Before Liars Loved (Before Series, Book 3)

Doctors

↫Mischief in Mayfair↬

Dear Readers, I must say that Lady Trotten was the most excellent hostess at last evening's event. If only because she decided to forgo the awful lemonade that plagues balls throughout London. Whoever thought that cider would be such an exceptional alternative? We must give the lady our thanks for such delicious refreshments. Whatever will she think of next?

-Madame Mischief

Scarlett had not wanted to dance with Lord Symons. But she also had not wanted to let her facade drop in effort to fight him. Sometimes the easiest way to deal with men like Lord Symons was to go along with them; it was a tactic that protected and destroyed her at the same time.

She'd felt it coming on toward the end of the dance. The familiar narrowing of her throat, the compressing sensation taking over her. It was as if she was being smothered by the touch of Lord Symons and the crush of the bodies and the heat of the stuffy room. Stepping out into the cold air had instantly helped. The pressure had lessened on her chest, but her breathing still came in short, shallow spurts.

And that was when Scarlett knew her condition was getting worse.

After what had happened the other day when she chased Timothy, Scarlett had been leery about dancing at the ball. But still, dancing the quadrille shouldn't have set in motion an attack such as the one she had just experienced.

She would call for her doctor tomorrow morning. Hopefully, he would know something. Hopefully, he would be able to do something.

When the carriage rolled to a stop outside her home, Scarlett ambled inside.

The door swung open for her, and Scarlett stepped inside. Her rigid butler, Eugene, gave her a nod. It was more of a greeting that he usually gave, and she returned it. Quietly, she requested that he send for Fallon, wanting the lady's maid to meet her in her chambers. All Scarlett wished for was to remove her tight gown and crawl into bed.

And that was what she did.

The next morning, Scarlett greeted her guest in her parlor. The room was decorated in vibrantly rich colors and furnished with expensive and embellished French furniture. Her visitor appeared a bit out of place with his slightly worn, brown coat and matching waistcoat.

"Good morning, doctor. Thank you for coming with such short notice."

Dr. Abbott bowed his head a little in respect, before returning her regards. "My Lady Humphries. I was sorry to receive your note. Do tell me what has been happening since I saw you last month."

Scarlett filled him in on her symptoms of late, mainly what occurred last night at the Trotten ball. Dr. Abbott, who was a middle-aged man with a generally gentle disposition, listened intently, his face swimming in thought. Once or twice, he smoothed his dark hair absentmindedly.

"Well," he said finally. "It would seem that we have to take an even more aggressive approach to treat your asthma."

Scarlett nodded. What else could she say?

"Have you been taking your easing powder?" Dr. Aboott asked.

Scarlett nodded but slower. "I take it in the morning, generally after I wake. But it does not make me feel good." Dr. Abbott called it "easing powder," but it was just a title to replace what it really was—laudanum, a tincture of opium and alcohol.

"And both of your recent attacks have been in the evening?"

Scarlett nodded for the third time, her movements even slower yet.