“My carriage is out front.” Rowles escorted her from the room. “Where is Morgan?”

Joan turned back. “He’s attending to some business. Allow me a moment to call a maid to accompany me, and we shall be off.”

Only a few minutes later, Joan sat beside Mary in the duke’s luxurious carriage as it made haste toward his mother’s lodgings.

“She…” His attention wavered to the maid and back to Joan.

“She is trustworthy,” Joan said, answering the unspoken question. Often the help were greater gossipmongers than the ton themselves, but Mary was soft-spoken and had her own secrets to keep, so she honored the confidences of others with more discretion than most. It was for that reason Joan had asked her instead of her lady’s maid to accompany them.

Rowles nodded in acceptance of her judgment. “My mother isn’t well, as you are fully aware. All of London is aware,” he added softly. “But the extent isn’t known. It’s all speculation. A few weeks ago there was an incident that required me to move her to separate lodgings. The staff at the house are fully competent, but I fear my mother’s malady is beyond even their capabilities.” He hesitated. “I’ll explain more when we arrive.”

Joan nodded once. There was much she wished to say, but she kept her peace, waiting for the right moment.

It wasn’t a long trip to his mother’s lodgings, and soon they were halted in front of a gray stone town house outside of Mayfair. Rowles stepped from the carriage and immediately turned to assist her.

The door to the house opened as they approached, a footman clearly awaiting the master’s return. As they entered, Rowles nodded to the footman and waved toward the stairs, leading her upward. “There are nurses aplenty. Your maid can wait in the parlor, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Joan replied, then turned to her maid. “Mary?” Joan nodded to the servant, who curtsied and followed another footman to the door on the left of the staircase, which displayed a small but lavishly furnished parlor.

Joan followed Rowles up the stairs, her nose tingling with the scent of something familiar yet not. The sweet scent of cloves and licorice with a hint of cinnamon filtered through the air, permeating it. She took a deeper breath, and Rowles turned slightly toward her as they strode down the second-floor hall. “Laudanum.”

It was one word that conveyed volumes.

“She grabbed the bottle from the nurse who was giving her the usual evening dose. My mother made quick work of ingesting as much as possible before they were able to stop her. It spilled everywhere as they…fought her for it.”

Joan’s heart sank, myriad emotions swirling through her: empathy, pity, despair, mourning, and understanding.

“I’m very sorry,” she whispered, not knowing what else to say, and knowing it wasn’t nearly enough.