“Anything is helpful, Joan.” He turned his attention back to her.
Joan released a pent-up breath. “It would be best to wait till we’re in your study. I have a feeling you’ll need to send out several missives.”
“Drat.”
“Yes. You were right, Morgan. They haven’t given up because Napoleon is on St. Helena. All the things you wished were him speaking the truth had clues, little mannerisms that can mean they are lies. And that, my brother, does not bode well.”
Morgan sighed. “I wish you were wrong.”
“So do I. So do I,” Joan said and, not for the first time, wondered if maybe her skills were as much of a burden as they were a blessing.
Seven
Rowles shrugged into his greatcoat and quit his chambers, refusing to look down the hall to where his mother rested. First, the doctor had attended to his mother, adjusting the dose of laudanum and its frequency while monitoring the bruising on her arms where the footmen’s hands had held her in place to prevent her from attacking anyone further. Then the doctor had a frank conversation with Rowles concerning her care.
It was one of the most difficult moments of his life, listening to and honestly taking to heart the extent of his mother’s condition. For the first time, he was candid with himself about his mother’s malady. The only positive aspect of the whole sordid mess was that the doctor did not recommend Bedlam. They were in the process of moving the Bethlehem hospital to a new location, and the doctor didn’t approve of the methodology of Thomas Munro, the chief physician, in any capacity. Dr. Smithe suggested separate living quarters and staff to address the needs of Rowles’s mother.
Rowles commissioned the doctor to find a suitable staff to address her condition, and an apartment would be easily procured for the stricken duchess.
With all that out of the way, Rowles needed a drink, a strong one and in large supply. The carriage was waiting out front to take him to White’s, and it couldn’t convey him there quickly enough for his taste. As the carriage cantered to the side, probably due to a hole in the cobbles, Rowles shifted to retain his seat. His leg protested the movement with a sharp pain, reminding him of the earlier events of the day.
Yes, he needed a drink. Badly.
White’s was crowded and perfectly distracting. Rowles nodded to several gentlemen and found a table. In short order, he was lined up with a glass of Scottish whiskey and another on the way.
The amber liquid reflected the firelight of the room like a glowing ember, and he inhaled the aroma of Scottish peat and smoke. The Scottish island of Islay had the most superb whiskey because of that peat moss that they used when distilling. Rowles closed his eyes and took a long sip, savoring the burn down his throat and praying it would help him forget, even for a few moments, the hell of the day.
By his third whiskey, his body was warm and relaxed, his memories far less sharp and demanding of his attention. When he finished his fifth, he frowned at the empty glass, wondering if it was actually his sixth glass. Rounds seven and eight were less memorable, but what he did notice was he was no longer alone at the table.
It took a moment, but his look focused on a familiar face. “Morga’?” He blinked, then wondered if perhaps he forgot the last consonant of his friend’s name. Ah, to hell with it.
“Bad day?” Morgan asked, downing a glass of what looked like brandy.
“Yes,” Rowles answered and raised his eyebrows when another round was placed before him.
“It must have been. It’s been an age since I’ve seen you flat-arse drunk.”
Rowles lifted his eyes to his friend, wondering why it took so long to finally focus on his facial expression. “I’m not drunk… I’m not drunkenough. Yet.”
Morgan lifted his glass in a toast and took another long swallow. “Want to talk about it?”
Rowles scoffed. “What’s there to talk about? My mother attacked me. And before that, she thought I was Robert and told me—rather, she was talking to Rob—” He frowned. That was bloody confusing.
Morgan saved him. “I think I follow. Continue.”
Rowles shrugged. “She said that she’d always worried about me being”—he whispered—“like her. And then she said that if I went all cocked up, Robert was to put me in Bedlam.” Rowles closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. It was a bloody disaster, and no amount of alcohol would change that. More was the pity.
“I see,” Morgan answered.
“So now I have to move my mother into a separate apartment with a trained staff to care for her so she doesn’t hurt anyone.” Rowles looked to him.
Morgan leaned forward. “What do you mean, hurt anyone?”
Rowles gave a dark chuckle. “Oh, I left out that detail. All this happened moments before she attacked me and three footmen. She’s quite strong for her frailty.” He rubbed the side of his leg at the memory.
“Heavens.” Morgan breathed out a lengthy sigh. “Old chap, that’s a bloody awful day.”
Rowles lifted his glass to salute Morgan’s words, only to find it empty. “Damn and blast.”