Mr. Young would commit
himself to. From his bag, he pulled out a long wooden
tube with a kind of cup on the end.
“What’s that?” Constance asked, alarmed.
“A new invention by a colleague of mine in France,
Mr. Rene Laennec.” Mr. Young handed the device to
her for inspection, with a reverence that far exceeded
the value of its materials. “He calls it a stethoscope. It’s
for listening to the patient’s chest. Mr. Leannec has
been besieged by doctors wanting the device—I’m
honored he chose to send me one.”
“Indeed,” Constance said doubtfully. “Will it hurt?”
“Not in the least,” Young said.
She moved to the window while he conducted his
examination. She didn’t hear any murmur of pain from
Helen, so had to assume the stethoscope was causing no
harm.
“The heartbeat is irregular, and much too fast,” Mr.
Young announced.
Constance turned from the window, where she was
watching the street for any untimely return by Marcus.
“Can you help us?”
“My examination isn’t yet concluded.” The doctor
smiled briefly before turning back to his patient.
Constance liked him. Unlike Mr. Bird, he did not
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address his patient as if she had no understanding. He
didn’t issue expressionless orders, as if he didn’t care
about their outcome. And now, when the dowager
spoke, her sentences broken by her need to catch her
breath, Mr. Young listened patiently. He seemed to
absorb what he was told into his assessment, rather than
assuming he knew everything already.
Please, Lord, let him help.
INFORMED BY A footman that his wife was with the
dowager, Marcus headed upstairs. Typical of Constance
to be attending his mother, he thought. She was
kindness itself.
Was it pure kindness that would guarantee her
attention to him if he were ill? She’d suggested not. The
thought of excessive tenderness being aimed in his
direction should repel him. And yet…he’d found
himself drawn back to his home. To his wife. He’d left
his club early, much to Severn’s disappointment—
normally they would play snooker until it was time to
go home to change for the evening’s entertainments.
Marcus knocked once on his mother’s door, then
pushed it open.
Constance stood by the window, fingers pressed to
the pane—she spun around, and when she saw him gave
a gasp of shock.
“Is something wrong?” Marcus walked swiftly
toward her. From the corner of his eye, he registered
another presence. A man, looming over his mother. He
changed course.
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THE EARL’S MISTAKEN BRIDE
His mother smiled weakly at him; she didn’t appear
to be in any danger. Marcus offered her a perfunctory
greeting.
“Who are you?” he demanded of the stranger. “And
what is that? ”
That was a bizarre wooden tube, with a kind of bowl
on one end.
The stranger bowed. “Mr. Young, my lord, at your
service. This is a stethoscope, a new invention for
listening to a patient’s heart and lungs.”
Marcus whipped around to face Constance. “Mr.
Young? ”
She had the grace to blush. “This is the physician
Lady Annabelle White recommended.”
He realized he was about to argue in front of a
stranger, and instead strode to the window.
“After I expressly told you not to?” he demanded, in
a low voice.
“You didn’t actually say not to. Besides, I—I called
him in to attend Harper.” But she looked as guilty as a
poacher caught with a skinned rabbit.
Marcus was turned to the doctor. “You may leave,”
he said coldly. The sooner he got Constance alone and
gave her the scolding she deserved, the better. To think,
he’d hurried home to her. Wanted to see her.
“Mr. Young.” She had the nerve to address the
physician. “Can you help her ladyship?”
About to order her to keep quiet, Marcus took stock
of Young’s grave expression. A chill struck his heart.
He glanced at his mother, really looked at her this time.
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She lay still, her eyes closed.
Marcus found himself unable to shove the interloper
from the room.
Young joined them over by the window. “Lady
Spenford’s condition is severe,” he confided. “The
rapidity of her pulse, its irregular nature…those things
are taking more of a toll on her energies than I would
expect. Which suggests they’re a symptom of an
underlying deterioration of the heart.”
“What are the implications?” Constance asked.
“Her weakness is so severe, my own estimate is that
without intervention, she has only days left to live.”
Blood rushed in Marcus’s ears, drowning the doctor’s
next words. His vision swam—to clear it would require
a handkerchief, he realized, appalled. He clenched his
eyes shut.
And felt a hand—Constance’s—steal into his.
Wanting to thrust it aside, he found himself clutching
it. He gave up the attempt to let go of her, and ducked
his head, as if to glare at the inferior polish of his boots.
“I believe Mr. Bird’s opinion as to her ladyship’s
fluctuating condition is overly optimistic,” Young said.
Marcus wanted to punch him. “What makes you more
qualified than an esteemed physician like Mr. Bird?” he
demanded.
“Is there nothing to be done?” Constance