Then he threw open his drawer, extracted the laudanum, and threw it, too.
The bottle hit with a satisfying smash.
To hell with opium to dull his pain. To hell with Arthur Parkross.
Monty crumpled the letter, stood, strode across the study, and tossed it into the fire just as he had the last. The time had come to change. He was consigning the past to the ashes where it belonged, and he was going to rise.
Rise like the bloody phoenix.
*
Something was wrong with Ewan.
Hattie observed him in troubled silence as the dessert courses were laid before them at dinner. His skin was pale, almost gray. His countenance was stern and harsh, almost as if all the life had been extracted from him. All through their meal, he had been withdrawn. No longer filled with sensual smiles and easy teasing.
She waited until the servants departed, leaving them to enjoy their gateau à la Madeleine, to give voice to her concerns. “Is something amiss, Ewan? You have scarcely eaten anything all evening, and you are so terribly quiet.”
He extracted a handkerchief from his coat and dabbed at his brow. “I am perfectly well, sweet. Thank you for your concern.”
She did not believe his reassurance. Instinct told her he was prevaricating to placate her. In the light of the chandelier, she took note that he was sweating, when the room was not overly warm. He dabbed at his forehead, his hand shaking.
“Are you feverish?” she pressed.
If he was coming down with an illness, that would certainly explain the sudden changes in him.
“It is excessively hot in this cursed chamber,” he said. “Do you not find it so?”
Worry for him grew. “No, I do not. Ewan, are you certain you are well? You do not look like yourself.”
“Do I not?” At last, his sensual lips quirked into a grim smile. The shadows in his eyes seemed remarkably pronounced tonight. Indeed, his entire countenance seemed as if it were cast in them as well.
But perhaps that was just fanciful thinking on her part.
“No,” she said softly, struggling to understand this sudden change in him. “You do not.”
How she wished his mother had not chosen to attend a musicale tonight. Perhaps the dowager duchess could have spoken to her fears. Or allayed them. Then again, Hattie had not failed to note the tension simmering between her husband and his mother.
“Perhaps I look like a stranger to you this evening,” he mused, lifting his wine to his lips and taking a healthy draught of it. His hand shook, sending a splash of claret to his cravat. An ominous red stain blossomed, ruining the elegance of his intricately tied neckcloth. “Did you ever think it is because I am a stranger, Hattie darling? Did you ever think you do not know me at all?”
She frowned, trying to make sense of his questions. It was as if he spoke in riddles.
“Of course, I know you, Ewan,” she countered, the lush cake on her plate remaining untouched. She had not the stomach to eat another bite. Not when her husband was acting so unlike himself. “I have known you for years.”
“Have you?” He gulped down the rest of his wine. “I think not.”
“I have certainly grown more acquainted with you over the last fortnight,” she agreed, trepidation lending her voice an edge. She could not shake the suspicion he was hinting at something. Trying to tell her something.
What? A confession?
Had he done something he regretted?
Her aching heart gave a pang at the thought, but it was instantly chased away by guilt. How dare she think the worst of him when he had given her no reason to suspect he had been disloyal?
Still, the worry was there. Burning like a flame.
“The last fortnight has been the best I have ever known,” he told her solemnly.
And she was more confused than ever. She had felt the same—that aside from the miserable first day of their union, she had spent her tenure as his wife in utter bliss. Utter, unexpected happiness. A sea of sensual pleasures. He had taught her so much. Had awakened her in so many ways. And her love for him had grown exponentially.
Perhaps that was why his abrupt shift worried her so much now. Because it was a sign that her greatest fear—that he would grow tired of her and move to the next woman’s bed—could come to fruition.
“It has been the same for me.” Her eyes searched his, seeking answers and finding none. “Will you not have a bite of your cake?”
“I do not want cake.” He pushed the plate away from him.
Again, she noted a tremor in his hand. This time, it was punctuated by a shudder running through him.
Her instinct was not wrong, she was sure of it. “Ewan, please. Do I need to have someone fetch the doctor for you?”
“Do not look so troubled, pet.” He gave her the ghost of a smile. “No sawbones can cure what ails me.”
She did not understand. Apprehension lanced her anew. “Will you not confide in me? I cannot help but to fear something is wrong.”
“Everything is wrong, sweet Hattie.” The look he gave her was piercing in its intensity. “Everything but you. I am afraid I have not the stomach for food this evening. Nor do I have the fortitude for my husbandly duties. I will not be coming to you tonight.”
His words could not have shocked her more. He had come to her each night, staying in her bed until morning. Often, they woke in the morning and made love all over again. Surely this was a sign that something was far more wrong than he was suggesting.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, struggling to make sense of what was happening.
She felt as if she had been rudely awakened from a glorious dream, only to discover the world she had been inhabiting was not real.
“Aside from marrying me?” he shook his head, another shudder coursing through him. “Nothing, my angel.”
At his last shudder, she rose from her chair, determined to close the distance between them. He was ill, and it was growing more painfully apparent by the moment. Stubborn man. Did he think to hide a weakness from her? Was he ashamed? Or was he so ill that he did not realize something was wrong with him?
