THE HOUSE WAS all solemn stillness the next morning as Katherine left her room to check on Sebastian after a few hours of fitful slumber. Even Seamus and Penny seemed to have sensed the tension in the house, for they were making themselves scarce.
When she opened the door to the sickroom, she found Sebastian in much the same position as she had left him the night before. But instead of pale, bloodless cheeks, his face seemed flushed. It was not a good sign. She pressed her hand to his forehead. It was as hot as a smoldering coal.
“Triple damn,” she muttered to herself, for only foul language seemed appropriate at this juncture. The fever had started. So soon.
“Hear, hear,” came a familiar voice. She raised her head and noticed for the first time the two other people in the room: the Duke of Montford, looking not quite as impeccable as usual, and the Viscount Marlowe, who still seemed to be wearing a dressing gown. Both men looked haggard and visibly upset. Even the unconscionably irreverent Marlowe had no trace of humor left in his face.
Montford came to her side and took her hand. “We came as soon as we heard. Dr. Lucas has informed us of what happened.”
“He has a fever now,” she said, keeping her eyes on Sebastian’s face. She could not look at either of the two men. She could not bear for them to see the tears in her eyes. Tears she had no right to shed. “It is very bad.”
She heard a growl issue from the other side of the room. “I’ll kill Blanchard with my bare hands, see if I don’t,” Marlowe cried out hoarsely.
She looked up at this in surprise. “Blanchard?” But of course. It made sense. Sir Oliver’s vendetta against Sebastian was well publicized. Losing the court case might have been the last straw for the squire.
“Who else would have done it?” Marlowe answered her through clenched teeth. She blinked at him. She had never seen him in such a black rage, pale and trembling with fury, like a kettle about to boil over.
Montford merely looked like a grim undertaker, his emotions tamped down, but Katherine could see the fury glinting in his silvery eyes. She was suddenly glad to not be in the Blanchard family. “It seems a likely fit. He doubtless hired professionals, the coward. But we must not be impulsive, Marlowe. That means no knives or firearms.” He paused. “Yet.”
“Well, if he dies, I’m gutting the old codger,” Marlowe said with a sniff.
Katherine shivered when she saw the normally reasonable Montford merely nod his agreement with Marlowe’s bloodthirsty plan. But while she was a bit disconcerted, she wasn’t about to stop either of them. If Blanchard was to blame for this, she wanted to be there when Marlowe did the deed.
Marlowe stalked in her direction, one giant finger raised in a rather threatening manner. “And you . . . you’d better see that he’s looked after. Dr. Lucas said he mustn’t be moved. I won’t have you hastening his . . . his . . .”
Montford laid a firm hand on Marlowe’s shoulder. “Steady on, man.”
Katherine was offended all the way down to her toes. Marlowe, who wasn’t even capable of caring for himself, judging from his ridiculous attire, thought her incapable of caring for his friend. And she thought they were almost friends.
Her control up in smoke, she moved swiftly to Marlowe and poked him in the ribs as she had seen his sister do to him when he stepped out of line. Which was constantly. “And where were you, I wonder, while Sebastian was being assaulted? I thought you were supposed to be his best friend. I thought you were supposed to take care of him!”
Marlowe rubbed the place she had poked. He didn’t look chastened. He just looked like an angry bear after a baiting, looming over her, as if that were meant to scare her. One thing she had learned about Marlowe over the years, however, was that he was about as dangerous as a kitten when riled.
She stood her ground, scowling at him, trembling with emotion.
Marlowe broke first, his face crumbling before her eyes. With a great growl and an indignant huff, he spun away from her and stalked toward a window. He stared out of it, keeping his back to everyone else.
She turned to the duke, who was staring at her with his jaw hanging loose.
“What?” she demanded.
“You . . . yelled at Marlowe.”
“Did I?” She hadn’t realized.
“I think you made him cry.”
“I doubt that,” she scoffed.
Marlowe made a suspicious sniffling sound that seemed to belie her words.
