Page 11 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There is an acrid taste in Jane’s mouth as Neddy’s phaeton draws up beside Goodnestone House. Early-evening sunlight casts a shadow over its crisp stucco facade while illuminating the red bricks of the adjacent coach house. The Queen Anne–style mansion is tall and elegant, and looks over the Kent countryside as any being of such lofty refinement must be forgiven for peering down its nose at its more bucolic surroundings. As Jane dressed for the ball, she scrubbed her teeth thoroughly, working the bristles of her little wooden brush furiously into the furthest reaches of her mouth. But try as she might, she has not been able to dislodge the bitterness resting at the back of her throat ever since her disturbing discovery. She wishes she was wrong, but Elizabeth’s fourth pregnancy in five years is proof enough of Neddy’s unquenchable appetite. By his own admission Neddy, the Austens’ most blessed child, is “straying” from his pregnant wife and fornicating with harlots. Jane draws her shawl tight and attempts to swallow her disgust.

In the days since the revelation, Jane has fought to reconcile what she heard from the man she knows as her brother. As tempting as it is to confront him outright, she has seen how easily the lies drip from his mouth. Neddy made his way in the world by charming people. He would, no doubt, have a ready answer for all of Jane’s accusations, and leave her questioning her own rational mind. She believed him wholeheartedly when he claimed he had “barely laid eyes” on Eleanor. Yet her senses had not deceived her. With her own ears, she had heard him confess to having “used” the girl while the disgusting Spooner offered to “procure” him another. Jane’s only option is to gather as much irrefutable evidence of Eleanor’s true history as she can before broaching the topic with Neddy, so that it would be impossible for her brother to deny any part he may have played in her downfall.

If Mrs. Knight has an inkling of Neddy’s despicable behaviour, it would certainly explain why she has decided to disinherit him. She would hardly wish to bequeath her very great fortune to one likely to disgrace the name of Knight. But as she is planning to part with her wealth while she lives, impoverishing herself in favour of Eleanor, Jane’s suspicion is that the girl has exploited her association with Neddy to gain the information necessary to manipulate his mother. Mrs. Knight is an isolated, grieving widow with a sympathetic heart—a ready target for a trickster practised in the art of manufacturing attachments. Has Jane’s brother invited this disaster on himself by consorting with a woman capable of such mischief ? Either way, if Neddy were to fall from grace then every one of the Austens would suffer.

How would Jane’s family manage without the security the anticipation of his wealth affords? Her father would be obliged to continue his priestly duties well into his dotage. James is expected to be presented with Mr. Austen’s livings after him, but this choice remains at the discretion of whoever owns the Steventon estate. Frank and Charles will win their fortunes at sea or perish in the pursuit of a prize, but Georgy will always need to be provided for. As will Mrs. Austen, should she outlive her husband. Without Neddy’s anticipated wealth to prop up the family, Jane would be forced to forgo her dream of remaining at liberty until she has written something worthy of being published, and find a man, any man with the means to support her, to marry instead. Worse, so would Cassandra.

Disgusted with his selfishness, Jane has thus far avoided Neddy’s company by dining with the children or feigning a headache to retire early. But tonight, as guest of honour at the Goodnestone Midsummer Ball, she can hardly turn her face from him. She will have to rely on the splendour of the occasion to cover the rottenness of her heart. Poor Elizabeth. Does she suspect her husband of philandering? If so, why ask Jane to carry out her espionage, rather than her sister, Henrietta? Does Elizabeth want Neddy to know that she knows, or does she want Jane to know, as a way of shaming her husband into some semblance of decency? Relations between Neddy and his wife have become even more fraught, with Elizabeth increasingly vexed at his failure to persuade his mother to evict Eleanor and the Benedictine sisters lodging at Briar Farm.

Out of guilt by association with her brother’s actions and pity for Elizabeth’s predicament, Jane is complying with all her sister-in-law’s tiresome attempts to civilise her. In preparation for the ball, she has suffered through insults to her wardrobe and lectures on deportment without a whisper of complaint. She even let Kitty singe her natural curls into uniform ringlets and lace her, too tightly, into her column-like gown. The effect is rather elegant, but Jane cannot help feeling like a game bird trussed for market.

