#DailyLines #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #gettingtoknowtheinlaws


Denny had pulled up the stool from the dressing table and was still holding Pardloe’s wrist, addressing him in calm tones.


“Thee is in no immediate danger, as thee likely knows. Thy pulse is strong and regular, and while thy breathing is clearly still compromised, I think—ah, is this the tincture the Scotswoman mentioned? I thank thee, Rachel; will thee pour—“ But Rachel, long accustomed to medical situations, was already decanting some blackish-brown stuff that looked like the contents of a spittoon into the brandy glass.


“Shall I—“ Denzell’s attempt to hold the glass for the duke was pre-empted by Pardloe’s seizing the glass for himself and taking a gulp that all but choked him on the spot. Hunter calmly observed the coughing and spluttering, then handed him a handkerchief.


“I have heard it theorized that such cataclysms of breath as thee is experiencing may be precipitated by violent exercise, a rapid change of temperature, exposure to smoke or dust, or in some cases, by a surge of violent emotion. In the present instance, I believe I may possibly have caused thy crisis by my appearance, and if so, I ask thy pardon.” Denny took the handkerchief and handed Pardloe back the glass, wise enough not to tell him to sip the stuff.


“Perhaps I may make some recompense for this injury, though,” he said. “I gather thy brother is not at home, since I can’t suppose that he would remain absent from this gathering unless he were dead in the cellar, and I should hope that’s not the case. Has thee seen him recently?”

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