Chapter 20

"Far be it from me to criticize your plan so early," Marianne said from beside Anthony, waiting for the carriage to circle around, "but won't Her Grace be suspicious when I return from our trip to town without knowing anything about the churches you've promised us to visit?"

Anthony smiled down at her. Their cover story had been believable enough. The rain had cleared four days after their return to Moorhaven Manor, and everyone was excited at the prospect of an outing. His mother had mentioned weeks ago that Marianne should familiarize herself with the history of her ancestral county. And where better to begin than the many churches in Norwich?

Naturally, Anthony had volunteered as chaperone. In the few days since their return, he and Marianne had been on their best behaviour, always maintaining a respectable distance. It had nearly killed him to feign indifference to her. His mother was still none the wiser about his transgression at Hagram Park. But she would not remain ignorant forever unless Anthony discovered something he could use against Warren quickly.

It was a shot in the dark, but he hoped the answer lay in Norwich with De Laurier. And while Anthony was terrified about what awaited them there, he and Marianne had both agreed they had no other choice.

"If you are desperate for enlightenment, we can still continue the tour on our way back from De Laurier's offices," he replied. "Or I could enlist Patrick to help me in your stead, and you and Miss Barclay can tour the city as was planned."

"Don't count me out so soon. I just need to know that you have as much faith in this plan as I do," Marianne said dubiously.

Anthony hummed in thought. The plan was simple enough: send Marianne into De Laurier's office pretending to be the wife of a minor gentleman. From there, she could search for something that would explain the secrecy surrounding Edward's illness.

Anthony had sent a message to De Laurier, posing as her husband. And when a reply came back, the doctor had invited Marianne to his offices in Norwich rather than the vacant Westden cottage Anthony would use as their pretend address.

He hated the thought of using Marianne as bait. But he had his own part to play, too. If everything went to plan, she would never be put in harm's way again.

"It is not the plan that concerns me so much as your involvement," Anthony said, examining her. The collar of one of her old seamstress gowns—her disguise—peeked out from the neckline of her pelisse. "If there was another way ..."

"But there isn't. Only you and I understand what is at stake." She smiled reassuringly. "I'll be fine, I promise. I learned to handle myself in Lambeth. It's only a pity I don't get to see those churches ..." Marianne pretended to think, but Anthony saw right through her.

"I suppose an afternoon duping a doctor sounds a modicum more entertaining. Although I don't relish the idea of Miss Barclay panicking when she realizes we have slipped the net. She takes her chaperoning very seriously, you know. Even though I'm sure Patrick will find ways to distract her."

"You say that as if you know something that I do not about them," Anthony replied.

"I assure you that I am as ignorant to whatever passes through Patrick's head as you are, salacious thoughts and all." She dropped her voice to a whisper as footsteps sounded from the steps behind them. Their proximity set Anthony's skin alight, and he held his breath.

"But if you look closely, you will see that Patrick has spent a great deal of time since our return watching Miss Barclay. I think Mr Bowers has developed a little tendresse for the maid, though whether Miss Barclay realizes it, I am yet unsure."

"And I think you have been reading too much Shakespeare, filling your head with nonsense," he quipped. Anthony laughed when Marianne did, delighted that she could still gossip and amuse herself despite the gravity of their circumstances.

"Well, of course, I have been reading." Marianne snickered, gesturing at her clothes. "I had to study for my performance this afternoon. Just call me Rosalind."

Anthony tutted, grateful to see the carriage approaching. "Thankfully, you needn't make the doctor fall in love with you."

"As you like it, Your Grace," she joked, stepping towards the carriage with a playful walk. "But it will not be my fault if he does."

No, Anthony thought. For unfortunately, you have that way about you.

A few minutes later, Patrick exited the house behind Miss Barclay. Anthony watched them pile into the carriage, searching for evidence of his ‘tendresse'. Like Anthony, Patrick was far from a rake but had enjoyed a few innocent flirtations on the Continent. Anthony didn't know what his friend looked like in love and was unequipped to tell whether Patrick's teasing of Miss Barclay was just that, teasing or something more.

Anthony looked back up at the manor, second-guessing his plan before it was even underway. His mother would rightfully have him hung, drawn, and quartered if she discovered that he was putting Marianne in danger. But Marianne had proven time and time again that she was more resilient than she appeared—and seemed almost excited by her role in his scheme.