Whatever the reason, it hardly mattered, for when she reached him, she discovered he was radiating heat. She pressed a hand to his brow. “Ewan, you are feverish.”
“I have never felt better,” he drawled.
His skin was damp. She smoothed his forelock into place, then took his hands in hers. “Come, darling. We must get you to bed. You need to rest so you can get well.”
He allowed her to pull him to his feet, but when he looked down at her, it was as if he was looking straight through her. “I will never be well, darling. More’s the pity.”
He went even paler as she tugged him away from the table.
“Christ, Hattie, stop moving me,” he rasped, sounding as if he were about to be sick.
She stilled, worry compounding. What in heaven’s name could be wrong with him? None of the servants were ill, and they had scarcely left Hamilton House in the last fortnight. It made no sense. Still, she knew he could not remain here in the dining room in such a condition. He needed to get to his bedchamber, and she needed to send for his physician.
“You must come, Ewan,” she told him gently. “You need rest. Let me take care of you.”
“All you have been doing is trying to heal me ever since we wed,” he muttered. “It cannot be done.”
“Yes,” she countered firmly. “It can. And it will. All you have to do is allow it. All you have to do is let me in.”
She sensed his inner struggle, watched as he vacillated before her.
At long last, the struggle seemed to drain from him before her eyes.
“Very well, Hattie mine. I will allow you to try.”
She should have known a swift rush of relief at his words and his surrender both. But all she felt as she led him to his chamber was the rising tide of apprehension ready to drown her.
Chapter Eighteen
Monty was cold, cold
er than he had ever been. He huddled beneath bedclothes soaked with his own sweat, teeth chattering as another violent surge of nausea clenched his gut.
Beelzebub’s earbobs, how many more times would he need to cast up his accounts? Surely there was nothing left to vomit. Surely this would all soon subside. He had never, in all his life, been so miserable. At least, not in his adult life.
There had been a time…
A paroxysm overcame him. Nay, he would not think of that time now. His misery was great enough. He wondered how much longer this wretched sickness would last.
He had heard, of course, about the sickness that invariably affected opium eaters when they abruptly ceased indulging. He was no stranger to vice. He had not expected it to be so incapacitating, however. Nor had he imagined it would be prolonged, over the course of days.
It had taken him a full day of going without laudanum for the signs to begin to show. He had foolishly persuaded himself, in the interim, that his consumption of laudanum had not been great enough to render such an ill-effect. Much like the tales of drunkards suddenly quitting swill and becoming violently sick, for he had never suffered such an ailment, he had supposed himself inured.
But by dinner last night, he had known something was desperately wrong. He had suffered through the courses in a valiant attempt to keep his wife from discovering his shame. Though she had been insistent she call for his doctor, he had somehow convinced her to wait.
Through the darkness of the night, when the nightmares had come to claim him, she had rescued him from their vile clutches when she appeared with her candle, illuminating the shadows, bathing his fevered brow with a cool cloth. She had been present for his endless retching. Through it all, she had soothed him with her sweet voice and her gentle caresses.
Blearily, he glanced around the chamber, finding himself alone.
He did not want her to be here, so it was just as well Hattie had finally heeded him and gone. He had no wish for her to see him brought so low, and all by his own recklessness. There was another prick for his guilty conscience.
She still believed his malady was caused by something innocent, when in fact he had created it himself.
He should have told her. Should have explained. But he could not bear to see the inevitable disgust in her eyes. Or to be faced with the questions she would ask. Why was not a query he was prepared to answer. The reasons he sought oblivion were not reasons he would impart to anyone.
Ever.
His gut clenched.
Where was the damned chamber pot? Blindly, his hand fumbled through the covers surrounding him. At last, he found it, blessedly emptied. He supposed she was responsible for seeing to it that the servants kept him as comfortable as possible as well. Of course she was. His angel was brave and strong and true, refusing to do anything other than see to his every care.
If she only knew the truth.
The truth of who and what he was.
He doubled over the chamber pot then, his stomach heaving. Nothing emerged from his stomach, but the sickness was not through with him. His gut clenched again. Three more dry heaves, and he collapsed back against the mound of pillows Hattie had arranged for him during the night. The ethereal scent of violets tinged the air, blending with the sharp tang of sweat.
He shivered again and bundled the covers around himself.
Perhaps this was how he would meet his end.
It was fitting, he had to admit, for a scoundrel like him.
His eyes fluttered closed once more as another shudder claimed him. An indeterminate span of time passed. He may have drifted to sleep for a few blessed moments of peace. But when his eyes opened once more, it was to his wife’s beautiful, worried face hovering over him.
She stroked his hair gently. “I have sent for the doctor, Ewan. You should not be this ill.”
Bloody stubborn wench. He had told her he had no wish to be poked and prodded by a damned sawbones. He already knew what was wrong with him. And unless the bastard was going to pour some laudanum down his throat, there was no remedy for his ailment.
“No doctor,” he growled.
“You must be seen to,” she countered, still stroking his hair.
