“It exposes him to blackmail should his lady friend take it in her head to do him harm. The prince’s disgrace will be on the front page of the Times if I cannot find a way to stop this,” she retorted.
Her expression was fretful and Stoker went to put a consoling hand to her shoulder. “The Prince of Wales has had any number of skeletons rattling around his cupboards, most of them salacious,” he reminded her. “He has even been subject to subpoena in divorce proceedings as a witness to a wife’s infidelity. No one seriously believes that a bit of untidiness in his personal life should disqualify him from being king. Prince Eddy is no different. If the scandal breaks, it will be a tempest in a teacup.”
Lady Wellie said nothing, but her lips were working furiously. It was unlike her to be so reticent. Or so agitated. It was said she had once faced down a Slav anarchist bomber with nothing more than an umbrella. But now she seemed ill at ease—or perhaps just ill? There was a color I did not like, a whiteness at the lips that struck me as unhealthy. The rest of her complexion was high, and tiny beads of perspiration pearled her hairline.
“Lady Wellie, perhaps you would like to rest,” I suggested.
“Rest?” Her lips tightened. “I think not. There is too much at stake.”
“Very well.” I sighed. “But Stoker is quite right. A jewel given to a courtesan will hardly raise an eyebrow in most circles. I cannot imagine the bishops will be terribly pleased, but I am certain you can handle any opprobrium from that quarter.”
She shook her head slowly. “It is not the jewel that concerns me.”
“What, then?” Stoker asked, his voice gentle.
She hesitated, saying nothing for a long moment. She had slipped into a reverie of sorts, her expression faraway. I sat forwards in my chair. “Your telegram mentioned the Whitechapel murders. You said it was a matter of life and death,” I reminded her.
She shook her head almost angrily. “I cannot think why,” she muttered.
Stoker darted me a glance, alarmed at her sudden confusion, but when he spoke his voice was soothing. “Lady Wellie, I think Veronica is right. Rest now. We can talk in the morning—”
“I wish I knew what to do!” she exclaimed. She put out her hands, heavily ringed with filthy diamonds. Stoker took them, and she squeezed hard. I could see his fingers whitening in her grip.
“You must help,” she insisted, her voice a rasp of pain. Suddenly, she pitched forwards, and would have landed on the floor had Stoker not leapt. He caught her, cradling her to his chest as her head lolled back, her eyes rolling white.
“Lady Wellie!” I dropped to my knees, but Stoker had already taken charge of the situation. His time as a surgeon in Her Majesty’s Navy meant that he was extremely effective in a crisis. He wrenched open the fichu pinned to her neckline as he put his head to her chest.
“She breathes,” he pronounced. He rose in one motion, sweeping her stout form up into his arms. He carried her through to the bedchamber where her maid, Weatherby, had just entered with an armful of clean linen.
One look at her prostrate mistress sent her into hysterics, and it took me a sound slap and the better part of a minute to bring her around. When she was in command of herself once more, I sent her to fetch his lordship and Lady Wellie’s regular physician.
“What else?” I asked Stoker.
He was keeping careful watch upon her pulse. “When Weatherby returns, have her change Lady Wellie into a nightdress and bring hot bricks to keep her from a chill. She needs a stimulant. Bring brandy,” he instructed.
I did as I was told, haring swiftly down to his lordship’s sideboard for a bottle. Stoker ladled a spoonful down her throat. She sputtered and swallowed but remained insensible. He turned to me. “It is not strong enough. Her pulse is thready. I fear we are losing her. There is a preparation of foxglove on the washstand. Fetch it.”
I found it, a small green bottle marked with a skull and crossbones on a label from the local chemist. He wrenched out the cork and dosed her, holding her mouth closed with one hand until she swallowed involuntarily. His expression was tortured but determined, and I knew it cost him something to force her to take the medicine.
After a moment, her breathing seemed to ease slightly, and he slumped a little.
“There is nothing else to be done until her physician arrives,” he told me soberly.
“What is it?”
“Angina, most likely. Possibly apoplexy.”
My hand crept into his and he gripped it tightly. “How bad?”
He shook his head and said nothing. He would not guess. We kept her comfortable during the long, agonizing wait for her physician. Lord Rosemorran appeared with Weatherby, weeping quietly into her sleeve. She started to make noise but I fixed her with a quelling eye and she subsided once more into silence, wiping her eyes as she aired a nightdress.
“If the gentlemen will withdraw, I will help you,” I told her. They did not have to be told twice. They waited outside the door as Weatherby and I carefully undressed her mistress and wrapped her in her nightdress. We tucked her into the warmed bed just as the physician arrived, huffing a little. He had the flushed-pink nose of a devoted port drinker and the assurance of a successful Harley Street practitioner. He listened gravely to Stoker’s quick summary of the events and shooed us from the room to make his examination.
Lord Rosemorran seemed at a loss as we stood outside. “I hardly know what to think,” he managed at last. “She has always been there. Ever since I was a child, I thought of her as immovable, fixed.”
“You make her sound like the Rock of Gibraltar,” I said with a smile.
He smiled in return. “Exactly that. She is our rock.”
Hours passed, slowly. Lumley, the butler, brought chairs for us, and from time to time a frightened maid peeped around the corner, then whisked away to report that there was no news. We, none of us, had an appetite for dinner. Lord Rosemorran’s sister, Lady Cordelia, took charge of the children and sent food up, but we sent it back untasted. She came to sit with us after putting the children to bed. We said little more until the physician emerged, his expression somber.
“I will not pretend her condition is not serious, my lord,” he began. “She has indeed suffered a severe attack of angina. The worst of the crisis is past, but it remains to be seen if she will return to consciousness or how great—if any—damage the heart has sustained.” He looked to Stoker. “You said you dosed her with foxglove?”
“I did.”
He gave a sharp nod. “Likely saved her life with that. It’s a dangerous proposition but in cases like these it is the only possible chance.”
Stoker’s relief was unspoken but palpable.