Anthony needed to harness his own resilience too if he was going to survive an afternoon in her company while all manner of improper thoughts about her still ravaged him. Their discovery by Eliana, returning to Moorhaven, his promise to make amends ... Nothing that had happened in the last week had discouraged his feelings for her.

Which is precisely why this plan must succeed, he thought, turning towards the carriage. Once Warren is exposed as the fraud I know him to be, Marianne can start living the life she deserves—far from me or close to me, whatever she chooses.

The thought filled him with anxiety as he ducked into the carriage and took his place beside Patrick, fixing his eyes anywhere but on Marianne's excited face.

"What were you reading this morning?" Marianne asked Patrick as the carriage set off, jostling down the pebbled drive. "Over breakfast ... The letter you received made you look miserable. Was it bad news?"

"It was a letter from my mother, and that in itself is always bad news," Patrick said, sighing. He straightened the lapels of his grey travelling jacket. "She wrote enquiring whether I had any intention of coming down to London in the autumn."

"And do you?" Miss Barclay said, surprising Anthony.

"That depends on His Grace," Patrick replied. "Is the plan still to go to London soon?"

"I admit I have not given the matter much thought since Hagram." Anthony found himself sighing, too, crossing his arms over his chest. "We should go, and perhaps soon. We will discuss travel arrangements once we are done with the tour today."

He glanced at Marianne, who understood his meaning. The sooner she was legitimized in the eyes of the court, the better her chances of surviving Eliana's potential rebuttal.

Relieving him from the duty of conversation, Marianne turned eagerly to Patrick and Miss Barclay, asking Patrick about his home in London and the possibility of visiting his family once they all went down for their individual duties—her meeting with the courts, Anthony's petition for the Westden title.

Anthony half-listened to the conversation, staring out the window as they drove through the gates of Moorhaven, then along the thoroughfare, until the ecclesiastical spires over Norwich town came into view.

He ordered Plym to park along Little London Street, providing a ten-minute walk to their first destination, St Andrew's Church. Which just happened to be a five-minute walk in the opposite direction to Doctor De Laurier's private office.

"You will have to forgive me if I show little enthusiasm for the day's events," Patrick muttered, exiting the carriage and stretching out his back. "Playing tourist in one's own country feels somewhat redundant."

"Not all of us have the pleasure of exploring the Continent, Mr Bowers," Miss Barclay said as she followed Marianne onto the street. She smoothed the skirts of her sage green coat. "We ignoble must content ourselves with the artifacts within our reach."

"You are far from an ignoble," Patrick shot back, dashing to her side enthusiastically. "I wager you know far more about the world than I do. Your insight today, for instance, will make this chore worth its while, I'm sure."

"There are guidebooks for that sort of thing," Miss Barclay replied, seeming more carefree and defiant than Anthony had ever seen her. She turned from Patrick to fix Marianne's bonnet, likely looking to distract herself from Patrick's attention.

. "I might show you where to purchase one."

"And deny me the pleasure of experiencing the churches of Norwich through the lens of your incomparable wisdom?" He laughed, wagging his finger. "Now, that really is too cruel. Shall we be about it, then?"

With a forced sigh, Miss Barclay allowed Patrick to accompany her down the road, headed towards the church in the near distance. Anthony glanced sideways at Marianne, who looked at him victoriously.

"I told you, didn't I?" she quipped, taking Anthony into a walk of her own. "It will be no trouble to lose those two today. I doubt they will even notice we are gone."

"I am still unconvinced," Anthony replied. "Patrick knows better than to lead along a woman he can never have."

He cringed at the hypocrisy of his statement. Marianne merely smiled.

They joined Patrick and Miss Barclay at the church entrance. He feigned interest as they were personally greeted by the vicar, treated to a private tour of St Andrews' and a lecture on its history. Anthony couldn't keep his focus on the stained-glass windows for more than a second, finding his thoughts and gaze wandering to the would-be debutante at his side.

Marianne's face was basked in purple light as she listened to the vicar explain their plans for renovation in the coming decades—so long as their finances allowed. Anthony knew that to be a solicitation for donations, and he made a mental note to tell his mother later.

They weaved through the pews behind the vicar, where Anthony graciously denied an invitation to tea. Their itinerary, he said, did not allow time for a break so early.

