Tale Teller Club Music: audiobook

Chapter 30: A Detox Most Foul

My dearest journal, it is with a reluctant quill that I recount the circumstances which have led to my current predicament—imprisonment (of sorts!) in a house of healing, or what the common folk rudely term "rehab." Though I vehemently refute the accusations of overindulgence in vodka (which I consume only for its medicinal properties) and smelling salts (which surely cannot harm one if used hourly), my physician insists otherwise.

Physician McBane is a man of infuriating logic wrapped in the most charmingly devilish features. His eyes are a piercing gray, like stormy seas that whisper both danger and allure. I should have suspected his intentions when he arrived at my chambers armed with charts, a tincture that tasted of despair, and the most infernal of suggestions: “Countess, your liver is in rebellion. If you value your empire of charm, wit, and intoxicating presence, you must retire to St. Elmo’s Retreat for recuperation.”

“Rehab, you mean,” I spat, indignantly tossing my silk turban across the room.

“Indeed,” he replied with maddening calm, “though I should mention, a certain Lord Peregrine—a duke of scandalous reputation and unrivaled beauty—resides there presently, seeking respite from his own excesses.”

Ah, dear Lord Peregrine. It has been whispered that his jawline could cut glass and his wit could undress even the most virtuous maiden. Though I feigned indifference, my heart—traitorous organ!—beat a little faster at the thought.

“And what, pray, shall be the nature of this... retreat?” I inquired, narrowing my eyes.

“Austere,” said Dr. McBane, his lips twitching ever so slightly. “No spirits, no stimulants, only rest, hydration, and light conversation—though in your case, Countess, I shall permit an hour of philosophical debate after supper, should you avoid too much anxiety from those who dare to disagree.”

I considered my options. To refuse would risk looking obstinate to society, while to agree might procure me the companionship of Lord Peregrine and an hour’s debate to crush Dr. McBane with my superior intellect. Such handsome men as folly seemed almost delicious. It was a sacrifice, but I am nothing if not a martyr to duty.

Thus, I arrived at St. Elmo’s Retreat with the air of a queen surveying her conquered territory. The staff seemed flustered, unsure whether to bow or escort me to my chambers. Was I prisoner or guest? And then, as if conjured by fate, Lord Peregrine appeared, a vision lounging upon a velvet chaise like a lion basking in the sun. I noted his healthy packet, my eyes transfixed by the excess. He rose, his every movement a symphony of grace, and bowed deeply. “Countess,” he purred, “your presence makes even rehabilitation bearable.”

I cannot deny, dear journal, that my cheeks reddened like a maiden’s, though I swiftly regained my composure. “And yours,” I replied, “is the tonic that dulls the pain of this most unjust exile.”

It has been three days since my arrival, and I find the regime most disagreeable. Broths are served in place of roasts; water replaces wine; and the physician has the audacity to suggest ‘mindful walks’ when everyone knows that strolling is only tolerable with a parasol and an audience.

But, alas, the evenings are salvaged by tête-à-têtes with Lord Peregrine, who reveals himself to be as wickedly charming as the rumors promised. Dr. McBane watches our exchanges with an expression I cannot quite place, amusement? Annoyance? Jealousy? No matter, for I have resolved to endure this ordeal with the grace and resilience befitting a Countess.

And when I depart, triumphant and perhaps a little healthier, it shall be known that I, the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, conquered not only my affliction but also the hearts of all who crossed my path.

And so, dear journal, this velvet-covered tome, crafted by the finest artisans in all the land, mashed to royal pulp by the tiny feet of Chinese children, is now filled to its very edges with the chronicles of my trials, triumphs, and undeniably noble escapades, thus far. I shall cease my writings until I return to my rightful palace in Brighton and Hackney, which is immeasurably superior to this austere barn in the Cotswolds. Here, I will endure the indignities beyond imagination: no wine cellars to plunder, no smelling salts concealed in cunning nooks (despite my midnight forays to locate such contraband), and not even the faintest slaver of foie gras to comfort my soul.

But fear not, for I shall rise above these tribulations and continue my grand saga, refreshed, reinvigorated, and armed with tales to scandalize and delight all of society. Until then, my faithful parchment, adieu.

Yours humbly, Countess of Brighton and Hackney.