he would join her for luncheon. A meal with Marguerite was the perfect place to start working the information he needed into simple everyday conversation – an art he had already perfected. His wife was young and naïve, it would not be difficult to have her moving to his choreography. He was a master of control.
Now all he need was for her to follow the cue – something she’d neatly avoided so far.
He was halfway down the stairs when the maid, rushing from above, careened into him. She ran on without pause, almost as if she hadn’t seen him. Then she stopped, and her face turned pale and she panicked. “Oh, my lord, I am sorry, but Oh . . . We must fetch the doctor. My lady, she’s bleeding.”
Bleeding? He hadn’t seen Marguerite cut herself when she fell. Then, as the maid continued to stare at him, gaping like a fish, understanding came to him.
He turned and bound down the stairs, passing the maid and calling for a footman.
“John, leave now to fetch Dr. Howe. No matter what other matters he attends he must come – now. Tell him the marchioness is in great distress – I will suffer no delay.”
Tristan turned to back to the steps and stopped. The maid was gone, returned to her mistress. Should he follow? Would he be wanted, needed? He could not remember ever feeling so helpless.
Chapter Nine
“I have done all that can be done. Your wife is resting comfortably, although she still suffers from emotional distress.”
Tristan stopped pacing as the Dr. Howe entered his study. He ground out the cheroot that he’d left burning in its tray. There was little more than ash left. A whiskey sat, untouched, on the table.
“How is she?” He held his voice steady.
“She is as well as can be expected.” The doctor looked towards the window.
“She will be fine, then?”
“Yes.”
“And the baby?” Tristan held his breath as he waited for the answer.
Dr. Howe paused. Opened his mouth. Shut it again. Finally. “There will be no baby.”
Tristan sat in the chair behind his desk and stared at the letters before him. No baby. Marguerite must be devastated. He’d seen her rest a hand on her belly when she thought nobody was looking, seen the softest of expressions cross her face.
“How did my wife take the news?”
The doctor darted a look at him, then his glance returned to the window. “She is distressed, but I think that is a matter you must discuss with her.”
“You are the doctor, surely you can tell me. She is my wife.”
Dr. Howe turned to face him. His color blanched under Tristan’s stare. “It is best if you speak with her ladyship. I find that between husbands and wives some matters should remain private. If your wife will not speak with you, then I will, of course, clarify any remaining difficulties.”
Tristan kept his gaze steady on the doctor. He did not blink as he waited for more details of Marguerite’s condition.
The doctor flinched under Tristan’s glare, his eyes flickered about as if looking for escape. “Please, your lordship. Speak with your wife. I do not know enough of the circumstances to answer you fully. Lady Wimberley knows you will have questions and I believe she is preparing to answer them.”
“Why the mystery? You have told me that she has lost the child, but is in no personal danger. What more is there to say?”
The doctor turned away, breaking the eye contact. “I can only repeat exactly what I have said. There will be no child. Your wife is doing as well as can be expected. Now, I will say again you must speak to her for any remaining clarification. Any other advice you need is probably best heard from a close male friend or relative.” The doctor shuffled towards the door. His glance fell on the whiskey. “And you should probably indulge less. Now, you must forgive me. I have other patients who are in urgent need. I wish you the best, Lord Wimberley.”
Without further comment the doctor departed. Tristan stood there, staring at the door, waiting for his whirling thoughts to still.
Marguerite had lost the baby. The rest of the doctor’s muddled words faded before that fact.
Marguerite had lost the baby.
He walked to the table and picked up the whiskey and downed it in one gulp. The bitter burn filled his mouth and throat. He poured another one.
He should go to her. She would need comfort, a shoulder to cry on. He lifted