Heading west towards St Laurence's Church, the four took their time exploring St Andrews' Street. It hosted a colourful market every morning, exactly like Anthony remembered. The street bustled with activity, vendors fighting tooth and nail for the attention of the early morning shoppers.

Anthony kept his head down, wanting to avoid being spotted. A duke in town was no small matter. The crowd surged at the crossroads, where the most impressive stalls had been set up. No one would notice him passing by there—just like no one would notice him leaving with Marianne either.

His heart lodged in his throat as he nodded at Marianne beside him. She nodded back, slowing her walk, before launching herself into a performance that would have put even Edmund Kean to shame.

"May we wait one moment?" Marianne asked, taking hold of Miss Barclay's hand. She waved vaguely behind her. "I've just spotted the most impressive fabric stall, and I would so love to take a look at their wares."

Miss Barclay and Patrick turned around begrudgingly, visibly none too pleased at having been interrupted in the middle of a story.

"I've read that Norwich produces excellent mourning fabrics. The Crape Manufactory is supposed to be just nearby." Marianne gave a little pout. "There might be something for Her Grace there. Oh, please, might I have a look?"

"You would have to ask His Grace, My Lady," Miss Barclay said, though her response was clear in her face: no.

Marianne looked up at him with rounded eyes. And even though Anthony knew she was only acting, he felt his ears grow hot as she pleaded with him. "I suppose we have some time to spare. St Laurence's is hardly going to grow legs and walk away in the next ten minutes."

He turned to Patrick. "Why don't you take Miss Barclay ahead to the church, and Lady Marianne and I will visit the stall? It should only take a moment for us to catch up with you. And if there is something for Mother, I should like to purchase it."

Miss Barclay looked horrified at the suggestion, but between Anthony pulling rank and Patrick pulling her arm, she was quickly convinced to allow Marianne to explore the market alone with him.

They stood side by side as the maid and Patrick disappeared into the crowd. Anthony shivered in anticipation, both at the prospect of reuniting with Doctor de Laurier and getting answers and committing to the heist with Marianne.

"It is not too late to change your mind," he murmured, leading her onto the side of the road. "If you want to go ahead to the church with them, I will understand."

She shook her head. "I meant what I said. This is my problem to solve as much as it is yours. If there is even a chance we could glean something from the doctor that will help us, then that is where we must go." Marianne beamed up at him, marching in the direction of the office. "Besides, I have been practicing my best East Anglian accent for days. We can't let all that work go to waste now, can we?"

Not for the first time Anthony thought how brave she was. He pursed his lips, looking eastward. "Then I suppose there is only one thing left to do."

*

As Marianne sat in the physician's office, her unconvincing accent became the least of her concerns. Twisting in her seat, she turned towards the door as it creaked open behind her. The thin, grey-haired man who she had previously seen storming out of Anthony's study appeared in the doorway. He closed the door, and Marianne's heartbeat quickened.

Not five minutes ago she had been handing Anthony her fine pelisse in a side alley, going over their plan as she mussed her ringlets and pinched her cheeks to look at least somewhat under the weather. Now she sat face-to-face with the man who could give Anthony all the answers he needed—and who didn't seem the least bit interested in his new patient.

The air in the office was stagnant, smelling like dust and medicine. De Laurier's apartment was located on the first floor of an attached house, rented out to similar businessmen in the area.

A sign denoted the apartment opposite De Laurier's as belonging to another doctor. Marianne had had little experience with physicians, especially before her mother's illness. Yet Anthony had stressed how strange it was that De Laurier, a respected doctor, chose to take so many of his appointments in an office instead of as house calls.

When Anthony had written ahead to schedule the visit, having pretended to be Marianne's husband—one Mr Battersby—he had anticipated a reply asking them to meet at the provided address, an empty cottage on the Westden estate.

"But this is much safer for you in the long run," Anthony had said in the alley, brow furrowed in fear. "I will be right outside. You need only scream, and I will barge in through the front. Do you understand?"

Marianne had nodded, suddenly regretting her leading role in their plan.

She glanced around the room as De Laurier flicked through the journal he had brought in with him, holding a finger up to communicate that he would be done shortly. The walls were a dull stucco grey, sparsely decorated with paintings. Shelves of books lined the space behind his desk.

