To my surprise, Louisa stared at my brother with an expression akin to horror, as though he had peered directly into her soul. “I do see demons,” she whispered. “They torment my sleep. No rest do I have, by night or by day; they are ogres in form, that bear my husband's face.”

Frank's brows came down in perplexity at this; but whatever he might have said was forestalled by Louisa's sharp cry. “My flask! What has become of my flask?”

Her eyes swept frantically about the room.

“Is it in your reticule?” I enquired. The article lay forgot on the parlour table. I reached for it, but Louisa was before me — she rose from her chair and clutched at the thing as though it contained her life's blood. Her efforts to free the flask from her reticule were in vain, however; her fingers shook so violently that she was powerless to withdraw the bottle of laudanum. She swayed — Mr. Hill stepped forward — and without uttering a sound, Louisa slid to the carpet in a swoon.

The surgeon felt immediately for a pulse, while Frank and I waited in suspense.

“Carry her into the bedchamber,” he said abruptly. “She cannot lie here, displayed to the public eye. Quickly — help me to support her.”

The door to the upper parlour opened at that moment, to admit the maidservant with the tea. Her eyes widened as she comprehended the scene — but she was collected in her wits, and merely set down the tray on a chair, rather than dashing it to the floor in the best tradition of drama.

“This gentleman is a surgeon,” I told her. “Fetch cold water, and be so good as to bring a vinaigrette to Mrs. Seagrave's room.”

WE LAID LOUISA ON HER BED AND PLACED A SHAWL over her. Mr. Hill loosened her stays, and peered under her eyelids; and then he requested the bottle of laudanum Louisa carried everywhere with her.

To my surprise, he administered a draught.

“But is not that the very thing that ails her?” I enquired.

“To be sure. But one cannot deprive the body of the evil prop it craves. Mrs. Seagrave has grown so dependent upon her Comfort that she cannot do without it.”

“Then how is she to be saved? For her condition worsens. Every day that passes finds her more attached to the elixir, more despondent in her thoughts, more deranged in her dreams.”

He raised a thin eyebrow. “The demons that bear her husband's face? They are common enough among your opium-eaters. The initial effects of the drug are wondrous — the portal to a world of beauty and delight; but as the mind becomes ensnared to opium's effect, the fantasies grow harsh, the dream world darkens. And still the sufferer cannot thwart the body's craving.”

I met the surgeon's eyes. “You know a good deal more of the evil than is wise, Mr. Hill.”

He smiled wryly. “I am not entirely a stranger to the poppy, Miss Austen, though I am happy to say that I am no longer its slave.”

“How is the addiction broken?” Frank asked intently.

The taking of opium in any form is a difficult practise to inhibit A strong mind — a will to desist — is required; and of course, adequate diversion to free the soul of boredom. Too many physicians will prescribe complete rest, without the understanding that ennui is a powerful spur to relapse. Mrs. Seagrave is unlikely to procure much of either rest or diversion, however, in Southampton at present Is she greatly attached to her husband? — I do not speak, here, of bitter words and reproaches. I speak of real feeling.”

I glanced at Frank, who stood mutely by the opposite side of the bed. “That is difficult to judge,” I replied. “Certainly she regards it as her duty to be near him, under his present difficulty; but she derives no happiness from braving scandal, and has never professed confidence in his innocence.”

“I see,” said the surgeon; and possibly he did. “How many children? “

“Three, one of them a babe in arms. She possesses a nursemaid; we must presume the woman presently in charge.”

“Has she any family capable of lending support? A home to which she might go, under careful super-vision, while attempting to wean herself from the vile stuff?”

I hesitated. “There is her aunt — the lady to whom Captain Seagrave referred. Lady Templeton has quitted Portsmouth, I believe, and is presently gone into Kent She was bound for a place called Luxford House— somewhere, I think, near Deal.”

“Luxford House!” Mr. Hill straightened. “Then your Lady Templeton is gone to a funeral! Viscount Luxford is very lately deceased — I read the account only yesterday in the Morning Gazette.”

“So we understand. Mrs. Seagrave is the late Viscount's daughter.”

Mr. Hill's eyes gleamed sharply. He glanced down at Louisa, who remained insensible. The draught of laudanum, however, appeared to have made her more comfortable; she looked now to be only sleeping.

“Have the maid bathe her temples with vinegar every quarter-hour,” the surgeon instructed. “I can do nothing more here at present; and it is imperative I speak with you both.”

“ARE YOU AWARE OF THE DISPOSITION OF THE LUXFORD estate?” Mr. Hill enquired.

I glanced at Frank, who appeared as bemused as myself. We had descended to the Dolphin's downstairs parlour, the better to converse in privacy; the airy room was empty but for ourselves.

“We know nothing of the family at all,” I answered. “We have only just learned the name in recent days.”

“In company with the better part of England,” Mr. Hill replied comfortably. “Mrs. Seagrave and her history are now the intimate concern of every reader of the Morning Gazette—to say nothing of the Post, the Times, and every other reputable scandal-monger in the Kingdom. The report of the Viscount's death has led to considerable speculation. For the provisions of his will — and the passage of his estate — must leave your friend in peculiar suspense.”

There is no one in England, I daresay, who may resist the temptation of canvassing an estate oddly left; the various clauses and provisions of wills, while dry stuff in themselves, must lead to the most extraordinary incident. Fortunes are made and lost; heirs plucked from obscurity, or thrown into eclipse; ancient scandals revived, in all their lurid particulars; and the Dead afforded the satisfaction of disturbing the Living's peace for a decade or more.

“Pray sit down, Mr. Hill,” said my brother. “Let us send for refreshment. Madeira, perhaps, and ratafia cakes?”

“I should be infinitely obliged,” said the surgeon, and pulling the tails of his black coat over his hips, he sat.

The wine was brought; I accepted a glass; Louisa's maid appeared to report that Mrs. Seagrave was unchanged, however much vinegar might be pressed into her temples; and Mr. Hill was urged to a second round of Madeira. His thin face took on a bit of colour, and his small eyes did not lose their gleam.

“I often think that had I spurned the world of physick, and the adventure of the seas, I should have loved nothing so well as a tidy solicitor's office, and the management of sundry affairs,” he observed. “Three or four families, in a country village — provided they be sufficiently rich or eccentric to involve the affairs of a multitude — is the very thing to work on. And so we come to the Viscount.”

“I gather that he made some mention of Mrs. Seagrave in the will?” said Frank impatiently.

“So it is rumoured. The actual reading of the testament will not occur, to be sure, until after the Viscount is interred — and that is not to happen until Tuesday. But speculation is rife, I fear, and the Viscount's solicitors have not been as chary with intelligence as his lordship might have wished. Are you at all familiar with the gentleman?”

I shook my head.

“He was a very warm man, I believe,” said Frank.

“So warm as to be positively scalding,” agreed Mr. Hill. “Viscount Luxford inherited a very handsome fortune at his ascendancy, but rather than going immediately to ruin in the pursuit of horses, gambling hells, or the improvement of his estate — he engaged in speculation.”