As Neddy hands Elizabeth down from the carriage, her face betrays no hint of animosity towards her husband. She is clearly uncomfortable, at less than a month away from the baby’s expected arrival, her swollen belly wrapped in a sail of white silk. Jane tried to persuade her to stay at home and rest, but Elizabeth insisted on being present to see Jane open the ball by dancing with Sir William. There is no possibility Jane can reveal what she knows to her sister-in-law. The blow of Neddy’s betrayal added to Mrs. Knight’s disaffection really could bring on the baby early, placing Elizabeth and her offspring in even greater peril.

In Kent, there is no one Jane can confide in. Cassandra, always her most trusty correspondent, remains choked with grief and refuses to answer her letters. If Jane must be an island, she is resolved to turn herself into a fortified one. With Elizabeth’s assistance, she has contrived to visit Mrs. Knight and her foreign princess almost every day. Neddy’s mother makes polite enquiries as to the welfare of her son and his family, without expressing any desire to see them. Jane reads the Misses Dashwood’s letters aloud while studying Eleanor closely for any hint of her true character. Grace refuses to be drawn on her charge and Jane’s inexperienced eye cannot tell if Eleanor is an artful strumpet with a highly sophisticated plan to deceive her superiors, or a pitiful wench who has concocted an elaborate ruse in a desperate attempt to escape her bully. Either way, it does not excuse the vulgar manner in which Neddy, Spooner or the vile Captain Fairbairn refer to her. She has been “used,” passed from man to man, like a bottle of port or an amusing anecdote.

“Are you ready, Jane?” asks Neddy, reaching up a hand to help her descend.

“Yes. I’m ready.” Jane shuffles along the bench and pinches his hand with the lightest of touches, grateful for her kid leather evening gloves. Without them, it would be impossible not to recoil from his touch.

Damn Neddy. Let him think she is his placid little sister—the doting child he left behind, rather than the woman of astute observation she has grown into during his long absence. Jane will seek out the truth. She may be completely alone and inexperienced in the ways of the world, but she is not afraid of diving into this murky pool and testing the depths of his depravity. Tonight, Jane will speak to some of those involved in the discovery of Mrs. Knight’s strange house guest. If she can arm herself with the truth, she can use it to confront Neddy and force her brother to forgo his licentious ways before he sinks any further into his own ignominy, dragging down all of the Austens with him.

“Where are the family? William should be here to greet his guests.” Elizabeth strides past the footmen gathered in the circular entrance hall, pausing briefly to correct one on his posture. The right-hand side of the round room opens to a long gallery, cleared for dancing, while the left leads to an identical space filled with tea-tables. “He’d better not have let any dances commence. I warned him several times he’s to wait for you, Jane.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t dare.” Neddy hurries to keep pace with her.

Jane’s spirit is already calmer, having escaped the confines of Rowling. Perhaps the evening will not be such a trial, and she will feel lighter for being forced into company. Unknown to herself, Elizabeth has made Jane’s mission to quiz all those involved in Eleanor’s discovery significantly easier by tasking her with seeking an introduction to everyone in their fashionable set. The original list of eligible bachelors Elizabeth composed—ranked by their position in the hierarchy of East Kent, and annotated with their annual income, estimated investment in government bonds, and helpful hints as to which topics might seduce them into conversation ( adores blancmange! Keeps an African grey parrot! Suffers terribly with chilblains )—was consigned to the fire shortly after it was handed over. But inside Jane’s reticule sits her own list of persons of interest, chiefly Dr. Wilmot and his wife. The Wilmots were the first to circulate the report of a shipwrecked foreign princess, and therefore Jane will begin her attempt to discredit it by interviewing them.

Unfortunately the Wilmots, with the rest of the guests, are yet to arrive. In the echoey ballroom Henrietta, in a gown twice as sheer and cut even closer to the body than Jane’s own, plays a maudlin tune on a grand pianoforte. She may be older than Elizabeth, but Henrietta is more willing to embrace the daring new fashions. A huddle of professional musicians stands idle beside her, eyeing each other disdainfully while twiddling the strings of their instruments.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Sir William calls, from a semi-reclined position in front of a grand fireplace. “Can you remember what time we put on the invitations? It was eight o’clock rather than half past, was it not?”

Elizabeth glides to him across the polished parquet, decorated with a giant chalk rose to prevent the dancers slipping. “Yes, yes. Don’t fret. You know the guests are always late. Why aren’t you in the round room to greet them? What will Sir Edward and Lady Hale say if they arrive to find you lounging about like this? It’s most disrespectful.”