On the right side of the room, opposite the window, was a glass cabinet and wooden worktable, hosting a treasure trove of medical paraphernalia that Marianne didn't recognize: strangely shaped glass containers, tubes that were perhaps for distilling liquids, with long metal pincers attached to the ends.

The office looked less like a haven for healing and more like the dungeons she had read about in crime broadsides. She tried not to let her imagination get the better of her ...

But if I meet my end here because of our two-second lapse of judgement, I will be sure to choose Moorhaven Manor as my haunting grounds, she thought bitterly.

Her attempt at humour did little to distract her. She continued her observation, waiting for De Laurier to finish his task. It was difficult to make out much more from her seat. Drapes hung heavily over the windows, admitting only a sliver of light inside.

The sun cast onto a wooden examination table. Suddenly, Marianne's mind flashed with the image of a man who looked like Anthony—the late duke—lying helplessly on the table as De Laurier used his tools on him.

She gulped as a drawer groaned open, and De Laurier slipped the journal inside. Finally, he placed his elbows on the desk and looked at Marianne with steely grey eyes.

"Mrs Battersby," he began. "Your husband wrote concerning a recent onset of migraines and swelling around the skull and ears. He suspected the King's Evil." At this, De Laurier grinned. "I fail to see why you have come to me and not to London if your husband writes true."

Marianne assumed that was a joke and attempted to laugh. The sound came out strangled, and she promptly cleared her throat.

"Yes, precisely that." She could not bring herself to look at the doctor, worried he would see the deception in her eyes. "It started a few weeks ago, and the symptoms have come on rapidly. My husband heard through word of mouth that you were one of the most talented healers in all of Norfolk—perhaps all of England."

"I have known my share of successes, certainly." He looked down his nose at her. "Though I would not call myself a healer, so much as a disciple of science. And you are not my usual clientele, I will admit. Alas, your husband promised to meet my fare."

At this, he held out his hand. Marianne nodded and retrieved the five pounds Anthony had given her to cover the cost of the consultation.

She placed them in his palm, slipping her fingers out before he could close his hand around hers. He counted the coins, filling the air with a soft chink, chink, chink. Marianne's eyes flicked to the clock behind De Laurier. She needed to keep the charade going long enough to convince him she genuinely needed his help.

"All seems to be in order," he announced, placing the coins into a small bowl beside him. He took out a different journal, flicking to a new page as he scribbled down Marianne's symptoms.

"That's an impressive collection of tools," Marianne noted, nodding towards the cabinet. "Do all disciples of science use similar instruments?"

"Only those who are interested in progress, Mrs Battersby." He paused his writing, turning to admire his cabinet. "You need not worry. Those are not for you."

"No?" She tried to sound nonchalant, unsure whether she had succeeded. "Do you only use those on your most special customers?"

"On men who hold science in as high esteem as I do," he corrected, setting the quill back in its stand. "Now, Mrs. Battersby, I can understand why you might be alarmed by your symptoms, but there could be numerous explanations for what ails you."

De Laurier narrowed his eyes, leaning forward to inspect her. Marianne recoiled on instinct, relieved when he pulled back. "We will need to examine the neck. First, have you experienced any fever or malaise in the last few weeks?"

"I don't think so ... Frankly, I'm not sure," she replied, looking at the instruments on his worktable. The sight of bottled tinctures with worn labels brought back memories of her mother's illness. She took in a fortifying breath. "It really is just the swelling that concerns us. Perhaps there is something you can give me to reduce it without the need for an examination?"

The physician's lips formed a hard line. This man was not used to being defied, and Marianne being a woman likely didn't help matters. In the end, De Laurier didn't dignify her question with a response. He rose from his desk and flexed his bony fingers, signalling for Marianne to tilt her head back.

The floorboard creaked beneath him as he approached with his fingers outstretched. Marianne shivered at the thought of De Laurier's hands on her—still not knowing what he had done, if anything, to the Duke of Westden. She scooted the chair back, prepared to make an excuse and leave or shout for help when the sound of a door slamming open in the adjoining room made her launch into a stand.

De Laurier blinked. "What the devil was that?" he murmured to himself. "A moment, Mrs Battersby."

As if I'm going anywhere.

The physician stormed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Raised voices filtered through the wall—where Anthony was exacting his own portion of the plan, keeping De Laurier busy long enough for Marianne to search his office thoroughly.

