“Doctors,” Windebank had told her, “are old fools. Take fevers, for example. Piers discovered that, by their combination of blood-letting and heating the internal temperature, doctors were actually killing their patients. Members of the Royal College fought him tooth and nail until he finally put his patient record against that of an eminent practitioner, Ketelaer. Ketelaer lost all but three of his patients, and from about the same number, Piers lost only one.”

So she was marrying a genius. It did sound as if he had a tendency to lose his temper when crossed, but she was confident that she could manage him.

The morning of their arrival at the castle, she wound some linen cloth around her waist to give her a slightly thicker profile, and regarded herself in the mirror. Apart from her waistline, she looked precisely like a princess in any one of a hundred fairy tales: clear blue eyes, reddish-gold hair, beautiful skin. Plus the family smile.

She would give herself two weeks to ensure that her fiancé (perhaps husband, by then) was desperately in love with her, and then she meant to confess that she wasn’t carrying a child.

The castle was set on the cliffs, and as the carriages started up the road, the sun was rising hot and yellow to their left. “Enjoy this sunshine,” the duke said. She’d allowed him to join her carriage for the final leg of their journey. “I’m afraid that Wales is infamous for its wet weather. I do wish that you could talk my son into moving to London, my dear. I know he could do so much good there. Not that I’m suggesting that he have a regular practice, of course. He will be a peer of the realm. But he could consult on the most interesting cases.”

There was something about the duke’s descriptions of his son that was a little . . . odd. As if he didn’t know him very well, although that couldn’t be the case.

Linnet leaned forward in anticipation as they neared the castle. It was massive, built of light gray stone, and had four or five turrets that she could see. “Is it very old?” she asked.

“Ancient,” the duke said, looking out as well. “Been in the family for generations. One of my ancestors won it in a game of piquet. Piers had to make extensive repairs, since no one had lived in it for ages.”

The carriages drew up in an enclosed area outside a great arched door.

“Ah, there you are, Prufrock,” the duke said, leaping out.

The butler seemed quite young for his position, probably only in his thirties, and so thin as to be stork-like, with skin the color of milky tea. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing.

His eyes moved to Linnet, who had just stepped from the carriage with the help of a groom. He didn’t have that butler’s knack of keeping an impervious face; his eyes widened and one eyebrow flew up in an unexpectedly charming manner.

“This is Prufrock,” the duke said. “Miss Thrynne, my son’s fiancée. I’m sure Piers informed you of our impending arrival.”

Prufrock ushered them through the huge doors straight into a great, open room with a huge staircase going up either side. The door was as thick as Linnet’s hand was wide, and clearly built to withstand sieges.

“Where shall we find my son?” the duke asked. There was something in his voice, some sort of barely suppressed joy, that made Linnet wonder.

She took off her bonnet and pelisse, and handed them to a footman.

“Lord Marchant is in the west wing, and he has been informed, of course, of your arrival,” Prufrock said. “I sent a footman there as soon as we caught sight of your carriages. I expect he will join you any moment. If Miss Thrynne wishes to refresh herself, I can escort her and her maid to her chamber. Perhaps Your Grace as well?”

“Nonsense,” the duke said. “We left our inn only a matter of an hour or two ago. Patients are housed on the third floor, aren’t they, Prufrock?”

“Yes, but—”

The duke strode off. Then he hesitated, turned around, and grabbed Linnet by the wrist. “I’ll take you with me,” he said, as if to himself. Before she even opened her mouth to reply, they were halfway up the left hand flight of stairs.

“Your Grace,” she gasped, catching up her skirts.

“Come along, come along,” he said over his shoulder. Now that they were finally at the castle, he seemed to be possessed by a ferocious compulsion. He towed her down a corridor.

Linnet concentrated on keeping up, though she could feel her heart beating faster and faster. At any moment she would meet the paragon she was to marry. She’d formed a picture of him in her mind: tall and willowy, with a limp that gave him a slight tilt to the side, a face lined by pain but imbued with the quite remarkable beauty that his father still possessed.

They rounded a corner. She could hear voices now. The duke walked even faster, pulling her along behind him. A door at the end of the corridor stood open and the duke dove through.

They were in a room with six beds, most of them occupied. A group of young men was clustered around a bed to the left. The duke let go of her arm at last and stepped forward. “Piers,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.

None of the men looked around at the interruption. Most of them were younger, probably students, and all were intently focused on the patient.

“A teaching session,” the duke breathed.

Linnet’s eyes darted over the men, immediately locating her fiancé. In fact, he was speaking. “Miliary fever. Presents with rash, febrile state.” His voice had the ring of utter authority. “The eruption appeared on the third day, which is conclusive evidence.” Marchant had a longer chin than she would have imagined, but the rest of him was perfect: sleekly blond hair, wildly intelligent, lean, with an arrogant look.

That was what got him the nickname of Beast—that arrogant look, as if he were more intelligent than anyone in the room. Still, she could see a kindness in him that belied the label.

His costume was exquisite. Frankly, she would never have thought to see a morning coat of that magnificence in Wales, or indeed anywhere outside London. Her father would have envied it, which was saying a great deal.

A young man to the right of the bed spoke up, rather hesitatingly. “Huxham says the rash might appear on the seventh, ninth, or eleventh day.”

“In my experience, eruption occurs on the third day,” her fiancé replied. His voice was just the sort to soothe a fretful patient, Linnet thought, wondering why he had a French accent, before remembering that he’d spent most of his life in that country, with his mother.

“Your experience is worthless,” some graceless student snarled from the other side of the bed. She could not see him since he was obscured by the other men. “And so is Huxham’s. The man was flailing in the dark. Seventh, eleventh; he might as well say that the eruption comes with the new moon. It’s all magic to him.”

“This eruption was accompanied by oppression and sinking spirits,” her fiancé responded, his voice a quiet reproach. “Lobb explicitly mentions those symptoms in connection with miliary eruptions.”

“Wouldn’t you have sinking spirits if you found yourself covered with a disgusting, crusty eruption?” the harsh voice said.

Beside her, the duke shifted to the side to see the speaker, and then smiled. Linnet’s heart sank as she grasped the meaning behind that smile.