Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Dorian left Sir Francis at his home and had his driver take him to the hospital. It was nearly a repeat of his previous search for Jonathan, except that a constable was working at the locked door with a crowbar.

As Dorian started up the hall, a student caught him by the sleeve and drew him into one of the offices.

“You don’t want to go up there, m’lord,” he said. “Those constables want everyone who had anything to do with running the hospital. You’d best slip out the side door while you can.”

“Mr Holt? Have you seen him?” Dorian asked.

The student shook his head. “Not a whisker of him.” The student threw a look over his shoulder. “You’d best go. We know you didn’t have anything to do with this, but those constables are hot. They’re inclined to bop you with their billy clubs first and ask questions later.”

Dorian nodded and slipped out the side door, rejoining his driver where the man was walking the team up and down just outside the unfinished formal garden. “Let’s go home,” he told the man. “We can’t do any good here.”

As his carriage approached Clare Court, he saw Reuben’s fancy carriage pulling out. That gave him the hope that he would find Jonathan at the Clare house, even though he had not found him at the hospital.

As Dorian entered the manor, he could hear a great deal of banging and shuffling about from the Holt family wing. He hurried through the corridors, following the sounds.

He found the door to Jonathan’s bedroom open. The gentleman himself was slinging things into an open portmanteau. It looked as if he was packing to leave.

Jonathan turned, giving Dorian a hard look. “This is all your fault for hanging about with writers,” he snarled. “I’m leaving. I expect you to take care of Emma, just as you promised.”

“I’ll see after her,” Dorian said. “But I’d like to ask you a few questions. Were you colluding with Lord Whitchurch to bring opium into this country, as Mr Hooper implied in his play?”

“So what if I was?” Jonathan growled. “The official stuff simply does not have the same kick. I need the purest and the best to distill down to make Reuben’s medicine. He is a challenging case, chronic pain that cannot be relieved with willow bark or fever. Laudanum gave him cessation for a time, but in the end, it was simply not strong enough to stem the pain he felt. Eventually, nothing I could buy ready-made was strong enough. The side effects of the dosages he was taking were murderous, but I knew if I could just calibrate it properly, he could function normally — at least for a time. What better way to get the medicines he needed than to use the East India Company in which he already owned shares?”

“And the wounded soldiers? The street children?” Dorian asked. “Did you intend them to die?”

Jonathan sighed. “I had hoped to help them. But Reuben is too long inured to the effects of pure opium. The doses I use for him were too strong. I had hoped to bring relief and healing. The results were … unfortunate.”

Jonathan turned back to his haphazard packing.

“Unfortunate?” Dorian scoffed. “Is that all you can say? I don’t believe, knowledgeable as you are, that you didn’t know the risks. You wanted the glory of developing a miracle cure. When it didn’t work, you used the patients in my father’s hospital as experimental test subjects. More than that, you used me to lure patrons to make donations to support your nefarious practices.”

Jonathan shrugged. “Opium doesn’t grow in fields in England. I needed money. Then I needed test subjects. After all, what are a few street brats and worn-out soldiers? Neither were going to make any useful contribution to society.”

“You don’t know that,” Dorian said angrily. “Those soldiers had already served our country. Those children could have been the next generation of learned scientists or any number of useful things. More than that, they were all living human beings before you dosed them with your ‘miracle cure’.”

Jonathan shrugged. “I needed test subjects,” he said again as if that excused every death.

Dorian said, “The constables were going through your things at the hospital. It is only a matter of time before they come here. I don’t intend to let you get away with this. I’ll hold you here until they arrive.”

Light footsteps ran down the hall. Almost as if conjured by magic, Emma appeared at Dorian’s elbow. “I know he has done horrible things, but please, Dorian, let him go. He’s my father. They will hang him as a murderer.”

Dorian’s expression softened as he looked at Emma. “Very well,” he said. “Although it is against my better judgement, I won’t keep him here.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Jonathan snarled at them. He hastened out the door, nearly bowling them both over in his haste.

“He won’t get away,” Emma said. “I had come to tell you that the constables are right outside. But at least this way, you won’t be part of his capture. I don’t think I could have ever forgiven that.”

The pair hurried after Jonathan and were at the door just as the constables surrounded him. Emma collapsed on the step, and Dorian crouched beside her, letting her sob into his shoulder.

“What an utterly horrid, tangled mess,” he said.

Emma sobbed even harder. She scarcely made a sound, but her whole body shook with great, hiccoughing sobs. Finally, she said, “I release you from your vows, Dorian. I would only drag you down in the eyes of society. Besides, I know that you are more than a little in love with Miss Temple.”

Dorian felt as if someone had struck him with a blow on his forehead, much as the Far East mystics were said to do to their students. “I guess I am, at that,” he replied, wonder filling his tones. “She’s always been a part of my landscape. I just never took the time to notice.”

Emma raised her tear-streaked face to look up at him. “Take the time,” she directed. “Love is too precious to be wasted.”

“I won’t abandon you,” Dorian said. “I’ll support you in whatever you wish to do, including finding a suitable husband if that is your desire.”

“Thank you,” Emma returned. “That means a great deal to me since I find myself very much alone in the world. But I cannot marry you while you love another.”

“I am sorry,” Dorian said. “I am . . . I was prepared to fulfill my promise.”

“I know you were.” Emma gazed up at him. “And I admire you for it. Even though the world is crumbling around you, you still hold fast to your principles. Thank you for not cutting me adrift in this time of crisis.”

“I could not even think of doing so,” Dorian assured her as they watched the constables drive away. “Come, let us get you inside where your maid can attend you.”

Emma gave a bitter little laugh. “Maid? She fled days ago when Father failed to pay her wages.”

Dorian helped her into a standing position. “Then I’ll get someone from the household staff to attend you. I promise you are not abandoned.”

Emma leaned heavily on his arm as they went back inside. The butler and housekeeper met them, and the housekeeper whisked Emma away to her room. The butler then did something unexpected.

“I would be pleased to shake your hand, Lord de Clare,” he said. “Your father would be proud, and I am pleased to be in your employ.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said, shaking the man’s hand. “That means a great deal to me. Is there any way I can help the household get through this?”

“Just keep paying our wages. Oh, and if you could, play some soothing music. I think we are all in need of it.”

Despite the use to which his music had been put, Dorian found that a retreat to his music room was exactly what he needed.

However, instead of playing the music he had composed for Lenora, he found his fingers wandering into a soft, sweet melody. It was not a tune that would capture his heart as Lenora had done. But he knew that somewhere, somehow, there was a gentleman who would treasure and nurture the shy little sparrow that was Emma.

Dorian only knew that the soft notes were part of his letting go of an impossible task. He was glad of the release Emma had granted him, even though he would not leave her stranded without support.

Little graceful notes of happiness stole into the sorrowful tune like raindrops in a muddied puddle. Or like sparrows feeding on a city window ledge. Beneath it all, the bass line wept a soft lament for a way of life lost forever. Yet those tiny notes kept sneaking in, precursors of happiness to come despite the current tragedy.