"It might help if I knew what I was looking for," she said through gritted teeth, shivering as she processed her near escape from De Laurier's clutches.

Anthony had told her to look through De Laurier's journals, hoping he would find notes on his father. That seemed a decent place to start. Marianne tore through the drawers of the physician's desk, her heart hammering in her ears.

There was nothing to be discovered in the first drawer: empty journals, a book on something called Galvanism, and letters that would have taken hours to sort through. The second yielded just as little evidence, and Marianne begged silently for divine assistance as she yanked free the bottom drawer.

"Just my luck ... it's empty," she hissed, pressing it shut.

The argument raged on outside the office. Whatever Anthony was saying to De Laurier kept him irate and distracted. Marianne hummed in frustration, turning in a circle as she looked around the room ...

The tinctures in their little bottles. She hurried over to the doctor's worktable, shifting through the flasks on display. Worn paper labels hung from strings, reading crude ingredients in some instances and the names of medicines in others. She found familiar-sounding names: laudanum, a carminative, cordials ... and others she knew nothing about, like blue mass.

Nothing led back to the late duke. She opened the glass cabinet, scanning the shelves for something of interest.

Many of the bottles on the second shelf had the same label, numbered and sporting different initials, and were organised by date. Marianne turned one of the flasks towards her, scrutinizing the chicken scrawl writing.

"Ambrosia ...?" she read, squinting at the dates. "M.B., August 22nd; F.C., August 30th..."

Whatever the serum held, it was of no use to Marianne. She closed the glass cabinet and turned her attention to the bookshelves. Most were books on medicine and alchemy. Marianne chewed her lower lip, fingers running along the spines in search of anything to explain the doctor's secrecy.

On the bottom shelf, mostly hidden from view, was a collection of journals. Like the one De Laurier had been writing his notes in earlier, they were leatherbound and saturated with notes. Some were tattered, obviously decades old. Just like the bottles of ambrosia, the doctor had organised them by date. Marianne thought back to the date of the last duke's death, accurately locating the journal dated to earlier that year.

In a crouch, she flicked through the pages, unable to understand the doctor's handwriting in her haste. Some pages were full of diagrams, and others contained body sketches. Some bodies were whole but nude, whereas the rest were dissected and desecrated. Illustrations of limbs, bones, and organs filled the book's pages—drawn methodically, as though for study. Marianne felt sick to her stomach, turning to something else immediately.

The journal provided a log of visits to the doctor from his wealthiest clientele. The names of lords appeared, and Marianne recognized several titles from the Debrett's Miss Barclay had provided her with.

What sickness did all the lords of Norfolk have that required them to consult with the same physician? A growing sense of unease swelled in Marianne's chest as she scanned the journal, skimming past the anatomical drawing. She paused when she deciphered a name she recognized all too well.

Hindborough.

Her blood chilled. She dropped the journal like it had burned her. Unable to think clearly, she grabbed the book and thrust it into the pocket beneath her skirts, shooting into a stand.

The arguing had stopped, and Marianne didn't know how long for. The door was still closed, but footsteps were fast approaching. She returned to her seat, remaining standing while De Laurier entered again. His face was flushed in anger, shaking his head in dismay.

"The nerve of some people," De Laurier muttered, regaining his chair. "Believing they have every right to things that ..." He paused, composing himself. "Forgive me, Mrs Battersby. The situation outside has been resolved." He gestured to her chair. "Now, if you would—"

"Actually, I've changed my mind," she interrupted, squirming beneath his stare. "This was a mistake. I feel perfectly well. I'm sorry. Thank you. But I want to leave."

She was not asking for his permission. Before the physician could say anything, Marianne nodded and rushed for the door. If De Laurier tried to follow her, she didn't hear him or see him, bursting through the front door of the office and arriving in the foyer.

Outside, a cool autumnal breeze wreathed around her as Marianne fought back tears. She squeezed the journal in her pocket, making sure it was real.

She started at the sound of someone approaching, gasping as a hand looped around her wrist and began dragging her away. She stared at Anthony as he hurried her around the corner, slipping into another alley where they wouldn't be seen.

"Marianne, what happened?" he asked breathlessly, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Are you all right? What did he do?"

"It's nothing," she sobbed. "He did nothing. But..."

Her heart panged as she met his gaze.

"I have something you will want to see."