Sir William dabs his flushed forehead with a handkerchief. “I can’t help it, it’s my gouty big toe. The damn thing’s playing up again. It must’ve been all that traipsing about looking for game.” His foot rests on a stool, level with his chest. It is the shape of a bowling ball, and the laces of his dancing pump will not meet. Jane’s own foot throbs in sympathy. So much for her glittering entrance into society on the arm of a baronet. She berates herself for her disappointed vanity. However much Jane rebels at Elizabeth’s attempts to refine her, she is horrified to realise that a small part of her was looking forward to playing the bashful debutante. No matter her troubles, dancing never fails to distract her.

“Surely you can manage one set.” Elizabeth bobs down beside him, switching her gaze from the swollen foot to its less remarkable partner.

“I’m afraid not. The footmen had to haul me in here. I’ve no idea how I’m going to get out again.”

Neddy claps Sir William on the shoulder. “Bad luck, old fellow. I told you to leave the birds to me.”

“This is infuriating.” Elizabeth stands, surveying the small party. “Who will open the ball with Jane now? She can hardly stand up with her brother.”

“Honestly, Beth, it’s no matter.” Jane tries to placate her sister-in-law. It’s a far cry from arriving at a raucous public ball in the Basingstoke assembly rooms, where half the county squash themselves inside, and the air is thick with perspiration and possibility. She tries to muster a shadow of the enthusiasm she knows she should feel on such an occasion, hopeful that a little excitement will spur her on in her mission. It’s no use: the butterflies have long since fled her breast, leaving only the dried-out husks of their chrysalises. “The most important thing is making sure Sir William is comfortable.”

“Thank you, Miss Austen.” The baronet smiles up at her. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of wine?”

“Wine?” Elizabeth scowls. “When your gout is already inflamed? You know it will only unbalance your constitution further.”

“Spare me your raillery, sister. It is enough that I am at the mercy of Dr. Wilmot’s constant sallies. Do you know he’s added roast beef, red wine and butter sauce to the list of pernicious substances I’m to forgo to stave off these attacks?”

“I don’t see how that would help,” says Neddy. “You need to keep your strength up.”

“Hush …” Elizabeth nods towards the long windows opening onto the drive. “That’s the doctor arriving now.”

Jane turns to note a trio of guests edging tentatively towards the entrance. She guesses Dr. Wilmot is the senior figure, while the lady clutching nervously at his side must be his wife. The other man, wearing a similar pair of spectacles and expression of bewilderment as the lady, must be a relation of hers.

“What could have persuaded you to invite him?” Sir William huffs. “Don’t let him anywhere near me, I entreat you. If he sees my foot, he’ll spend the whole evening proscribing the pleasures I’m to abstain from. And can you speak to the kitchen? Have them serve the white soup at ten o’clock sharp. Last year they left it too late and the company were ravenous.”

“Can’t Hen do it?” asks Elizabeth.

Sir William gestures towards the piano where Henrietta continues her morose performance. “She’s exhibiting.”

“Yes, and it would be a good excuse for her not to,” Elizabeth sighs. Jane senses Elizabeth is just as frustrated with her unmarried sister as she is with her sisters-in-law. “Jane, will you attend to the baronet? Red wine, if he must, diluted with plenty of water. And, Edward, will you take up station in the round room to welcome the guests on the family’s behalf ?”

“Actually, Ned, would you mind calling for Sir William’s wine so that Beth can introduce me to the Wilmots?” Jane is reluctant to risk the room becoming noisy and crowded, thereby forfeiting her opportunity to quiz the Wilmots in relative comfort.

“Well remembered. Mrs. Wilmot’s cousin, Dr. Storer, is on your list.” Elizabeth beams at Jane’s apparent studiousness. “Rather close to the bottom, but I suppose we have to start somewhere. Did you bring the list with you?”

Jane holds up her reticule, dangling it by its drawstring loop. By happy coincidence, one of the names on Elizabeth’s original list overlaps with the objects of Jane’s own curiosity. “How could I forget, after you went to such efforts?”

Elizabeth shepherds Jane towards the entrance hall by her elbow. “As you know, Dr. Wilmot runs his practice from Canterbury but Dr. Storer’s clinic is in Harley Street.”

“I expect London is the most convenient place to gather invalids.”

“Dr. Storer is intending to reside with his cousin for the duration of the summer months. He says it’s to get away from the worst of the air, but I suspect it’s because he’s about to come into a great deal of money and is fishing for a well-connected wife. Which you could be taken for, Jane. Here in Kent, anyway.”

