“Five years ago you sold the house in Godstow for a sizeable sum. Are you struggling for patients?” Finlay mocked. “Or does your expenditure exceed your means?”
“M-Miss Draper is my only patient.”
Sophia cast Finlay a sideways glance and frowned. “But how can that be? What of Mr Harris and his gout? Or Mrs Walcott, who feigns illnesses just to have you sample her fruit scones?”
Goodwin hung his head. “I invented the tales. Told lies to make me sound credible.”
“Credible?” Sophia’s mouth twisted as if she had bitten a lemon. “You’re a charlatan. A fraud.”
“I am,” he admitted. “And for that, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry! Sorry cannot replace those stolen years.” Sophia covered her mouth with her hand as though she might cast up her accounts. Tears welled. “Tell me Jessica recovered recently and you’re merely plying her with medicine to collect your fee. Tell me she was ill from the beginning, and my reasons for marrying Lord Adair were not unfounded. Tell me!”
Goodwin’s beady gaze flicked nervously around the room. He was about to speak but hesitated.
“Answer the lady, or I swear I’ll drive a poker through your black heart,” Finlay barked. “And I don’t care if I damn well hang.”
The doctor’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a cork in water. “Miss Draper took a blow to the head and suffered a concussion. With a few weeks rest, she would have made a full recovery.”
“What does that mean?” Sophia struggled to sit still.
Finlay cursed Goodwin to the fiery pits of hell. “It means he’s been drugging her from the beginning, making you believe she is ill so he can visit her weekly.”
“No. No. That’s not possible.” Sophia shook her head repeatedly. “No. I want to hear it from his mouth. I want to hear him say the words.”
Goodwin gulped. “Mr Cole is correct. I only pray the constant use of laudanum has caused no lasting damage.”
Silence descended, yet the air hummed with the explosive energy of a thunderstorm.
Sophia shot off the sofa and struck the doctor. “Do you know what you’ve done?” she cried, pounding Goodwin’s chest with her clenched fists. “Do you know how many lives you’ve ruined?”
Guilt saw the doctor stand and take his punishment.
Finlay let Sophia hit the doctor once more before jumping to his feet and drawing her back into an embrace. She whirled around in his arms, buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
He stroked her hair, knowing Jessica would never regain the years she had lost. One man’s evil actions had altered everyone’s lives, and yet his motive was still unclear.
“This isn’t about collecting your weekly fee,” Finlay said, trying to understand why Goodwin would risk his reputation for little reward. “There are plenty of ways a professional man can earn a living.”
The doctor straightened his waistcoat and gave a mocking snort. “That’s just it. I’m not a professional man. I’m not a doctor. I only wish I were, then the devil would have had no cause to blackmail me.”
Sophia raised her head and wiped her eyes. “You’re not a doctor?”
“No.”
“But you studied in Vienna. Held a position at Guy’s Hospital.”
“My father paid for my studies abroad, but I’m not suited to the work. Let’s just say, I spent the money on reckless things, fed my father lies until his stomach was fat and bloated.”
It was a story Finlay had heard many times—irresponsible young men failing to make their fathers proud. “Someone knew you lived like a Sybarite and threatened to tell your father.”
“I fooled those in Godstow for a short time.” Goodwin took the poker from the stand and prodded the fire—more for protection, it seemed, than a need to stab the measly lumps of coal. “But I made the mistake of confiding in Archer.”
“Bartholomew blackmailed him,” Maud said as she sat, hands clasped in her lap, watching Goodwin’s reluctan
t confession. “He was to make people believe Miss Draper was ill so Bartholomew could marry me.”
“No disrespect,” Sloane interjected. “But why would Archer want to marry the maid and not Miss Draper?”