Montford grew serious. “We are all upset. Sebastian is . . . very dear to me, and to Marlowe. You must forgive us both if we are rude.”
She nodded, and then turned her attention to the bed. “Has he stirred at all?”
“No.”
She bit her bottom lip. Her thoughts turned to the disturbing conversation last night with the doctor. “Dr. Lucas said that there is a chance . . .” An insurmountable lump rose in her throat. She couldn’t go on.
Montford was silent for a long time. “He will pull through. I am certain of it.” He gave her a weak smile.
“How can you be?” she pressed.
“Because I shall make him,” he said, as if it were obvious. “And so shall you.”
She hoped the duke’s faith in her was not unfounded.
For the rest of the day, her head felt dislodged from her body as she kept vigil at Sebastian’s bedside, willing him to wake alongside his friends and surly manservant, Crick, who’d shown up on the scene in a lather shortly after the duke and viscount.
The valet was loyal, if nothing else, and dedicated to his master, refusing to let any of Katherine’s staff attend to Sebastian’s direct needs, hovering distrustfully over Dr. Lucas’s shoulder whenever the man dared to check on his patient. Crick was still deeply suspicious of her as well. Apparently, realizing that she was not, in fact, a prostitute had done nothing to improve his opinion of her.
She had to grudgingly admire the man’s egalitarianism in his antipathies, if nothing else.
Sebastian’s mystery only increased as she saw how deeply his inner circle cared for him. The world thought him a dashing, devil-may-care rogue, and every exploit he committed only confirmed this opinion of him. But he wasn’t. He never had been, had he? The real Sebastian was the man who inspired unconditional love in the few people he considered friends. Who rescued recalcitrant pigs from burning castles and dandled squalling, naked infants on his knee.
She wanted to help him. She wanted him to live. She’d never believed in fate or destiny or any of that rubbish, but she was certain, as she’d never been certain of anything else, that finding him in that alley had not been an accident. And she couldn’t let herself believe that whatever force had placed him in her care would have him die in it.
Fate wouldn’t be so cruel.
Or so she hoped. She reminded herself of her own past anguish. Fate had not been kind in her hour of need. Fate had swept in and snatched away her child before it—he or she, she’d never been told, and had never worked up the courage to ask—had a chance to draw breath. Fate had nearly snatched her away as well—and oh, how she’d wished it had succeeded at that time. She’d lain on death’s door for a month after the birth, too ill, too frightened to even grieve for the babe.
She’d never been sure if she was grateful for surviving or not, and now she feared the duke’s faith in her ability to heal his friend was grossly misplaced.
But as she saw it, the world owed her, and she was not above calling in her vowels, whether Sebastian deserved it or not.
KATHERINE CAME AWAKE with a start. It was morning, blue sky, blazing sun. Outside the open casement windows, birds sang to each other, and the street was busy with its usual hubbub, oblivious to what was taking place in the room beyond. She lifted her head from a tangle of bedding, a sharp pain going through her neck from the awkward angle at which she’d slept. She was slumped in a low chair, she discovered, and was ho
lding a large, clammy hand in her own.
Sebastian’s.
The events of the previous day returned to her in a blur. The fever had set in that morning and had raged into the night, thoroughly ravaging Sebastian’s body before finally breaking around dawn.
She leaned in and felt his brow. He was still warm with fever, but not as hot as before.
She felt a modicum of relief and allowed herself to sit back in her chair, surveying her patient. It was perturbing how quickly illness could sap the strength from a man. His skin was ashen, waxy, where it wasn’t covered in bruises; his once lean, strong body was now wasted and gaunt. Lank strands of black hair were plastered to his skull, the hollows beneath his eyes sunken and bruised. It was as if she could see all the bones of his face jutting against his fragile, papery skin. He was a mere ghost of his former self.
Still, he seemed beautiful to her.
She wanted to put her arms around him and gather him against her breast. She wanted to give him her own strength, pour it into his gray, chapped lips as a healing balm. She didn’t really know or even like this man, but somehow he had become a part of her, a necessary part. When had it begun? Two nights ago, or years earlier, when they had been determined enemies?