Jane raises an eyebrow. “Pray how can you foretell such a lucky event for Dr. Storer? Does he have a rich relation on their deathbed?”

“Unfortunately not, but he has invented an ingenious medical device.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkle with the news. “It acts as an artificial leech.”

“An artificial leech?”

“So as not to frighten children. A glass cup is attached to the body, while a mechanical foot pump encourages the flow of blood. It’s so much more effective than the old-fashioned way. Apparently, Mrs. Wilmot claimed he withdrew twenty ounces before she’d even noticed.”

Jane resists the urge to vomit into her reticule.

“Don’t look so disgusted. It’s not as if you can afford to be squeamish. He’s registered the design with the Patent Office and, when it comes through, he’ll be a very wealthy man.”

“Capital, all his patients will be haemorrhaging cash!”

Elizabeth shoots her a warning glance.

Jane forces her features into a grave expression. “Just a quip. I won’t repeat it in his presence, I promise.”

“You’d better not. I only condescended to invite the doctor and his party for you.”

“Me?” After Elizabeth’s previous outburst, Jane has attempted to keep the detailed machinations of her investigation to herself. She didn’t think Elizabeth knew how keenly she wished to speak to the Wilmots.

“Yes. I thought you must be partial to clever men. After the lawyer?” Elizabeth says, as if looking for a spark of intelligence in one’s life partner is as quaint as having a preference for red hair or a dimpled chin. “I can’t see the attraction myself. No, for lasting happiness, I believe it’s much better to select someone more malleable.”

Jane is sorely tempted to ask Elizabeth if this was why she chose to marry Neddy, but it is no jest. Neddy has proven himself neither dull nor governable.

“Dr. Wilmot, Mrs. Wilmot, Dr. Storer,” cries Elizabeth, the moment the trio enter, causing all three to stand to attention. “Please allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Miss Austen.” She emphasizes the single syllable of Jane’s title, clearly finding it the most objectionable part of her name.

Jane curtsies politely. “How do you do?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me if we’re to have any hope of being fed this evening.” Elizabeth departs to orchestrate the refreshments. She pauses briefly at the pianoforte to bark at Henrietta, whose fingers strike up Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor in reply. The Wilmots and Dr. Storer greet Jane over the disjointed, angry music, their stiff manners signifying they are as ill at ease as she is.

As stalwarts of the middling classes, Jane doubts they are accustomed to socializing with the scrupulously discerning Bridges family. Yet, up close, Dr. Storer is not such a terrible prospect. He can only recently have turned thirty, if at all, and there is nothing outright offensive about his countenance. If he shows the slightest evidence of being a rational creature, Jane might be persuaded to stand up with him. That is, if Henrietta ever surrenders her place at the pianoforte. Her musical accompaniment is more likely to drive the guests away to weep over life’s cruel disappointments than entice them to dance.

By silent agreement, the party drifts towards the round room to make their small-talk audible. Jane answers a handful of banal questions about the climate and topography of Hampshire compared to Kent, its neighbour of only one county removed, before losing patience and diving headlong into her investigation. “And we have an esteemed acquaintance in common, I believe?”

Dr. Wilmot peers down at her. “We do?”

“Yes. I have the pleasure of assuring you that your foreign princess was quite well when I left her yesterday.”

Given how expeditiously Dr. Wilmot took up and discarded Eleanor’s cause, Jane expects him to blush at this description of her. He must have revised his opinion of the authenticity of her account to expel her so unceremoniously. Instead, the doctor’s expression grows animated at the mention of his former charge. “You’ve met the princess?”

“I have. If one is to believe that is what she is.” Jane resorts to provoking his confidence.

“Why should one doubt it?” He blinks.

“No particular reason … But I did wonder if you would be willing to relay the circumstances of her discovery. I’m having difficulty in understanding exactly what persuaded you to place her under your care and, as you know, the princess is rather unintelligible. What condition was she in when you found her?”

Mrs. Wilmot takes a step closer to her husband, placing her hand in the crook of his arm. She opens her mouth to speak but Dr. Wilmot gets there first. Which is most frustrating as, in Jane’s experience, women are generally better at recounting events. It is the little details they like to include, which a man may not think important enough to impart.

“I’d be only too pleased to relay the terrible nature of the princess’s arrival in this country.” He puffs his chest, reminding Jane of James’s performance when delivering one of his self-penned prologues to the many plays he directed in Mr. Austen’s barn. “I’m afraid she was in a remarkably forlorn state when we found her. It took all my skill as a physician to revive her. It was apparent to me that she had very nearly drowned.”

