Page 57 of Destined to be a Duchess
“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 Mariannerecognized 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.”
Chapter 21
“I hoped I would find you here.”
Marianne paused in the library doorway, holding her candleholder aloft. She placed it on the buffet by the door, entering the room despite receiving only silence from Anthony in response.
He was slumped forward at one of the library tables, reviewing De Laurier’s journal. Giving it to him while they were still in Norwich hadn’t been safe. Marianne had slipped it to him upon their return to Moorhaven a few hours earlier, and Anthony had not been seen since, having ensconced himself in the library, where he had asked not to be disturbed.
Her sequined evening gown rustled as she approached him. He leaned back in his chair, sighing at the journal in front of him. The library was mostly dark, and the fire was slowly dying. Anthony’s reading candle had been burned almost to a stub. He looked ethereally beautiful in the pale orange light. And more sorrowful than ever.
“I can’t make heads nor tails of it,” he whispered when Marianne settled beside him. He had rolled up his sleeves, and she found his cravat balled up on the table. “I know next to nothing about medicine. These notes are beyond my understanding. Beyond the understanding, I wager, of any common doctor.”
He looked up at her, and the sadness in his eyes felled her completely.
“Did you see the drawings?” he asked.
“I did, but they didn’t affect me overlong,” she replied, forcing the images from her mind. “No harm can come from them. They were just drawings, after all.”
“In here, they are.” He tapped the journal with the back of his hand. “But these are not sketches created from the imagination of a madman. De Laurier considers himself a scientist. He has seen these things with his own eyes and recorded them.”
“Is that ...” Marianne paused, unsure how doctors were trained—whether this was normal. “Would he have easy access to subjects of that nature?”
“It depends.” Anthony scowled, not looking nearly as queasy as Marianne felt. “I have heard of private anatomical schools. But the demands far exceed the supply in regard to ...” He trailed off, and Marianne knew what he meant.
