Page 114 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Jean-Philippe,
I’ve had the most bewitching dream and must commission a gown.
Think…French Revolution.
Need I say more?
Yours,
Babette Dravenhearst
Afewhourslater,withJulian and Xander’s assistance, Merrick was propped in bed with Dr. Smalls by his side and Beau at his feet. He was unconscious.
Margot’s head was pounding, had been since the moment she’d walked through the manor door. Her limbs were heavy. Like she was sleepwalking through a nightmare.
“What did he ingest?” Dr. Smalls asked, checkingMerrick’s pulse.
“How should I know?” Margot tossed her hands up in exasperation. “I think someone slipped something into his drink. It could have been anything. I didn’t see it happen.”
“How long ago?”
She looked at the clock on the bedside table. “Perhaps three hours? Roughly. Again, I can’t be certain.”
Dr. Smalls continued his exam, unbuttoning Merrick’s shirt. A red rash flowered across his chest. The physician frowned, then produced a tongue blade. He opened Merrick’s mouth to peer inside.
“Dry,” he pronounced.
“I took him to the bathroom as soon as I realized something was wrong,” Margot explained, wringing her hands. “I forced him to vomit up as much as he could.”
Dr. Smalls paused his examination. “Clever thinking,” he murmured. “Resourceful.”
“Check his pupils.” She moved closer to Merrick’s bedside. “There’s something wrong with his eyes.”
He lifted Merrick’s lid. All black, no hint of gold. He shined a light over the dilation. No response. Dr. Smalls’s face turned grim.
“Get me a basin, Xander,” the physician instructed.
“What are you going to do?” Julian asked. He stood at the edge of the room, looking terribly out of place in the main house, with his muddy stable boots and rumpled hair.
“Purge his stomach again. He seems to be suffering from a drug-induced inhibition of his parasympathetic nervous system, leaving the sympathetic to take over unchecked. Hence the dilated pupils, dry mucous membranes, flushed skin, and exceedingly high heart rate.”
“And is that…” Margot fumbled, trying to understand. “Is it dangerous? What causes it?”
“A number of agents could do it, I’m afraid. That’s the difficulty. A bad batch of heroin or cocaine perhaps. I trust he doesn’t—”
“No.” She shook her head, shocked. “That’s not…that can’t be it.”
“Well…there’s atropine and hyoscyamine, both belladonna alkaloids. Jimsonweed or mandrake root extract could also do it.”
Her mind shuffled through his list, tripping over a single word. One she recognized with creeping dread. “Did you say…belladonna?”
“Belladonna alkaloids, yes. Atropine and hyoscyamine.” He looked closely at her. “Do you have reason to believe he’s been exposed?”
“Not to those drugs, no.” She wrapped her arms around her chest.
“The plant could do it too,” Dr. Smalls said, zeroing in on her discomfort. “Nightshade.”
A plant growing on this very estate.