“She was unconscious?” asks Jane.

“Not unconscious, but confused. If it hadn’t been for my intervention, I fear she would have succumbed from exposure to the elements. Despite her injuries, she was tumbling about in a state of undress.”

Jane nods but Dr. Wilmot’s description could apply as readily to a harlot suffering the consequences of imbibing an excessive amount of gin as it could the survivor of a shipwreck. “And how exactly did you revive her?”

“My wife offered the princess her cloak and some smelling salts.”

“I see.” Jane tries to catch Mrs. Wilmot’s eye but the lady glances down at her slippers. Dr. Wilmot’s success as a physician owes as much to his wife’s compassion as to any medical knowledge on his part. “And where exactly did you find her?”

“On the beach towards the promenade. We regularly spend our mornings there, for the promotion of Mrs. Wilmot’s health.”

“Not in the water, then?”

“No.”

“And were there any other signs of a shipwreck?” Jane asks, wondering how a sunken vessel could escape the notice of the various authorities. “Debris washed up along the shore, perhaps, or any other survivors?”

“None that I met with.”

“Then, if I may, sir, what prompted you to take Eleanor to the Riding Officer, rather than treating her as any other unfortunate soul in need of charity?”

“Ah, but one can always tell a woman of quality,” the doctor scoffs. “There is something in her air that marks her as distinct. From the moment I discovered the princess, it was obvious by her disdain for all around her that she herself was of far nobler rank.”

Dr. Wilmot may have revealed himself as a pompous fool, but Jane has some sympathy with his reverence for Eleanor. While the girl’s manners are beyond bizarre, she is so determined in them that even Jane has doubted herself in her presence. “It was her air that led you to take her to the Riding Officer?”

“Yes, and once there, he corroborated her story.”

“He confirmed there had been a shipwreck?”

“No. He called forth a sailor fluent in her native tongue. The man listened for a great while before relaying the details of her birth and the terrible events that have since befallen her. Princess Eleanor is a daughter of the most noble house of Spain.”

“She doesn’t look like a Habsburg to me,” says Jane. Two centuries of marrying only their close relations had made the features of Spanish royalty rather distinctive.

“A minor branch of the family, I concede,” Dr. Wilmot continues, impervious to Jane’s scepticism. “It was on a return voyage from the Canary Islands that the convoy carrying her entourage was attacked. When the brigands found they had stolen a most precious jewel, and could likely demand a great deal of gold for her return, they were persuaded to spare her life with the intention of claiming the bounty.”

“There’s a reward on offer?” Jane wonders if the lure of an imaginary prize is part of Eleanor’s scheme to extort money. Is she promising to reimburse her benefactors for their generosity?

“I’m certain there will be, yes. But when her kidnappers’ vessel encountered difficulties while passing through the Swale, the princess seized her chance of liberty and risked death by swimming ashore to escape their clutches.”

Jane frowns. She is quite sure one would have to be conversant in a variety of European languages to interpret for Eleanor. And, even then, she’s not convinced it would be possible to determine any sense from her strange babble. “A Spanish sailor told you all this?”

“The man was a lascar.”

This news does not inspire any more faith in the tale. When Aunt Phila and Eliza returned from India, their ayah, Clarinda, came too. Clarinda constantly switched between English and Bengali but, to Jane’s knowledge, she never uttered a word of Spanish. “But lascars are from the Indian subcontinent. Are they not?”

Only Mrs. Wilmot colours at this observation. Her husband merely smiles in a most irritating manner. “My dear Miss Austen, I did not realise you are a scholar. As you must be, for you certainly profess to owning an exceptional knowledge of geography for one of your sex.”

More than you, Jane resists replying. Perhaps this sailor was an accomplice of Eleanor’s, and the pair conspired together to deceive the Wilmots. “So it was the lascar’s testimony, more than anything else, that persuaded you to offer Eleanor your hospitality. And you’re certain neither he nor any of the other sailors or townspeople recognised her?”

“How could they when she had so recently arrived on our shores?” The doctor ignores the implication he may have been duped—but Jane knows that Eleanor must have arrived in England prior to the morning when she was discovered by the Wilmots as Spooner, Neddy and Captain Fairbairn had already had the opportunity to know her. “As the young lady was quite bereft, I thought it incumbent upon myself to take her under my protection.”

