She turned and bent to place a light kiss on Robert’s brow. In a voice too soft to be heard by Whiteley, she whispered, “You mustn’t die, Robert. I know not how I shall live without you, my love.”
Then, dashing away a tear, she left the chamber.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Robert’s arm stung like the devil. It felt as if he’d been branded like a common criminal, but he resisted the urge to touch the sore spot, lying still and attempting to will the pain away.
The past week was a blur. He knew Whiteley had been into his bedchamber several times and had been aware of the familiar face of his housekeeper, Goody Chandler. There had been some dark-clad, dark-capped men who he must assume were physicians. They were definitely there in a healing capacity, as he usually felt better for their visits.
There had been another presence, too, one he had felt rather than seen, as fleeting and as beautiful as an angel in a dream. Had it been real or not? No matter—he’d been feverish, and all manner of visions visited those whose bodies burned with sickness.
He must be feeling a little better today—he had enough energy to pluck at his bedclothes and fling them back when he felt too hot, and to chafe at being forced to remain abed when he had his commission to carry out for Sir Mortimer. A commission that could restore his fortunes and those of his family.
“Robert? Are you awake?”
“Aye.” He had little energy for speaking, so one-word answers would have to do.
Whiteley entered the chamber, bearing a horn beaker. “Time for your dose. Mistress Emmerson said you must have some before the doctor arrives.”
Mistress Emmerson? She’d been here?
“Chloe?” His voice was little more than a croak.
“The very same.” Whiteley grinned at him. “She seems much taken with you, oh most fortunate of men!”
Robert groaned softly. This was not the time for her to dance attendance on him. Lord Brooke must not know the pair were acquainted, or yet another mission would be endangered. Neither his pride nor his pocket could stand it.
“She must not come,” he managed. “Meg?”
Whiteley helped Robert sit up enough to take the bitter draft. He coughed and spluttered. “Are you trying to poison me?”
“It’s feverfew. I didn’t know how much honey to put in.”
Robert rolled his eyes. “More than you did.”
Whiteley removed the emptied cup, refilled it with water, and handed it back. A few sips and a swilling of his mouth removed some of the bitterness.
“Meg?” he repeated. There had been ample time for her to be informed of his illness and come down to look after him. Unless, of course, she couldn’t bear to leave her new husband—curse the philandering dog.
“You’ve received a message from Meg. I took the liberty of reading it since you were dead to the world.”
“Ever the spy,” Robert complained. “Have I no privacy anymore?”
“Not when you’re so weak, no. You should know you can trust me by now, sir. The news is not good. Her husband is apparently sicker than you—knocking at the gates of heaven. Or so it would seem, from your sister’s hastily scrawled note.”
“He won’t get in.” Robert had never liked Adam Townley. The man was too glib, too good-looking, and a total coxcomb. He’d bluntly refused to marry Meg until her dowry was increased. Having been forced to sail close to the wind due to his late father’s debts, Robert had felt he had no choice but to agree. He had Meg’s reputation to consider, and despite her folly with Townley, he loved her dearly.
All the same, it was a blow. He’d have felt more comfortable having her here—she knew his wishes and ways and wouldn’t tax him with questions.
“Don’t look so crestfallen. Mistress Emmerson means to return.” Whiteley gave him an encouraging smile.
“She must not. Not safe. Keep her away, Whiteley.”
The other man glanced at the light streaming through the open window. “Methinks I just heard a bell chiming the hour. I fear ’tis too late to prevent her.”
At that moment, there was a knocking on the street door. Whiteley moved to the window and looked down.
Robert’s heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Is it Chloe?”
“Not unless she has decided to disguise herself as a member of the medical profession.”
Robert rolled his eyes. She’d dressed as a boy before—he wouldn’t put anything past her. He held his breath as the sound of footsteps on the stairs reached his ears.
With a mixture of mingled disappointment and relief, he saw a middle-aged man enter, wearing a black skullcap and sporting a neat grey beard.
