Free Death in Hellfire by Deryn Lake

answered Georgiana, disinterested. She gave a little cough.
    “Have you suffered from that for long?” the Apothecary asked.
    “Yes, for some time now.”
    “I must try and find a cure for it.”
    “Do you know about things like that?”
    “I have a certain knowledge.”
    “Oh,” the child answered once more, in that same disinterested tone.
    At that moment a nursemaid bustled from the direction of the house and swooped down on Georgiana.
    “Oh, there you are, miss. I’ve been worried about you. Come on in and have a cold drink. Did you enjoy your ride?”
    “Yes, fairly,” the little girl answered and would have left without saying farewell to John had he not made her a sweeping bow and said, “Goodbye, Miss Arundel. No doubt we shall meet again.”
    She dropped him a very small curtsey. “Goodbye, Mr O’Hare. I hope we do.”
    John stared after her and was still doing so when the groom brought Rufus round, saddled up and ready to ride. The Apothecary slipped him a coin and set off down the east drive. At the lake, however, he had to draw into the side to make way for a rather vivid man also riding a horse and talking to himself.
    “ Merde ,” the fellow was muttering under his breath. “ Merde, merde. How could they be so damnable careless? That is what I want to know.”
    He had a pronounced French accent and was riding quite recklessly so that he did not see John until the last minute.
    “Watch out!” John called.
    The Frenchman pulled his horse to the side with a sudden jolt. “A thousand pardons, monsieur. The truth is I did not see you. You are not “urt, I trust?”
    “Too busy chattering away to yourself,” John answered without malice.
    The Frenchman grinned. “It is a “abit I have. I tell my wife it is because I am such a good conversationalist. Forgive me.”
    “Think nothing of it,” the Apothecary answered, and regarded him.
    He was a cheery-looking little man, with dark hair and bright eyes very reminiscent of a cock robin. He wore a hat which was slightly too small for him which he had crammed down over a wig that had seen better days. His suit, too, was workaday and in a sensible shade of brown. But the hands which held the reins belied his somewhat pedestrian appearance. For they were the hands of an artist, of someone immensely creative. Short and square they might be but the fingers were sensitive, beautiful almost. John was fascinated.
    “You’re going to see the Dashwoods?” he asked, stating the obvious.
    A cloud crossed the Frenchman’s face. “Careless lot,” he muttered. He raised his voice and said, “ Oui, monsieur. I am going to repair one of the Langlois commodes. Some idiot has bumped into it and damaged it.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    “Allow me to present myself. I am Pierre Dominique Jean, son-in-law of Pierre Langlois, the cabinet maker. I am known as Dominique.”
    John knew the name. “How do you do, sir? I am Jo…” He caught himself just in time. “Fintan O’Hare,” he continued. “You are a cabinet maker also?”
    Dominique shook his head. “No, I am a water gilder. In other words I design and make ormolu mounts for furniture, amongst other things.”
    “So what’s gone wrong in West Wycombe House?”
    “Some idiot knocked over one of the commodes, indeed must have given it a hearty shove, and has displaced two of the feet, Sir Francis wants me to repair it as soon as possible.”
    “I see.”
    “I’m going to assess the damage and see if I can mend it on the spot or whether I must take the commode back to the workshop.”
    “How are you going to manage that?” asked John, staring at the horse.
    “My dear monsieur , I have a coach which has lost a wheel and is awaiting repair in Maidenhead. I usually call on Sir Francis in my best clothes but, alas, they are in my trunk. So he must take me as I am.”
    “He’s not there,” John answered. “He’s coming back tomorrow.”
    The Frenchman looked relieved. “That’s as well. Lady Dashwood