Chapter 16
THERE WAS NO ESCAPING the pain, not even in sleep. It coiled in every jointure, bone, and ounce of flesh. Keir had never been sick like this before, in control of nothing, devolving into something less than human. Except when she was there.
She … her … He couldn’t hold on to her name … it kept darting away from him … but he was aware of her soft presence, her voice like honey, her hands bestowing cool, sweet calm on his tortured body.
But for all her softness, there was steel in her. She was unrelenting when it came time to dose him with medicines he didn’t want. She made him sip water or broth despite his struggles to keep anything down. There was no bloody refusing her. This was a woman who would keep him anchored safely to the earth, to life, with the force of her will.
During the worst of it, when Keir was maddened by suffocating heat, and every breath felt like someone was stabbing a peat knife into his chest, the woman packed ice around him, or bathed him all over with cool cloths. It mortified and infuriated him to lie there helpless and naked as a wee bairnie while she took care of his intimate needs, but he was too damned sick to do anything for himself. He needed her, both the softness and the steel.
She assured him that he would be better soon. He’d fallen, she said, and his lungs had been injured, but they were healing. A wound on his back was causing the fever, but that too would heal.
Keir wasn’t so sure. The hot, pulsing place on his back seemed to be worsening by the hour, spreading poison through him. Soon he couldn’t keep even water down, and instead of worrying about dying, he began to worry about not dying. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop writhing from pain and nausea. He’d have welcomed any escape.
He felt a touch on his forehead and slitted his eyes open. A stranger stood beside him, tall and sternfaced, blindingly handsome, with silvery-gold hair. He looked like an angel. Not the kind offering comfort—the kind sent to smite people. Almost certainly this was the angel of death, and about time he appeared. Even hell would be better than this.
But instead of escorting Keir to the hereafter, the man pressed a fresh iced cloth to his forehead. As Keir writhed and panted in a red welter of fever, he felt the covers being drawn away, and someone began to lift the hem of his nightshirt. Riled by the indignity, he struck out blindly, trying to knock away the unfamiliar hands.
“Keir. Rest easy, boy.” The stranger was leaning over him, speaking in a low, lulling voice that would have caused an entire sounder of wild boars to curl up like kittens. “We have to bring the fever down.”
“Not you,” Keir managed to gasp. “I want her.”
“Lady Merritt has gone to bed for a few hours of badly needed rest. Do you remember me? No? I’m Kingston. This fine old fellow beside me is Culpepper—he’s been my valet for twenty-five years. Lie back now, there’s a good lad.”
Keir subsided warily while the odd pair—one golden and resplendent, one old and wizened—moved around him with quiet efficiency. The nightshirt was removed and a towel was draped over his hips. They cold-sponged his limbs, dressed him in a fresh nightshirt, and changed the sheets while he remained in bed. As Kingston reached around Keir and lifted him to a sitting position, he began to struggle.
“Calm yourself,” Kingston said, sounding faintly amused. “I’m keeping you upright for a moment while Culpepper tucks the lower sheet around the mattress.”
Having never been held by another male in his adult life, Keir would have balked, but he was too weak to sit up on his own. To his eternal humiliation, his head lolled forward onto the man’s shoulder.
“It’s all right,” Kingston said, holding him securely. “Lean against me.”
The man was remarkably fit, Keir would give him that. The form beneath the fine cotton shirt and soft wool waistcoat was sleek and rock-solid. And there was something so comfortable about his manner, so calm, that Keir relaxed despite himself. He tried to think, but his head was a maze of dead ends and trapdoors. Nothing about the situation made sense to him.
An onset of fever chills started his teeth chattering. “Why are you doing this?” he managed to ask.
It might have been his imagination, but Kingston’s arms seemed to tighten a little. “I have sons who are approximately your age. If one of them were ill and far from home, I would wish for someone to do this for them.”
Which wasn’t really an answer.
“I’m going to lower you now,” Kingston said. “Don’t strain yourself—let me do the work.” Carefully he settled Keir among the pillows and weighted him with blankets. He laid a hand over Keir’s forehead. “Culpepper,” he asked quietly, “when is the doctor scheduled to stop by?”
“This afternoon, Your Grace,” the valet replied.
“I want him here within the hour.”
“I believe he’s on his rounds, sir—”
“His other patients can wait. Send a footman out to find him.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
In a moment, Keir felt a cold compress on his forehead. “I dinna give a damn about the doctor,” he muttered. “I want her … Merritt. Dinna have long.”
“Nonsense,” Kingston said with such cool conviction that Keir almost believed him. “I’ve survived fever worse than this. You’ll pull through it.”
But the next time Keir struggled up from the depths of sleep, he knew he was worse. The fever was raging, ruckling every breath and making him weaker than he’d ever been in his life. He was lying amid sharp angles of pain with no soft place to rest.
He became aware of the woman beside him, her pretty dark eyes filled with concern, her face tense and pale. He reached out, trying to pull her to him.
She hushed him gently and sat on the mattress, and stroked his hair with cool hands. The doctor was there, she said, to drain the wound and change the bandages, and Keir must stay still. He felt himself being turned to his front, carefully, but it sent a jolt of agony through his rib cage. The bandage on his back was removed, and he felt something prying at the searing, tender wound. A billow of pain provoked a rude churn of his stomach and a dry heave, and he growled wretchedly.
Merritt moved to cradle his head in her lap. “There, now,” she soothed, while the jabbing and pressing continued. “Not much longer. Hold on to me. Let the doctor do his work, and then you’ll be better. Almost finished … almost …”
Keir gritted his teeth, willing to tolerate anything for her. Shaking from the lancing pain, he focused on the feel of her soft fingers at the back of his neck.