“How does the invalid fare this day?” he inquired, addressing Whiteley.
“I think he fares somewhat better, sir.” Whiteley gave Robert an encouraging nod.
“Ah, you’re awake, I see.” The doctor approached the bed. “I know not if you remember me, as you’ve been either dead to the world or delirious during my visits. I’m Doctor Bower.”
“Good day, sir.” Couldn’t they dispense with the pleasantries? His arm was sore enough to make his eyes water, though the pain seemed less widespread.
The doctor pulled up a stool, withdrew a glass lens on a cord around his neck, and placed it over one eye. He then removed Robert’s bandages with swift efficiency.
“What’s this?” The man grimaced. “Who’s interfered with my treatment of this fellow?” He glared accusingly at Whiteley.
“That would be me.”
Robert looked up just as Chloe swept into the room, her chin up, and looking very determined. A pox on it—the last thing he wanted was a battle in his chamber. He scowled a warning at her, but she gave him no more than a passing glance. Her attention was concentrated on the doctor.
The gentleman stood and gave her a cursory bow. Then he quizzed her through his glass lens. “By what authority do you intervene, my lady?”
“By the authority of a wife.”
Shocked, Robert shot a pleading look at Whiteley, but the man hushed him with a gesture.
The doctor’s lips thinned. “Then your concern is understandable. So, was it you who ordered the wound be cleaned out with these revolting creatures?”
What revolting creatures? Robert looked at his arm and saw fat white bodies writhing around in the slit of his wound. He clamped his teeth firmly on his lower lip. A gentleman did not scream like a little girl. Nor did he leap from his sickbed and shake the filthy animals from his body. And a wise man would wait and see what transpired. Even if his stomach was roiling with disgust.
“It was,” Chloe replied. “I regret I was unable to meet you when you took over my husband’s care, but I’d been called away.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think my suggestion of washing the wound frequently with tincture of arnica somewhat less barbaric?”
“I thought anything less barbaric than the recommendation you made of amputation.”
Robert bit harder on his lip. The doctor wanted to amputate?
“I don’t wish to question your methods, sir. I merely intended to try my own and hope for a better result. No one wants to lose a limb unless as a last resort.”
Robert had to agree with Chloe. But why was she posing as his wife? And when had she put the maggots there? He was becoming increasingly confused.
She pushed her shoulders back. Her expression was one which brooked no denial. “Would you say my husband seems improved today?”
The doctor glanced at Robert. “His color is healthier.”
That sounded good. He felt cooler, too. Mayhap it was time to join in the discussion.
“My fever is less.”
Chloe looked at the doctor. “A strong tisane of feverfew, every hour when possible. Surely, you cannot complain at so well tried and tested a remedy?”
“I have no complaint.” The doctor was now bent over Robert’s arm, gingerly plucking the maggots from the wound and dropping them into a cloth.
“I think these can be
returned to the midden.” He handed the wriggling package to Whiteley, who made a swift exit from the chamber.
Both Chloe and the doctor leaned over the wound. Robert held his breath.
“It does appear cleaner,” the doctor pronounced.
Chloe wrinkled her nose. “And the offensive stench has gone, so I assume that means the infection is lessening, too.”
“That may, indeed, be the case.”
Robert could tell Doctor Bower was keeping a tight rein on his temper. He couldn’t blame him—no professional gentleman would want his methods overturned by folklore and old wives’ tales. Would his usual physician, Doctor Leigh, have threatened amputation?
Chloe’s eyes were alight with hope. “Then—do you think it still needful to amputate my husband’s arm?”
The doctor tucked his lens away. “It is too early to say, my lady.”
“Doctor Bower—I’m not questioning your judgment. My husband has, however, only been your patient for a short while. I beg you to make no hasty decisions that will affect him in the future. You do not know him so well as I. He would rather die than lose his arm.”
