Chapter 42

Farrers had made a monumental error. In his panic, in allowing every servant to charge into the room with his supplies instead of sending for me, or one trusted valet he had opened himself to the wolves. The gossip pages had him now.

/Duke of Tarrick near death. Young, pregnant Duchess distraught/ read the more professional papers.

/Dirty Duke! Tarrick is Sick with a pain in his Pr–-/ were some of the less savoury attempts.

The accurate images the cartoonists reproduced of his room were uncanny. The week I spent at his bedside reading the latest deliveries saw charcoal drawings of his room covered in pillboxes and medical equipment. Huge quantities of laudanum and other opiates in bottles, as casually as a liquor cabinet.

He was found naked on his back, his lesions fully visible to every onlooker. His body was covered in wet, blistering sores, now viciously depicted like an ogre in black and white pamphlets. How he has even been able to attend so many events is beyond me.

As r