How he had hated her! How his eyes had flashed with his secret rage whenever they’d encountered each other! She wondered what he would think if he knew she was the one who was caring for him now.
She brought trembling fingers to his lips, felt the feather-soft whisper of his breath against their tips.
“Please don’t die,” she whispered. “Come back, Sebastian.”
Something stirred in the bed. She snatched her fingers back to her side, her heart leaping with hope.
But it wasn’t Sebastian.
It was the blasted dog. Underneath all of the vermin and grime Polly had scrubbed away had been a buff-colored pug. Pure bred, by the look of it, and in the possession of surprisingly exquisite manners. Not at all what she had expected from a stray off the streets of Soho. Seamus was in alt over his new friend. Penny was, of course, less than pleased with the interloper, and made that known to everyone unfortunate enough to cross her path.
But the pug didn’t seem to have time for such animal politics, having searched out Sebastian at her earliest opportunity and plastered herself to his side. She seemed disinclined to budge.
The pug was, unsurprisingly, a female.
As if sensing Katherine’s thoughts, the pug dug herself more firmly into the bedclothes with her paws, making it clear Katherine would have to pry her away from her vigil with a crowbar.
Katherine would not be jealous of a dog.
“Bloody hell,” croaked a voice, and the pug’s ears cocked in time with Katherine’s stuttering heart. She looked down into a pair of bleary sapphire eyes. They were familiar enough, if not the swollen, black-and-blue face in which they resided.
At last, Sebastian was awake, and, judging by his vocabulary, in possession of enough of his wits to register his sorry state.
Well, the world had finally deigned to pay what it had owed her, it seemed.
Her heart soared . . . then just as quickly plummeted with apprehension. What was she to do with him, now that there was no threat of death hanging over their heads?
Bloody hell indeed.
Chapter Nine
In Which Our Hero Enjoys the Myriad Amenities of a Plum Mayfair Address
THE HOUSE ON Bruton Street quickly settled into a routine once more, absorbing the additions of one invalidish marquess, a mysterious pug, and a belligerent Cockney valet with surprising equanimity. And once he’d gotten over the fear of relapsing into a fever and dying of internal combustion, Sebastian had decided he rather liked the outcome of events, despite his pain. He kept this opinion to himself, obviously, for he was afraid that if anyone knew how pleased he was with his present circumstances, they would think the bump to his head had turned him into a lunatic.
Sane people did not relish being beaten, disfigured, and left to heal slowly and painfully. But Sebastian did for the following reasons:
A) He was in lodgings far superior to his own, waited on hand-and-foot by an extensive battalion of maids, friends, medical personnel (i.e., the too-handsome Dr. Lucas with his damnably distinguished salt-and-pepper whiskers, whom Sebastian couldn’t despise as much as he’d like to), a three-legged Irish dog, an ill-tempered mutt of uncertain origin, and a stray pug who had apparently saved his life.
B) Said lodgings and care, as well as the upkeep of Crick and his new pet, were free.
C) His personal nursemaid was a beautiful, tow-haired Amazon who didn’t seem to hate him as much as he’d once thought (the attack on his person clearly having softened her heart in his favor). And:
D) He hadn’t eaten so well in months. After he was able to convince his keepers he was allergic to beef tea, broth, and any other thin gruel meant for invalids, of course.
He could not think of a single reason to hasten recovery. He was quite comfortable where he was, thank you very much. In fact, he was right where he’d wanted to be for months, if not years. He’d breached the walls of the enchanted garden and wrangled his way into the princess’s tower.
He planned on staying until he was tossed out on his ear.
The downsides to his arrangement—extreme pain and the threat of facial disfigurement—were a bit onerous, so he was, in a way, paying for his upkeep.
It was all perfectly logical reasoning if one squinted.
He was surveying the state of his swollen face one morning when Marlowe blundered into the room unannounced as he had every day of his convalescence. His friend scowled at the looking glass Sebastian was using to inspect the ever-changing color of his bruises. Black and purple were giving way to an even more unattractive chartreuse around the edges at the moment.