“I understand your concerns, but—”
“Doctor. I ask only that you give us a stay of execution. A few more days under my regime, and if there’s no continued improvement, you must do what you have to.”
“It may be too late by then—”
Chloe let out a hiccoughing sob and turned her face away. The doctor was suddenly all concern.
“Pray, calm yourself, my lady—I’ll not have you added to the list of invalids. You may have your stay of execution. But two days only—I dare not leave it longer. Now, I’ll give you and your husband some peace.”
Doctor Bower gave Chloe a polite bow, nodded to Robert, and departed. Moments later, Whiteley was back in the room, grinning broadly.
“She did well, did she not, our Mistress Emmerson?”
Robert pressed his eyes closed, then opened them again. “Forgive me. I’m not quite myself. Are the maggots gone?”
“Never to return,” Whiteley reassured him. “Your wound is clean. You may have a scar, but I’m sure you’ll heal satisfactorily.”
Suddenly everyone was an expert in physick. How infuriating it was to be an invalid, at the mercy of others’ opinions!
“You’re an expert surgeon now, are you, fellow?” he mumbled.
“Oh, Robert! I was so worried!”
Chloe’s earnest face was close to his. He resisted the urge to stroke her silken cheek. “You shouldn’t be here. Dangerous.”
She looked offended. “Not anymore. Surely?”
He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t explain. It was frustrating beyond belief. “How did you come to be here? Where’s your aunt?”
“At home. I’ve been confined to the house since my return from Hampshire, and subjected to the attentions of Lord Brooke.” She pulled a face.
A chill coursed through Robert’s veins. “Lord Brooke? Of Malton Lodge?”
“The very same. I told you. It was him from whom I was fleeing when I went in search of my mother. Detestable man. Although he gave me the means of escape today.”
The chill became ice. “He helped you come here?”
“Aye. I’d not been allowed out, but he arrived and suggested we take a stroll about, so I said that first, I wanted to watch the archery at Moorfields, and then visit the Bethlehem Hospital to bring fruit to the poor sufferers. ’Twas only a short step from there to here.”
If he’d had the energy for it, he’d have ground his teeth. He was picturing Lord Brooke waiting below, congratulating himself on how easily he’d found the home of the man who had almost confounded his plans. And here he lay, weak as a kitten, and unable to defend himself. Or protect those he loved.
“Where is he?”
“Brooke? Oh, I threatened to spend a few hours in the Drapers’ Hall, and that was the thin end of the wedge. He left me in the company of our boy, William, who was sent to keep an eye upon me, and went on his way, God be thanked. Will’s doubtless swinging his legs from a high stool in your kitchen now, eating stolen tidbits, and annoying your cook.”
“You must not come here again.”
“But your arm… the doctor…” She looked puzzled and distressed.
“And don’t mention my name to Brooke, or that you know me.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“Just do as I say. And should I survive this, and you see me in public, pass by as if we were strangers. Will you swear to this?”
“No, I won’t. Why should I?”
He could see moisture welling in her hazel eyes, and wished with all his heart he didn’t have to hurt her so. He flicked a glance at Whiteley, who glowered at him a moment, then left the room.
Robert gentled his voice. “I cannot tell you now. But you must let Brooke court you. You have my word you won’t have to marry him, but you must do as I ask. Forget you ever knew me. Treat me as a stranger. Never return here.”
He fell back against his pillows, exhausted. His emotions were in turmoil—he was hurting her and couldn’t tell her why.
“Forgive me.” He attempted a smile.
But it was too late. She sucked in a breath and then, bosom heaving, flung at him, “I hate you, Robert Mallory! You’re a knave and a scoundrel and a flea-bitten, ungrateful cur!” With that, she gathered up her skirts and ran sobbing from the room.
