“And the drink was made from foxglove?”

“There were some twenty herbs in the potion,” Withering said with a trace of pride in his voice. “It took me nearly a year to narrow my study to foxglove, and then to begin to understand the remarkable qualities of this plant. It seems to have the ability to cure tumultuous action on the part of the heart.”

“Tumultuous action?” Jemma asked, confused.

“Irregularities,” Withering explained. “Skipped beats. Just as it soothes an overly rapid heartbeat, it also speeds up an overly slow one.”

“We must find the Gypsy,” Jemma said, picking up her bonnet.

Elijah laughed—he actually laughed. “If we find the Gypsy and I drink the potion, I would need to keep taking it. Do I spend the rest of my life chasing a Gypsy down country lanes? She’s a traveler.”

“You would have a life in which to chase her, Elijah!”

He just looked at her, and there was something in his eyes…She turned to Withering. Not many people could withstand Jemma at her most formidable, and the doctor wasn’t one of them. He actually flinched. “In your opinion, does my husband have insufficient time to find this Gypsy?”

“I would not advise travel.”

“I asked you a question,” she said steadily.

The doctor fidgeted and then said: “In my opinion, your husband does not have much time.”

Elijah intervened. “My heart lost its rhythm repeatedly in the time that Dr. Withering was listening to my chest, Jemma. Of course, I was lying flat, and that’s the worst possible position.”

She nodded. It seemed that Elijah had only a few days to live. She turned to the doctor again. “Have any of your patients survived, or only the Gypsy’s patient?”

He bridled a little. “I would not keep working with foxglove had I not had successes. There are a number of people, a significant number, who are thriving.” He saw the look in her eye. “But I cannot give it to the duke. It’s far too dangerous. You don’t understand.”

“I thoroughly understand. You have been experimenting with the poor,” Jemma said, stepping closer to him. “You have been choosing your patients in Spitalfields, and who’s to argue when they die in your chambers?”

“It’s for the benefit of science,” he said with a sort of gasp. “They come to me desperate. No one else can help them. I have done considerable service with the poor. I don’t merely treat heart ailments: I have done my best with everything from dropsy to scrofula.”

“But a duke of the realm is a different proposition,” she said.

“You must see that I am simply not at a stage in my research at which I can sufficiently—”

“You will give the medicine to my husband in the morning,” Jemma stated. “I will not allow him to die when there is a possible remedy.”

“My last patient expired,” Withering gibbered.

“Within an hour of trying the remedy. It’s too strong, you see. Boiling the powder gave it the power that I needed, but it went too far.”

“Make sure you don’t go too far tomorrow morning,” Jemma said grimly. “Perhaps you can spend the night calibrating the proper amount by reconsidering the case of your lost patient. We shall be here at eight of the clock.”

“I cannot!” Withering cried. “I cannot! You do not understand, Your Grace! If the duke were to die here, in my chambers, I would be hanged. They wouldn’t listen to me. And my work—my work!”

“He’s right,” Elijah said. “He’s right, Jemma.”

“He is not right!” she cried.

“His work is important. He has lost some patients, but his discoveries seem to me critically important. If we were to force him to give me the medicine, and I were to die, he would be hanged, merely because I am a duke.” He said it flatly. “I cannot allow a man to be hanged on my behalf, Jemma, nor stop research that has the potential to help so many people.”

“Don’t be like that!” she half screamed at him.

His face was like stone. “I cannot be other than I am.”

“Stop being so bloody good! Think of yourself for once, Elijah! Don’t you want to live? Don’t you want to stay here? What if I am carrying a child? What if—” Her voice cracked and she half turned from him.

“I would give anything to stay with you.” He took her shoulders in his hands, gripping her so hard that it hurt. “I would give my dukedom, every penny I ever had, my right arm, to stay with you. To stay with our child if we have one. How could you even ask?”

She looked into his beautiful dark eyes. “Then—”

He shook his head. “My money, my dukedom, my right arm, Jemma. But not another man’s life and his work. Even if I were to somehow arrange it so Withering were exonerated, he couldn’t continue his work. I would give anything that is mine to stay in the world. Anything!”

His face twisted, and she knew—knew with her deepest heart—that he meant it. “I cannot risk another man’s life to save my own,” he said, and in his eyes, despair warred with honor.

She could love Elijah for who he was, or she could wish that she’d married another man altogether. “Oh God,” she whispered, falling into his arms.

“I am sorry,” Withering said helplessly. “In another six months I believe I will have a much better understanding of the properties of the drug.”

Jemma’s mind reeled like that of a drunkard. “I can’t let you die,” she said into Elijah’s coat.

His arms tightened around her but he said nothing. She could feel his lips on her hair. It was over. They would go home, and tonight, or tomorrow morning, soon, too soon, Elijah would leave her.

She straightened, and pulled away from his arms, turning back to Withering. “What are the symptoms of a patient dying of an overly potent dose of your medicine?”

“He becomes nauseated and vomits,” Withering said. “He sees auras, lights around ordinary objects. The end comes very quickly thereafter.”

She nodded. “I will thank you to write down in detail the amount of boiled powder that you gave the man who recently died. We shall take the details with us along with the medicine.”

“I couldn’t allow—”

“No one will know. Our entire household is well aware of the duke’s heart ailment. He and I shall be alone tonight. Should the worst ensue, everyone will assume that the duke’s heart has given out, which will be, in fact, the case. I will never say a word to anyone.” She held Withering’s eye. “I do not ever tell untruths. I say to you now: I will not betray you.”

“If only I had six months!” Withering cried, wringing his hands.

“Might you perhaps gather some notes in case we decide to try this remedy?” Elijah said to the doctor.

Withering looked at him blindly. “I wish you had not found your way to my chambers!”

“We wouldn’t have,” Jemma said, “but Elijah is as well-known to the poor in Spitalfields as you are.”

“Doctor, will you give us a moment alone?” Elijah asked.

“I’ll write it down, but I don’t approve; I don’t approve!” The doctor trotted from the room, still wringing his hands.