guilt over Mrs. Crosby's death kept him from defending himself, which left only her to defend him.
Why did this plague him so? He'd suffered spells of melancholy all her life, but they generally passed after a week or two. Even Mama's death from consumption two years ago hadn't resulted in such abject grief.
The thought of her mother made her choke back a sob. Mama would have known how to make him easy; whatever Madeline said merely provoked tears. Or worse, made him lash out in anger— and not just at her, but at their neighbors and tradesmen and even Mrs. Jenkins, the widow she'd hired to keep house.
That was the reason she'd given Papa; the truth was she dared not leave him alone for fear that he would take his own life during one of his melancholy fits. The possibility terrified her.
She'd hoped that moving from Telford and escaping the horrible gossip Sir Randolph kept stirred up would help him, that he might resume his practice in Richmond. But he'd been unable to do so.
Thank heaven the headmistress at the Shrewsbury school, where Madeline used to teach, had been kind enough to recommend her to Mrs. Harris. Otherwise, they'd be facing poverty when Papa's meager savings ran out.
They might end up there yet. Even though the coroner's inquest had deemed Mrs. Crosby's death not a criminal matter, Sir Randolph was bent on convincing Reverend Crosby to have it reexamined by the authorities.
Anger roiled in her belly. If that happened, she would have to hire a lawyer and spend money on Papa's defense. But if she could convince Sir Humphry to come to Telford and speak to the vicar himself, he could assure the man that nitrous oxide was perfectly safe, that other people had used it in such a capacity— and not to "have their wicked way" with anyone, either.
A sigh wracked her. It was a flimsy hope, at best. For one thing, it depended on Lord Norcourt providing a chance for her to meet the famous chemist, and how likely was that?
The snoring from the chair startled, then relieved her. Papa had fallen asleep. Thank the Lord.
Careful to keep her steps quiet, she returned to her own bed. But now
she
couldn't sleep. It was the third night this week that Papa had awakened her at some horrible hour, and she sometimes caught herself nodding off while the girls did an exercise at their desks. She was just so very tired…
It seemed like only seconds later that something shook her. She snuggled deeper into her pillow.
"Miss Prescott!" a sharp voice said in her ear.
Her eyes shot open. Why was it so bright? And why was Letty Jenkins here, bending over her—
She'd overslept! "What time is it?" she cried, tossing off the coverlet.
"A little after seven," the woman answered, her face concerned. "Aren't you supposed to be at the school at— "
"Lord, I'm so late!" Madeline wailed as she leaped from the bed. Hurrying to the washbasin, she poured water from the pitcher.
Like the angel that she was, Mrs. Jenkins handed her the washcloth, then headed for the door. "You've missed breakfast at the school. I'll fetch you something to eat."
"No time for that. I'll have something later."
The aging widow clucked her tongue, but took a gown from the closet and laid out Madeline's clothes for the day.
Madeline raced through her ablutions. She never overslept. Her girls would wonder where on earth she was. She must hurry, she must! Mrs. Harris wouldn't notice she was late unless one of the girls alerted her.
Or unless the viscount arrived; today was the day he was to start his lessons! How mortifying it would be if he asked Mrs. Harris about her.
She rolled her eyes as she donned her chemise and corset. Lord Rakehell would
not
arrive on time; she'd be lucky if he even came. All she had to do was reach her class before the students could alert Mrs. Harris, and no one would be the wiser.
"How is Papa?" she asked Mrs. Jenkins, as the woman began lacing her up. "Did you see him when you came in?"
"He's snoring in his chair."
"If he doesn't move to the bed, his muscles will seize up— "
"I'll take care of it." Mrs. Jenkins handed her the gown. "You just leave everything to Letty now. I know how to deal with Dr. Prescott."
Hiring Mrs. Jenkins had been the wisest idea of her life. "Thank you," she said, as the woman helped her finish dressing. "You're a godsend."
"A pity my late husband never thought so. Believe me, caring for your father is hardly a trial after a lifetime of putting up with Mr. Jenkins." The widow pushed her toward the door. "Now go on with you. Everything will be fine."
As Madeline raced out the door, she clung to the widow's words, praying that the woman was right.
Chapter Five
Dear Charlotte,
Why on earth do you wish to know about Lord Norcourt? Please say you haven't fallen under his spell. After what I told you about his outrageous parties, I should think you'd have more sense than to succumb to his much-vaunted talent for seducing widows.