Chapter Thirty
Luckily William knew his way around the London streets well, for Chloe was too distressed to have any idea where she was going. It took more strength than she knew she had to return to the Moorgate house, looking as if nothing was amiss. She bore her aunt’s probing questions about Lord Brooke as well as she could, but every time that man’s name was mentioned, it was as though she heard the knell of doom in her mind.
Alas! Her heart and head were full, and there was no one to whom she could unburden herself. Claiming a headache, she crept up to her chamber and gave herself up to silent tears.
How could Robert be so cruel when she’d risked so much to save him? What value was his promise that she would not marry Lord Brooke if he wasn’t prepared to offer for her again himself? He’d sent her from his sight with not one word of hope, not one word of kindness. Surely, she couldn’t have imagined what had passed between them in Hampshire? She felt it deep in her core, a connection she’d thought could not be broken, an affection that would, given but a little time, blossom into love. In her case, she was certain that it had, but it looked as if her love had fallen on stony ground.
When Robert had rescued her from the mill, he’d held her, kissed her, used such sweet words. His eyes had burned with ardent desire, yet today, he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Forbidden ever to see him again—how was she to accept that? Was she not to know even if he lived or died?
There was a scratching at her door. She sat up abruptly and scrubbed at her face with her handkerchief. She had some trials ahead of her if she was going to keep her feelings hidden from her aunt and uncle.
“Who is it?”
“Your aunt. We have an unexpected guest. When you feel better, will you come down? Shall I send up a brew of willow bark?”
Aunt Philippa sounded unusually agitated. Who was the visitor? Not Robert, obviously. Nor Lord Brooke, for she’d quite tired him out with her meanderings earlier.
“I’ll come down. No willow bark. But some wine would be welcome. Or sack.” She couldn’t countenance food, however, despite the gnawing emptiness within her.
Some ten minutes later, she felt it safe to make her way to the parlor, from whence she could hear animated conversation. Surely, she knew that voice.
“Chloe! My dear girl!”
She was pulled against a substantial bosom and enveloped in a cloud of rosewater. When she was released, she shook her head in disbelief.
“Mother?”
“Call me Dela, please. ‘Mother’ makes me sound so old. I would have come sooner, but ’t
is so hard to find someone trustworthy to run one’s business in one’s absence. From what Philippa’s been telling me, you had an eventful journey back from Southampton. And met a couple of handsome young men, too, I hear.”
“Dela, please. Chloe is courted by a most respectable gentleman. These others were chance meetings and of no import.”
Dela linked her arm with her daughter’s. “You were always too straitlaced, Philippa. I’ll let Chloe tell me her story in her own fashion, rather than hear your dull, puritanical version of events.”
Chloe was too astonished to speak. No one ever talked to Philippa Emmerson in so familiar away, not even her loving husband. Dela seemed oblivious to her sister’s chagrin.
“Are we not to have refreshment, Matthew? I’ve traveled a long way to see my only child. I know, I know—we agreed when you took her in that I was to play no part in her life. But as she has clearly shown, she’s a woman old enough to make up her own mind, and she made up her mind to call on me. I wrestled with my conscience a long time after sending her from my door, and my conscience won. Every girl needs her mother. Is that not so, my peach?”
“Well, actually—” Aunt Philippa had been as good a mother as any child could wish for, even if she wasn’t as voluble or as demonstrative as Dela.
“I’ve no complaint about my guardians’ care of me. But that doesn’t mean your interest in me is unwelcome.”
How cold, how formal that sounded! She felt all at sea—first the shock of Robert’s rejection, and now this.
“I’ll sit and refresh myself while you make up a chamber for me, Sister. Then I shall enjoy a coze with my daughter.”
Philippa’s jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered herself. “Of course. Do you mean to stay for long?”
The room was silent for a fraction of an instant as everyone held their breath. “Oh, no more than a seven-night or two. I cannot feel comfortable away from home any longer than that. Ah, but I am so looking forward to chaperoning Chloe about town. For a young woman of marriageable age, she should be going out and about far more than I understand she does.”
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 15