He loved the way she touched him. Even as lost as he was now, washed up on the rocky shoals of despair, almost drowned, he wanted more of her sweet caresses. More of Hattie. More of his angel. She had been sent here to save him, to pluck him from the darkness, to bring him into the light. He shivered again, wishing he could escape the damned bedclothes and take her in his arms as he so desperately longed to do.
“No doctor,” repeated, but his voice was not firm. Rather, it was a thin, pathetic quiver.
“Hush,” she told him, kissing his brow. “Try to rest, my love.”
He shuddered again, feeling weak. Broken. Useless.
He had enough strength to reach from beneath the counterpane and grasp her hand. Their fingers entwined, hers giving him hope.
He fell back into delirium to the sound of two precious words.
My love.
*
She should have ignored her husband’s wishes and sent for his physician last night as she had wanted, Hattie told herself as she paced the hall outside Ewan’s chamber. But she had listened to him. He had been so adamant then, so certain all would be well by morning. He had made her promise not to send for Dr. Young, and she reluctantly had.
But over the course of the evening, his condition had gone from poor to grave. He had been shouting, suffering violent nightmares. Fevers continued to wrack him. And then the retching had begun.
Fear infected her now as she waited for the physician to emerge from the duke’s apartments. Her chest ached, and it felt as if it were constricting. Breathing hurt. Ewan was so very ill. He had been retching all morning, but there was nothing left for him to bring up.
“Do try to calm down, Hattie, dearest,” entreated Ewan’s mother, breaking into the tumult of her thoughts. “It does you no good to fret. Dr. Young is an esteemed physician, and Montrose is in excellent care.”
She wished she could be as blasé. All she knew was a sick sea of dread. “How can you not worry? He seemed so very ill.”
“If he is ill, it is likely caused by an ailment of his own making,” the dowager observed acidly. “I have known Montrose all his life, if you will recall. He has ever been reckless, with no shortage of foibles.”
What a bloodless manner of thinking about one’s own son.
“Do you not care at all?” she snapped, irritated with the dowager for her seeming lack of compassion.
“Of course I care.” Ewan’s mother sighed heavily. “But your marriage to him is so very new, my dear. You scarcely known him. In time, you will understand precisely why I do not excite myself over my son’s ways. One grows tired of looking after the mischief he makes for himself. He will never change.”
There it was again, the suggestion she did not know her husband, much like the warnings Ewan himself continually issued to her. What was it that her husband and his mother knew, which she did not?
The door opened before she could ask, and the physician emerged, looking grim.
Hattie rushed forward, somehow managing to speak past the fear choking her throat. “How is His Grace, Dr. Young?”
“He is as well as can be expected in such a circumstance,” the doctor said. He was scarcely older than Ewan himself, tall and lean with a hawk-like nose and thinning blond hair.
“How much longer will he be this ill?” she asked next, praying his answer would be what she wanted to hear, that Ewan would be on the mend soon.
“Naturally, in matters such as this, the duration of the illness is dependent upon the patient.” Dr. Young paused, frowning at her. “How much laudanum has His Grace been consuming, and how long has he been consuming it?”
“Laudanum?” she repeated, confused. “I am afraid I do not understand what that has to do with his illness…”
Her words trailed off as she thought of Ewan’s va
let, wondering if he would be taking laudanum in his tea. She recalled her conversation with him following that incident. He had claimed to take laudanum to abate the pain in his ankle.
Do you take it every day? she had asked him.
No, he had told her, only when it is necessary.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Dr. Young said, sympathy tingeing his voice now. “This is a sensitive matter indeed. The illness His Grace is suffering is what happens when someone has been consuming laudanum in quantities beyond the ordinary, and on a regular schedule. He was not particularly forthcoming with the specifics of his consumption, and I was hopeful you might be familiar with it.”
She struggled to comprehend the information the doctor had just imparted. “That is impossible, Dr. Young. His Grace only takes laudanum occasionally for the pain in the ankle he injured recently in a phaeton accident.”
“Ah, I see,” said Dr. Young quietly, his countenance grimmer than it had been before.
“What do you see?” Desperation was mingling with despair within her now, accompanying the already queasy sense of dread. “Just what is it you are suggesting, Doctor?”
“As is common in such circumstances, His Grace has been hiding his laudanum dependence from you,” the doctor said quietly. “The violence of his reaction suggests His Grace was using the laudanum in greater quantities for a prolonged period of time. He has admitted to me that he abruptly stopped taking drops of it two days ago, which explains the reaction he is currently suffering.”
If what Dr. Young was telling her was correct, Ewan had lied to her. Like the jagged shards of a broken porcelain vase being glued back together, the truth was gradually taking shape in her mind. So much of what had happened made sense. Ewan claimed to need the laudanum for his ankle, and yet he had climbed a tree to reach her. He had danced with her. Carried her in his arms. This was what he had been referring to when he had warned she did not know him.
When he had told her he was irredeemable.
This was also the reason why she had no longer smelled spirits on his person.
Duke of Debauchery Page 20
