Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(64)

The other occupants of the room backed away a step or two, watching him as he sat down on the bed and made an effort to waken her. As it became obvious that his attempt to rouse her was useless, he glared at the stout man. “Who in God’s name are you?” he demanded, and the physician drew his heavyset form up a little straighter.

“Je m’appelle M. André Goujon . . . et vous?”

“Lord Randall Berkeley,” he supplied curtly. Mireille’s fear of him did not lessen as she regarded his overpowering form, but suddenly she felt a twinge of pity when the woman’s head fell against his arms as if there were no bones in her neck. For a moment something had flickered in his eyes that echoed of harsh anguish.

“How long will it take to wear off?” Rand asked abruptly, his arms tightening around Rosalie’s body. “Monsieur de Berkeley . . .” Goujon said with a great deal of hesitancy, “it is a classic case of opium poisoning. pinpoint pupils, shallow breathing, slow, weak pulse . . . but it is difficult to predict the extent of the overdose. I’ve seen similar cases in which the victims continue to sleep into death, unable to take in water or nourishment. Or her heart may suddenly stop beating—”

Rand interrupted him brusquely, speaking to the maitre d’hotel. “Get another physician. Immediately.” “Monsieur!” Goujon bristled. “I assure you any quali fied man will tell you the same—”

“Get someone else,” Rand repeated darkly, and the maitre d’hotel scurried off in fright. Goujon stormed out of the room, muttering under his breath, and Rand gently laid Rosalie back down on the bed, his hands framing her face as his thumbs skimmed the round softness of her cheekbones. “Rose,” he breathed, unable to believe how white and cold her skin was, and the seething anger in him drained rapidly as an unfamiliar fear took its place. She seemed like nothing more than a fragile shell, deeply entombed within her own subconscious. It seemed that she had fallen even beyond the realm of dreams. “Rose, don’t do this to me,” he said desperately, as if she were merely playing a trick on him, but her face was utterly still.

“Rose?” He heard a tiny voice repeat behind him, and Rand turned with a start to find the little chambermaid still huddling against the wall. He had forgotten that she was still there. She said the name as if marveling at its sound.

“You can go now,” Rand said, and at her uncomprehending expression he repeated the words in French. Immediately her face fell, and she shook her head slightly before regarding him with the darkest, most beseeching brown eyes he had ever seen. Swearing softly, Rand returned his attention to Rosalie, and as it became apparent that he did not intend to shoo Mireille out, the chambermaid leaned her thin back against the wall. She remained unmoving for more than an hour, watching solemnly as another physician was brought in, a tall, thin one this time. His prescription was to bleed the unconscious woman in order to drain out the poison and allow her depleted bloodstream to renew itself. Envisioning the large wooden bowls, the lancet that would open the veins, the gruesome trickle of precious fluid from mademoiselle’s slender neck, Mireille gathered up the courage to protest, but there was no need. Rand received the suggestion with cold disgust, his language both colorful and effective as he ordered the man to leave at once.

“The perfect example,” Rand commented to no one in particular as the physician departed hastily, “of why most people fear the members of the medical profession more than illness itself. God knows how the human race has survived them so far.” Unfortunately, most physicians relied less on scientific methods than on superstition and tradition when treating a patient.

“Monsieur de Berkeley,” the maitre d’hotel asked, clearly bothered by the black sarcasm and the expression on Rand’s set face, “what are you planning to do now?”

“I want to question the person who received the order for the food and wine, those who prepared the meal, and whoever brought it up here. As far as retributive action against the hotel . perhaps I’ll consider it again tomorrow with less gratification . . .” He paused, his eyes flickering to the figure of the small chambermaid, who had forgone her silent vigil in order to straighten up the room. “. . . if you’ll free the girl from her other duties in order to watch over mademoiselle until she wakes up.”

Certainly,” the maitre d’hotel said, doubtfully at Rosalie and then issuing a small rush of orders to Mireille. As she nodded vigorously, even more dark curls fell to join the profusion of ebony hair that had already escaped her white mobcap.

“Bring the employees I mentioned into the next room,” Rand said, turning from the sight of the bed, his face turning into an inscrutable mask. He spoke in French so that Mireille would understand as well as the hotel manager. “I don’t want anyone in here except for the maid, and I want to be told immediately if someone attempts to set a foot beyond the doorway.”

“Yes, monsieur,” the maitre d’hotel murmured dutifully. “I will find the people you wish to speak to in a matter of minutes.”

Rand watched the wiry little man depart with alacrity. Releasing a long taut breath, he raked a hand through his hair, unconsciously disheveling it into thick amber waves. A potent sense of unreality nagged at him, as if this were some nightmare.

He discounted the theory that it had been the handiwork of clumsy burglars, even though similar occurrences involving petty thievery had been reported recently. It was too coincidental that this had occurred so soon after the news concerning Rosalie and Brummell had been released. Would Rose have been held for ransom? Or simply taken by one of Brummell’s more vengeful creditors in exchange for a large debt? It definitely had the earmarks of a botched kidnapping attempt, thwarted by Rosalie’s presence of mind to call for help and the fortunate timing of a small chambermaid. Rand’s mouth twisted as he thought of someone planning to come into the hotel room to find him and Rosalie unconscious from the tainted wine. “Why don’t you change her clothes?” he said abruptly to the maid, motioning to the armoire with a nod of his head. “Her nightgowns are there.” Blushing at his casually revealed knowledge of where Rosalie’s intimate apparel was kept, Mireille jumped to the task like a startled rabbit as he left the room.