“How generous of you.” Jane is certain Dr. Wilmot’s benevolence towards Eleanor was motivated foremost by the promise of pecuniary emolument. “But you did not accommodate her for long because she soon came to reside with my kinswoman, Mrs. Knight.”

“Indeed, I was making preparations to exhibit her at court—”

“Exhibit?”

“To present her at court,” he corrects himself, but Jane has already grasped the doctor’s designs. Eleanor is a curiosity and, even without a reward, such a spectacle could be made profitable. “Foreign dignitaries are sure to receive a warm welcome at the Court of St. James, and through the good offices of the courtiers there I hoped to inform King Charles of Spain of her deliverance. I had gone so far as to write to His Royal Highness and the Spanish ambassador and am certain both were in fond anticipation of her arrival, when the princess revealed herself to be somewhat unpredictable. And while I would have preferred to maintain her myself, I do not have the resources necessary to restrain her as your cousin does.”

Jane presses a hand to her throat. If Eleanor represents a risk to those around her, she must be expelled immediately. “Are you saying she’s a danger?”

“Not if handled appropriately. It’s simply a case of the vapours.” Dr. Storer steps forward to dash Jane’s hopes of finding any semblance of rationality in her prospective dancing partner. “It is a common complaint. I’ve observed it among several of my female patients. You must not alarm yourself.”

“I assure you, I’m not in the least alarmed.”

“It can be treated but it requires the delicate art of rebalancing the body’s optimum state. Unfortunately, the princess …” Dr. Storer continues but Jane’s attention is diverted elsewhere. Tom Lefroy, in his distinctive ivory swallowtail coat, has swaggered into the ballroom. With his back to Jane, he bows to greet Sir William. Her mouth dries, as she searches for the words to say to him after all this time. Does he know she is here? Has he come to find her? He turns, brushing his straw-coloured hair out of his eyes to reveal his irresistibly handsome features. Except, somehow, in only eighteen months, his nose has grown beak-like and his chin has receded beyond all recognition.

It is not Tom.

It is never Tom.

It is just some young fop who wears an outmoded coat and, from a certain angle, bears a fleeting resemblance to him. Good God, will Cassandra’s mind play this cruel trick on her in constantly seeking Mr. Fowle? At least Jane’s pathetic hope that Tom will resurface is plausible if not rational. He could very well reappear one day. Their circles cross all the time. He may make a fortune of his own and seek her out. If he’s as brilliant as he promised to be, he may even have been called to the bar by now. He may win a case that could see him established for life. Or he may inherit a fortune he never expected from a long-lost cousin. Someone too distant to grieve and rich enough to rejoice.

Jane forces her attention back to Dr. Storer’s incessant droning: “It is the inherent weakness of the female sex, you see. It makes women so susceptible to these fits of hysteria …”

Mrs. Wilmot sags against her husband. He catches her by the elbow, just as she is about to fall. “Are you well, wife?”

This time, the lady is allowed to answer through short, puffy breaths. “Merely a trifle light-headed. It must be all the excitement. I don’t socialize much, I’m afraid, Miss Austen.”

“I said it would be too much but you would insist on accompanying us,” Dr. Wilmot says tersely. “Allow me to send for our carriage.”

“Oh, no, I cannot permit you to retire so early …” If Jane can get Mrs. Wilmot alone, she might be able to retrieve more sense from her. It was clearly her kindness that had led to the couple’s initial interaction with Eleanor. Dr. Wilmot became interested in her case only after he suspected it might prove a return for himself. “Sir William is most eager to consult you on his constitution.”

Dr. Wilmot stands taller. “He is?”

A tiny flicker of guilt pulses through Jane’s veins, but it may be no bad thing to act in her own and Sir William’s best interests. “He was adamant he was going to seek out your opinion. He’s at the far end of the ballroom, laid up with another attack of the dreaded gout. Poor fellow, he’s in agony. I believe he’d especially like to hear more about how restricting his intake of certain foodstuffs may help. Why don’t you go and talk to him? Both of you, at once. I’ll take care of your good lady.”

Mrs. Wilmot releases her husband to lean on Jane’s arm. “Do go on, dear. Don’t worry about me. This may be your opportunity to make an impression, at last.”

“If you’re certain?” asks Dr. Wilmot. But his younger colleague’s heels are already clacking across the parquet towards his target. Not one to be defeated, Dr. Wilmot speeds after him without waiting for his wife’s reply.