The Promise Rose by Joan Vincent

Author:Joan Vincent [Vincent, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Georgian Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 2003-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Barry paced outside Patrick’s door two days later. “He cannot endure any more of these convulsions.”

“Come to the salon,” Glenna urged. “You shall fret yourself into an attack.” She took her friend’s hand and gently led her towards the stairs. “The physician will manage. You can be of no aid standing out here.”

The truth of the argument convinced Barry to accede. Arriving in the salon, she paced for a time, then sat. Picking up her knitting, she asked distractedly, “Where is Pamela?”

“I believe she went to the lending library. The new maid has gone with her.” Glenna paged through the Gazette.

“Pamela has maintained her cheerfulness well in the face of Lieutenant Horne’s abandonment,” Barry noted.

“Yes, and developed a remarkable appetite for reading of late,” Glenna noted dryly. “And Prideau seems to have lost interest in calling, but then I fear he has been offended.” Glenna said, broaching a subject that has been anathema.

A soft blush rose to Barry’s cheeks. She grimaced and plied her needles with renewed determination and she grimaced. “I explained it all to you the morning after the ball.”

“But never said what really happened,” the other pondered aloud.

“Men are not to be understood,” Barry said curtly, her brows deeply furrowed.

Pamela strode into the salon, her color heightened, her breath rushed. “Why is the physician’s carriage here?”

“Patrick has been stricken again,” Barry said worriedly. At sight of the physician, she dropped her knitting, rising.

“Miss Gromley. Mrs. McDowell,” he greeted the ladies. “I must speak with you alone, Lady Gromley.”

His somber visage contracted her heart. “There is nothing that these two may not hear,” she protested.

“Alone, my lady. It is best,” he insisted.

Glenna moved gracefully from the salon with a reassuring nod. “I shall see if I can be of assistance upstairs.”

“You mean to speak about my brother,” Pamela said adamantly, and took a seat.

Her icy tone, unheard since coming to Bath, penetrated Barry’s distress. “Speak freely, sir,” she said looking at Pamela.

The portly physician adjusted the wide cuff of his frock coat, then fidgeted with the lace on his sleeve.

A vise gripped Barry’s heart. “My stepson shall not die?”

“He is weak,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “Tell me, my lady, had he been given any food other than what your cook has prepared?”

“I believe not,” she answered.

“And all of you partake of this food?”

“Of course. What is your meaning?”

“I am certain someone is poisoning the lad.”

Gasps escaped both women. Barry blanched. Confirmation flickered across Pamela’s features.

“Can you be certain?” Barry asked fearfully.

“Not absolutely, but there is much that indicates it. I recall reading of a Shropshire man who was fed a small dose of poison each day. The physicians were mystified by his spells which were much like Lord Patrick’s. His wife was made to confess when caught in the act of putting the poison in his bread.” He motioned to Barry to retake her seat.

“Why did the man not die at once?” asked Pamela.

“Not enough was given to kill, but it remains in the body and when sufficient becomes present—the attacks.

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