Page 30 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

30

We rode into Blackburn, over the river Darwen. I had thought we would see the new canal that had recently opened, part of the progressive Liverpool-Leeds canal network, but we had come into the town a good mile or so from it. Or so the new signs told me as we passed. Instead, we made our way past a solid brick house of corrections. A rather grim welcome to the town.

“What is Dr. Lawrence’s address?” I asked.

“McLeod told me it was Market Street Lane,” Evan said. “That was all the information he could obtain.”

I looked around for a likely candidate for directions and found a neatly dressed young woman, basket laden with cloth, idling outside a storefront window full of haberdashery. I suspected the attractive display of bonnets held her attention. I drew my horse up nearby.

“Good day,” I called.

The girl jumped at my greeting, then turned, her bright brown eyes wide with startled guilt. Clearly caught in the act of loitering rather than working. She managed to bob into a curtsy.

“Can you tell me the way to Market Street Lane? We are seeking Dr. Lawrence.”

She gave a nod and took a breath, clearly trying to retrieve some self-possession. “It ain’t far, milady. A bit farther along and turn left opposite the church. Ye’ll find the doctor’s cottage at the end, near the lane.”

“Thank you.” I eyed the window display. “The pink-trimmed straw would suit you very well.”

She blinked, then grinned, bobbing into another curtsy.

I turned back to Evan and pointed along the street with my crop. “This way.”

We followed the directions, passing the Church of St. Marie, then turning into Market Street Lane. The doctor’s cottage stood near the corner of the appropriately named Back Lane.

It was a reasonably sized abode—two stories—made of brown stone with well-proportioned windows, the frames painted a fresh white. A brass plaque upon the white front door proclaimed it was the residence of Dr. P. Lawrence. We had finally found our man, and he was, it seemed by the upkeep and position of his house, of good standing in the town.

Evan dismounted, tied his horse to a nearby post, then held out his hands to help me down. I levered myself from the saddle, his hands finding my waist and catching my descent. For a second, our faces were only inches from each other. Our eyes met, acknowledging the importance of what lay ahead, and then I was back upon on my feet, a decorous gap between us.

I secured my own mount to the post and spied a pale feminine face at the window watching our arrival. At my return scrutiny, she ducked away, leaving only the flick of a blue curtain. A maid? Or perhaps the lady of the house. It all seemed very genteel and quiet.

We were both silent as I undid the saddlebag and withdrew my silver card case. Evan stood aside for me to approach the front door, his expression somber and his finger and thumb rubbing together, the only sign of his anticipation about the interview ahead.

I grasped the brass door knocker—in the shape of a garland—and rapped it twice upon its plate.

Only a few seconds passed and then the door opened and the face I had seen fleetingly in the window peered out. The girl curtsied. A maid, then. And one kindly kept, for she was neat and smiling and had been allowed a blue-ribbon bow upon her linen cap.

“Good day,” I said. “I am Lady Augusta Colebrook and this is Mr. Talbot. We wish to see Dr. Lawrence.”

She took my offered calling card but did not read it—she likely did not have her letters—her smile shifting into consternation. “Is it an urgent medical matter, my lady?”

Although I wanted to say yes to ensure our audience, I also did not want to start the meeting upon a lie. “It is not,” I admitted. “It is a personal matter.”

“The doctor and mistress ain’t currently in, my lady.”

“I see. We will wait, then.”

She considered this development. “Doctor could be a while, my lady.”

“Even so, we will wait.”

Since I was clearly not going to go, she stepped back to allow us to enter. We followed her into a well-appointed foyer with a good rug underfoot and a narrow staircase that ascended to the next floor. I looked up to see a little boy and girl—both under ten years of age, with dark curls—watching us through the banisters. I smiled up at them, but they disappeared like startled deer. The doctor’s children? Probably, although he would most likely be in his fifties or more by now. Not that a man’s age had anything to do with his ability to procreate. Perhaps his wife was much younger than him, or she was a second spouse.

I glanced back at Evan. He had seen the children, too, his expression somewhat stricken. Odd.

“May I take your hat, sir?” the maid asked.

Evan relinquished his hat, which was placed carefully upon a sideboard.

“Is there a stable nearby for our horses?” he asked.

“We have a stable, sir,” she said with some justified pride. Not every country doctor could afford to keep a horse. “I’ll get our boy Sully to look after yer horses.”

She then opened a door and stood aside, ushering us into a good-sized drawing room. The walls were papered in fashionable eggshell, a good velvet sofa in rose pink was positioned before a brick hearth, and two silver candlesticks sat upon the mantel. The dagger up my sleeve seemed somewhat ludicrous in such surroundings.

With another curtsy, the maid withdrew, closing the door behind her.

I looked across at Evan. He was contemplating the spines of the books, or so it appeared; by the angle of his head, I knew he had, in fact, turned inward again. Not surprising, I supposed. How would it be to face the man who had stolen twenty years of your life and ruined your name? It would send even the best man into a dark place.

