Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

“I suppose it would be best to have her head checked. Send Crispin. He knows where Dr. Blood lives.”

“Yes,” Corrie said, coming into the drawing room, “he can ride Petunia, my mare. Dr. Blood is such a good physician, but such an unfortunate name.”

“Hello, Corrie,” Jason said. “You and James came for a visit? Everything’s all right at home, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, but Hallie—”

Before Petrie took himself off, he said to Corrie, “I can see her chest moving, my lady. Well, since she’s a female, it’s not quite accurate to say chest, but you know what I mean—”

“Everyone knows exactly what you mean, Petrie. Go.” Jason sat beside her, held her hand, told her that even though Major Philly wasn’t pleased with her for scaring the bejesus out of his cow, Jason had t

alked him around. “Keep those eyes open and listen to me. Twenty years ago, James and I helped him herd his cows into another pasture when his dog, Oliver, was ill and couldn’t do it. He always called us Mr. Sherbrooke.”

“Because he couldn’t tell us apart,” James said.

“Probably not, but it was a nice touch, made us both feel very important. The thing is that Georgiana is a very sensitive bovine. It’s possible her milk has been adversely affected.”

“All right, if it isn’t her fault, then it’s Dodger’s fault.”

Jason tucked the lovely afghan his grandmother had knitted over her. “Do I recall preaching about taking responsibility?”

“You listened to what I said to Lord Carlisle about Elgin Sloane, did you?” asked Hallie.

“I had to remove a pebble from my boot. My ears didn’t stop working. When you’re upset, Hallie, you’re loud.”

When Dr. Blood, a Scotsman from John O’Groats, so far north that throwing people into the frigid sea was the preferred method of murder, arrived and looked down at Hallie, he stroked his chin. She still smelled like cow, sugar cubes, and carrots, and had a blinding headache, but Dr. Blood was pleased she was awake and alert. She looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t want any man named Blood near me.”

“Too late, young lady,” said Jonathan Blood. He finally had to shove Jason out of the way. “Do you want to vomit?”

Petrie said, “See here, she can’t vomit, not in the drawing room where there’s no chamber pot in sight.”

“No, Petrie, I’m not nauseous, thank God.”

Dr. Blood felt the lump behind her ear, looked at her eyes, kneaded her neck, felt her ankles after he’d removed her boots, frowned at her torn stockings, and ordered strong tea without sugar. “You’ll do,” he said. “Nothing like a woman to have a hard head. You remain lying there, Miss Carrick, all limp and female and let Jason here wait on you. Jason, you can give her some laudanum now. The headache should be gone when she wakes up.”

“The master doesn’t do that,” Martha said from the doorway. “I do that.”

“No, it is I who dole out the laudanum,” Petrie said. “I am the one ultimately responsible for curing Miss Carrick’s headache. I am the butler.”

Hallie groaned.

“Oh dear,” Petrie said.

“She’s not going to vomit,” Corrie said. “Are you, Hallie?”

“No.”

James said, peering down at her, “Now that we know you’re all right, Hallie, my wife and I will see ourselves out. You’ve enough to deal with without family hanging about, even though Bad Boy saved the day, and I’ve yet to hear a single thank-you.”

Jason threw a wet cloth at his twin, who caught it out of the air, and said, “It smells like cow. Not good.”

Corrie laughed, took her husband’s hand, and dragged him from the drawing room. “Rest, Hallie. I will come back in a couple of days to see how you are doing. Angela, don’t worry, your fallen chick will be just fine.”

By eight o’clock that evening, Hallie was so bored, she was ready to tear raw meat apart. Not a minute later, Jason obligingly came into her bedchamber, whistling and carrying a tray.

She eyed the teapot. “I hope Cook made the tea for you. If not, it will taste like hot water with oak bark in it.”

Jason set the tray down, poured a cup and tasted it. “No, not oak bark. Hmm. Elm bark, if I’m not mistaken.”