On the bright side, at least he still had all his teeth.
“Put that away. Why the devil do you want to torture yourself, Sherry?” Marlowe growled, plopping into a chair and pulling out the bottle of Scotch whiskey he’d managed to smuggle past Sebastian’s battalion of keepers.
“I was the Singlemost Beautiful Man in London. Let me mourn my loss,” he said wryly, snatching the bottle from Marlowe and taking a generous swig.
“If you’re worrying about not being able to dine out on your looks, don’t. You are the most popular man in London at the moment,” Marlowe muttered sourly. “Apparently Sir Oliver’s ungentlemanly conduct has trumped your own alleged actions toward his daughter, and now all is forgiven.”
Society’s logic seemed as skewed as his own, and it didn’t have the excuse of a head injury. Sebastian rolled his eyes as Marlowe tossed a rumpled newspaper into his lap. He scanned the article Marlowe had marked.
This author has been informed by inside sources attending a certain young lord’s deathbed that their patient is returned to the Realm of the Living. We can at last breathe a sigh of relief, dear readers, for our Beloved Prodigal is on the mend! Resurrected from the Mire of Vicious Rumor and Innuendo, his lordship is sure to receive a warm welcome into the Bosom of Society. The Christmas Season is scarce begun, and the unspoken question on every hostess’s lips is, ‘Shall his lordship choose my ball for his triumphant return?’ Only his lordship knows. And perhaps his lordship is the only one who can answer the second-most important question of the Season as well: Is the recent publication of the mysterious Mr. Essex’s latest work, the salacious Italian Poem, so close on the heels of his lordship’s return from abroad, mere coincidence?
This author thinks not.
Sebastian guffawed and threw aside the paper. “Not only am I called a hero for taking a beating, now I am a bloody poet! What rot. I can’t string two words together on a page.”
“Don’t I bloody know it.”
Sebastian eyed Marlowe with exasperation. “Italian Poem, is it?”
/>
Marlowe cleared his throat. “Actually, the proper title is ‘An English Rogue in Venice.’”
“Any good?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Marlowe said, looking damned uncomfortable at the conversational turn. Sebastian had never been able to pin the man down on the subject of the mysterious Mr. Essex, but he supposed he could allow his friend his little intrigues. “Look here, I want to know what you’ve decided to do about Blanchard.”
Sebastian wanted to groan. Marlowe was like a dog with a bone. He was all for pressing charges against Sir Oliver, and so was Montford, despite the lack of evidence. No one had been able to locate the frigates who had thrashed him. But Sebastian had not openly condemned Sir Oliver, nor would he. He’d seen enough of the court system in recent weeks to last him several lifetimes. He was more than happy to let everyone believe what they wanted to believe and let Blanchard suffer in the court of public opinion, just as he was doing. It was more vicious than any court’s judgment could be anyway.
“Do? There’s nothing to do,” Sebastian answered evasively.
“Sir Oliver must be punished,” Marlowe persisted.
“I think he’ll be punished enough.”
Not, apparently, enough for Marlowe, who blustered on for some time about the various ways he’d like to employ Sir Oliver’s testicles, none of which sounded pleasant or sanitary. Marlowe had always been a bloodthirsty fellow. Good in a fight when he wasn’t falling-down drunk, as he was most of the time, especially in recent years.
Sebastian frowned at an uncomfortable memory. Marlowe had started to overindulge the same time he had: the year they’d been sent down from Cambridge. The reasons why had been hushed up, and everyone had just assumed the two worst scoundrels who’d set foot in Cambridge’s hallowed halls in centuries had finally pulled an unforgivable stunt. Which was true enough, though the “stunt” was not what anyone could have guessed.
Montford had stepped in afterward, smoothed things over with all disgruntled parties, and sent them both packing to the Peninsula, where they could both behave like the idiots they were in the service of their country and be lauded for it.
Virtuous Scoundrel (The Regency Romp Trilogy Book 2) Page 12