“A pleasant abode,” I said, hoping to draw him from his grim ruminations. “The doctor is doing well for himself.”

He did not answer, so I tried again. “It is a pleasant home.”

This time he turned to face me. “But is it the home of a murderer?”

Well, that was to the point. Since I had no answer to that question, I decided to address the next pertinent one. “Indeed. And what if he is the instigator of all you have endured? If I was face-to-face with the man who had sent me to prison unjustly, my thoughts might turn to revenge.”

He met the unsaid query with a shake of his head. “For twenty years I have thought that I killed Sanderson in that duel. My main emotion on discovering that I may not have killed a man is one of relief. Not revenge.”

“But you have lost so much. Suffered so much.”

“True.” He cocked his head, a wry smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Are you trying to talk me into wreaking vengeance, Lady Augusta?”

I smiled. Here was my Lord Evan. “Not at all. But it would be understandable if you felt violence toward the man.”

He crossed the room to me. “Do not fear, my love. I am not going to kill the man who may be the key to my exoneration.” He took my hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a firm kiss upon it. “If I am, indeed, not a murderer, I would prefer to stay that way. For many reasons.”

I closed my hand around his in a sudden sweep of emotion. Yes, so much was at stake.

Through the window, I saw a young man—Sully, the doctor’s stable hand, presumably—untie the horses and lead them in the direction of the back of the house.

Evan released my hand and took a seat before the hearth, but I could not sit still. We might soon have a way to clear his name, and the prospect buzzed through my body. I wandered the room, noting a vase of fresh roses, a collection of poetry, a needlework box. The doctor’s wife had refined taste.

The mahogany mantel clock ticked away the minutes.

Evan had withdrawn again—his head bowed, fingers steepled—but this time I left him to his thoughts. If I was feeling the strain of what was to come, then he must be feeling it ten times over.

After forty minutes, a gig finally pulled up outside the house, drawn by a glossy chestnut, its driver dressed in a black coat and a black Clericus hat, a doctor’s ensemble. Sully, the stable hand, emerged to take the horse’s head, clearly reporting our arrival to his master; the black-clad man nodded and cast a surprised look in the direction of his house. He sprang down from the gig with a great deal of vigor.

A young man’s vigor.

“Is that Dr. Lawrence?” I asked.

Surely not.

Evan came to stand beside me, but the man was already entering his front door and obscured from our view. We both turned at the sound of the front door opening and closing and the muffled sound of a male voice giving instructions.

Then footsteps, and the drawing room door opened.

The man who entered—without a hat but with a smile—was of medium height, with the same dark curls as his children, brushed back into a fashionable style. His brown eyes were kind—the sort of eyes one wanted in a physician—and, at that moment, curious about these two strangers in his house. But most pointedly, he could be no older than thirty years of age. Far too young to be the Dr. Lawrence who had attended the duel so long ago.

We had found the wrong Dr. Lawrence. I glanced at Evan, seeing my own dismay reflected in the slump of his shoulders.

“Good day,” the doctor said, his voice professionally pleasant. He bowed. “Lady Augusta Colebrook?”

I nodded my greeting. “Indeed. And allow me to introduce Mr. Talbot.”

The two men bowed to each other.

The wrong Dr. Lawrence closed the door. “My maid said you have been waiting for me? How may I be of assistance?”

There could be no assistance here, but how best to make a gracious exit? The truth was probably best.

“I am afraid we have made a mistake,” I said. “We are seeking another Dr. Lawrence. A Dr. Paul Lawrence from London. He had some information we were hoping to obtain. Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience.”

“Paul Lawrence? From London?” The doctor had stilled, his eyes wary.

“Well, I met him in London,” Evan said. “Briefly.” He glanced at me, the wry addition for my benefit.

The doctor drew a breath. “Lady Augusta, Mr. Talbot, are you, by chance, associated with Lord Evan Belford?”

We both stared at him.

“Who?” Evan asked, at his most dangerously pleasant.

The doctor licked his lips. “If you are associated with Lord Evan Belford, then you are seeking my father.”

“Your father is Paul Lawrence?” I repeated, not from any misunderstanding but from the sudden leap of hope. Had we found our man, after all? Our way to Evan’s exoneration?

“He told me that if strangers—noble strangers—came calling, then it was probably Lord Evan Belford or his friends.”

I looked at Evan, but he was motionless. Unable, I think, to acknowledge who he was to this stranger; there had been too many dangerous years of denying his true identity.

So I said, “We are, indeed, associated with Lord Evan.”

“Ah.” Dr. Lawrence drew himself up. “I am Dr. Phillip Lawrence. My father knew this day would come.”

“Where is he? May we speak with him?” I asked, unable to contain my urgency.

The young man shook his head. “I am sorry, Lady Augusta. My father died four years ago.”