The Duchess’ Left Hand
His robes made little noise as he moved through the restricted section of the Duchess’ garden. He lovingly tended his beauties; Aconitum with its dark blue flowers, the shrubby Brugmansia with its trumpet-shaped flowers, Digitalis with its purple tubular flowers on a central spike, and others.
“Lorcan! I need you. Attend me.”
He finished pruning dead foliage off the plant he was inspecting, placed the cuttings into a canvas pouch on his belt and standing, purposefully strode towards the manor house. He locked the metal gate as he passed into the rose garden.
“Where are you?”
“Here, my lady!”
The hem of his robe rustled as he picked up his pace. He mounted the stairs and passed through the arched portico covered in tendrils and entered the patio. The Duchess, in a black and deep red gothic gown, stood fidgeting with her reading glasses. Her personal assistant held the door to the foyer open.
“The bastard. The churlish half-faced lout.”
Lorcan nodded.
“He rejected me. Me! I want you to…”
Lorcan raised a hand. “Don’t speak it Madam. Not here.”
“You’re right… To my study, where we can talk in private.”
***
Lorcan didn’t care about who or why, he was his lady’s problem solver. He took care of or eliminated things that vexed her. He took a week to plan a resolution to this problem, a so-called gentleman who maligned his Duchess.
Lorcan dressed as a waiter at the miscreant’s private club where he smoked, drank, and read. It was teatime. Lorcan had prepared the pot of Earl Grey enhanced with purified belladonna root extract from his plants. He served, and the gentleman asked for honey. Lorcan had prepared for this eventuality and used Oleander nectar honey. Lorcan completed, withdrew, moved to the edge of the room, and waited.
The gentleman coughed, a pinkish froth at the corner of his mouth. He swayed, fell forward, grasping at his chest and hit the table dead, knocking over the centerpiece, a sprig of Oleander with its clusters of pink five-lobed flowers.
