Secrets of a Summer Night

Chapter 13

Barely two minutes had passed before Simon saw the group he had earlier predicted, consisting of the doctor, Lord Westcliff, Mrs. Peyton, and Lillian Bowman. Leaning his shoulders back against the wall, Simon gave them a speculative stare. Privately, he was amused by the palpable dislike between Westcliff and Miss Bowman, whose obvious mutual animosity betrayed the fact that words had been exchanged.

The doctor was a venerable old man who had attended Westcliff and his relatives, the Marsdens, for nearly three decades. Glancing at Simon with keen eyes set deeply in an age-furrowed face, he spoke with unflappable calmness. “Mr. Hunt, I am told that you assisted the young lady to her room?”

Simon brusquely described Annabelle’s condition and symptoms to the doctor, choosing to omit that he, and not Daisy, had been the one to discover the puncture marks on Annabelle’s ankle. Mrs. Peyton listened in white-faced distress. Frowning, Lord Westcliff bent to murmur to Mrs. Peyton, who nodded and thanked him distractedly. Simon guessed that Westcliff had promised that the best care possible would be provided until her daughter had recovered fully.

“Of course I won’t be able to confirm Mr. Hunt’s opinion until I examine the young lady,” the doctor remarked. “However, it may be advisable to begin brewing some clivers right away, in the event that the illness was indeed caused by adder bite—”

“She’s already drinking some,” Simon interrupted. “I sent for it about a quarter hour ago.”

The doctor regarded him with the special vexation reserved for those who undertook to make a diagnosis without benefit of a medical degree. “Clivers is a potent drug, Mr. Hunt, and possibly injurious in the event that a patient is not suffering from snake venom. You should have waited for a doctor’s opinion before administering it.”

“The symptoms of adder bite are unmistakable,” Simon replied impatiently, wishing the man would cease tarrying in the hallway and go do his job. “And I wanted to alleviate Miss Peyton’s discomfort as quickly as possible.”

The old man’s wiry gray brows descended low over his eyes. “You’re quite certain of your own judgment,” came the peppery observation.

“Yes,” Simon replied, without blinking.

Suddenly the earl let out a muffled chuckle and settled a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “I’m afraid that we’ll be forced to stand out here indefinitely, sir, if you attempt to convince my friend that he’s wrong about anything. ‘Opinionated’ is the mildest of adjectives one could apply to Mr. Hunt. I assure you, your energies are far better directed toward caring for Miss Peyton.”

“Perhaps so,” the doctor returned testily. “Although one suspects that my presence is superfluous in light of Mr. Hunt’s expert diagnosis.” With that sarcastic comment, the old man entered the room, followed by Mrs. Peyton and Lillian Bowman.

Left alone in the hallway with Westcliff, Simon rolled his eyes. “Bilious old bastard,” he muttered. “Could you have sent for someone a bit more decrepit, Westcliff? I doubt he can see or hear well enough to make his own damned diagnosis.”

The earl arched one black brow as he regarded Simon with amused condescension. “He’s the best doctor in Hampshire. Come downstairs, Hunt. We’ll have a brandy.”

Simon glanced at the closed door. “Later.”

Westcliff replied in a light, far-too-pleasant tone. “Ah, forgive me. Of course you’ll want to wait by the door like a stray dog hoping for kitchen scraps. I’ll be in my study—do be a good lad and run down to tell me if there’s any news.”

Rankled, Simon flashed him a cold glare and pushed away from the wall. “All right,” he growled, “I’ll come.”

The earl responded with a satisfied nod. “The doctor will deliver a report to me after he’s finished with Miss Peyton.”