Chapter Nine

The next morning…

"D on't spend all my money again," Father said when they'd reached the distinctive rows of white houses in Marylebone. "I don't want to overdraw my accounts this month."

"Perhaps you should ask Wife Six to wear a dress more than once?" It's my money. My birthright.

"It's her way, Pippa. Don't be too harsh on her. She's under a lot of pressure to keep up with all the ladies at tea every day."

Pippa snuffed. "Certainly. It cannot be easy following the daily gossip mill without wrinkling one's dress."

" Piiiiiippaaaaaa !"

"Yes, Father?" She put her hands in her lap and lifted her shoulder, inclining her head as if she were an adorable little girl. If he considered her so naive as to think that Wife Six was anything but a glutton and a bloodsucking leech, she wouldn't start a fight.

He frowned. "I have to pay Sir Matthews today, so please, Pippa."

"What are you paying him for?" She wished there was a way to deter him from relying on the charlatan with the crystals and "ancient magical medicine." In her estimation, the only magic at which "Sir" Matthews was adept was parting a foolish man from his money.

"Och," her father blew the air from his lips and looked like a fat and old neighing horse. Pippa didn't recognize him these days. When Mother had been alive, Father had been a gentleman, kind, slim, and well groomed. He'd taken Pippa riding on sunny days, and he jumped over the waves with her when she was a little girl when they summered in Cornwall. But when her mother had died, that part of him did, too. He'd withdrawn into his chambers and left Pippa alone. Initially, she'd come to his door and listened to him cry. He mumbled something in slurred speech.

But as the months passed, he started to have female guests. Within a year after Pippa's mother's death, he'd remarried. But Wife Two grew round with child all too quickly. When Father confronted her, she left with her physician, who was probably the child's father. Then came Wife Three, a merry widow who had little interest in her father and rather wanted to rise in station. They'd slept in separate quarters and then, she'd left. And so came Wife Four, but the marriage was annulled during the honeymoon when she introduced her eleven-year-old son to Father and wanted to declare him his heir. Wife Five was a blur because she'd shown up during the time Pippa had been sent to boarding school. And when she came home after she graduated, Wife Six—the worst one yet—had moved in.

Now, Father said, "You have enough money of your own, Pippa. I need mine."

"Well, I cannot access my money until I marry. Isn't it your responsibility to look after me until then?"

"It's my responsibility for the first eighteen or nineteen years of your life. You're twenty, and I doubt that anyone will have you."

Pippa squinted. It didn't even sting anymore—or not very much at least. Instead, she told herself, she'd grown used to being a nuisance for her father. The issue was that she worried he'd discard her completely one day before she could leave on her own accord. If there were no hope for her to marry, perhaps he'd convince a barrister to convert her inheritance into a trust that he could suck dry with Wife Six. And she couldn't leave without a husband to take her inheritance with her. Yet, she kept the country house running, in case she needed to escape Town. There was little room for her in Father's life, considering how many women had befallen him like diseases, each one bringing another slur of symptoms that made him sicker and more feeble. Nobody could bring her mother back, so all women were a necessary evil for him. He'd become a sad glob of the man she'd known. Mother would be disgusted at the sight.

The carriage stopped and her father made to leave the carriage. Even though he'd insulted Pippa for the thousandth time, she held her arm out to help him. He'd grown so large that his face turned red when he rose, and blue veins popped up on his temples.

When her father stepped on the last step and set one foot on the cobblestones, he pulled out an envelope filled with banknotes. In the process, he dropped his hat. He strained and made a rather unhealthy deflating noise like an old chair cushion when he bent down to retrieve it.

"How much does he charge?" Pippa asked as she left the cabin after him. He didn't even deem her lady enough to let her go ahead.

"No more than the physicians across the street," father said, placing his hat back upon his head. "They are expensive I've heard. Ruining his business."

"How are the physicians ruining Sir Matthews's business?"

"He's a crystal healer, Pippa. Takes years to master the craft. Lots and lots of supplies and knowledge."

"And the physicians who attended medical school earned their degrees over night?"

"How hard can it be to operate on an eye or fill teeth with gold, hm?"

"How hard is it to place some crystals along a patient's spine and chant something?"

"Have you spied on me?" Father thundered.

"No. You made me wait, and I saw you." She remembered it well. Her father had lain face down on a wooden table covered only with a thin sheet. Various wooden masks hung on the walls and there had been a desk in complete disarray with papers and old newspapers. During the entire session, Sir Matthews, the self-declared healer, had walked around Father placing colored crystals on his back. He'd also engaged Father in conversation and elicited more information about the House of Lords and the Ton than Pippa thought necessary for the treatment of Father's ailments.

Her father harumphed, took his walking stick, and turned to leave.

"Those doctors won't last as long as Sir Matthews is looking after Town."

"What do you mean ‘looking after Town'?"

"He's all knowing, Pippa. He even predicted that I'd meet Carolyn."

Pippa blinked. That was news to her. "You mean, he saw into the future?"

"Sure did! He knew exactly that the next woman to walk through his door would steal my heart."

Pippa stared. He'd lost his mind. All she'd stolen was his health and his money. Her money!

For the past three years, her father had had a standing appointment with the "healer" every morning. Nothing would be easier than to predict who'd walk through the door—and to arrange a match. But what did Sir Matthews have to gain from thrusting Wife Six onto Father?

Something was amiss. She couldn't quite pinpoint it yet, but it was worth investigating.

But first, she needed to investigate with a healer of her own.

Would he see her? Would he remember her?

She reminded herself that she had an invitation, didn't she? He'd said he'd fit her for eyeglasses… and her vision was good enough to wish to see the handsome doctor again. It wasn't often that a young man of his muscular build and with an extensive education paid attention to her, much less treated her with kindness.

Pippa stood outside the carriage and felt for the card in her pocket. 87 Harley Street was just across the street. She could make out the house numbers; it was a neat, professional-looking building, with a gold sign. She could read Nick's name there: Dr. Nicholas Folsham, D.O. Perhaps she was farsighted.

In the literal sense.

If she could muster the courage, she'd go in.

Then she heard a bark.

And a little dog—more like a fuzzy blur—came running across the street, his leather lead dragging along the ground behind him.