There was a sting and burn on the right side of his arse, and then every sensation joined into one dull mass. He went numb in every limb, his mind floating. As the woman began to move away, he used the last of his strength to reach around her hips and keep her right there, his head in her lap. He was drifting aimlessly, cast loose in some uneasy current, and she was all that kept him from drowning. To his relief, she stayed, her fingers threading lightly through his hair.
Fearing she’d leave when he fell asleep, he told her he needed her to stay with him. Or at least, that was what he wanted to say. Words and their meanings were running together like paint on wet paper. But she seemed to understand. She murmured something, soft as the coo of a night bird, and he settled more heavily against her, letting the current carry him to some dark, silent place.
Chapter 17
“GO TO BED, CHILD,” came Kingston’s quiet voice as he entered the sickroom. “I’ll look after him now.”
Merritt, who was sitting beside the bed with her head and arms resting on the mattress, glanced up at him blearily. After Dr. Kent’s visit, she’d stayed with Keir for the rest of the day and long into the night.
“What time is it?” she asked huskily.
“Three in the morning.”
She groaned and rubbed her sore, scratchy eyes. “I can’t leave him. He’s at the crisis. His temperature hasn’t gone below one hundred and four degrees.”
“When was the last time you checked?”
“An hour ago, I think.”
Kingston came to the bedside and leaned over Keir’s still form. The light from a single lamp gilded both men’s profiles, making it impossible to ignore their likeness, even with the thick beard covering the lower half of Keir’s face. The long, straight noses, the high-planed cheekbones, the way their hairlines were shaped in a very slight widow’s peak. Even the hand Kingston laid across Keir’s forehead, the fingers long and blunt-tipped … that was familiar too.
The duke’s face was inscrutable as he picked up a glass thermometer from the night table, deftly shook down the mercury, and tucked it beneath Keir’s arm. Keir didn’t even stir.
After lifting one of the ice bags, Kingston felt the slosh of water and proceeded to empty it in a basin. He refilled it with fresh ice from a lidded silver pail and settled it back in place.
“Does Aunt Evie know?” Merritt asked, too tired to guard her tongue.
“Know what?” Kingston asked, fishing a pocket watch from his waistcoat.
“That you have a natural-born son.”
The duke’s gaze remained on Keir. After a charged silence, he said evenly, “I have no secrets from my wife.”
“Were you and she married when—” Merritt broke off as Kingston shot her an incredulous glance, his eyes flashing like sunlight striking off silver.
“Good God, Merritt. That you could even ask—”
“Forgive me,” she said hastily. “I was only trying to guess his age.”
“He’s thirty-three. I would never betray Evie.” Kingston took in a long breath and let it out slowly, working to bring his temper under control. “I should hope I’d never be so tedious. Adultery is only running away from one problem to create a new one.” He flipped open the watch and reached down to press two fingers against the side of Keir’s throat. “Why the beard?” he asked irritably. “Can’t he bother to shave?”
“I like it,” Merritt said with a touch of defensiveness.
“Every man should know the difference between ‘enough beard’ and ‘too much beard.’” The duke stared at his watch for a half minute, then closed the lid with a decisive snap. He took his time about replacing it in his pocket. “Approximately a year ago,” he said abruptly, “I received a letter from Cordelia, Lady Ormonde. Long ago, before I met Evie, I had an affair with her.”
“Ormonde,” Merritt repeated, staring at his taut profile. “I’m not familiar with the family.”
“No, you wouldn’t be. To my knowledge, Lord Ormonde hasn’t been invited to Stony Cross Park for decades. Your father can’t abide him.”
“Why?”
“Ormonde is as vile as any man who’s ever lived. I would call him a swine, but one hates to malign a useful animal. Cordelia was quite young when they married. She’d been impressed by all his boasting during the courtship, but after the wedding, she discovered what kind of man she’d married. Despite trying to produce an heir, they were still childless after four years. Naturally, Ormonde blamed Cordelia. For that reason and many others, he made her very unhappy.” In a light, self-loathing tone she’d never heard from him before, he added, “And unhappy wives were my favorite.”
Watching him with concern and fascination, Merritt prompted gently, “What was she like?”
“Charming and accomplished. She played the harp and spoke fluent French. Her family, the Roystons, saw to it that she was educated.” Kingston paused, his gaze turning distant. “Cordelia was eager for affection, which I supplied in return for her favors.”
Troubled by the lingering bitterness in his expression, Merritt pointed out, “It’s common for married people to stray, especially among the upper circles. And they were her vows to break, not yours.”
“Child.” Kingston’s head lifted, and he regarded her with a wry smile. “Let’s not be lawyerly. She couldn’t have done it without a partner.”
He reached down to Keir, gently took the thermometer from beneath his arm, and read it critically. “Hmm.” After shaking down the mercury again, he tucked the thin glass cylinder beneath Keir’s other arm. “Cordelia sent a letter from her deathbed,” he continued, “to inform me she’d conceived a child from the affair all those years ago.”
“That must have been a shock,” Merritt said quietly.
“The world stopped spinning. I had to read the sentence five times over.” Kingston’s gaze turned distant. “Cordelia wrote that her husband had refused to accept my bastard offspring as his firstborn, and had forbidden her to tell me about her condition. He sent her to a lying-in hospital in Scotland to carry the baby to term in secret. After the birth, he would decide what was to be done. But Cordelia feared for the child’s safety, and devised her own plan. She told Ormonde the baby had been stillborn. The head nurse of the maternity ward arranged for the boy to be smuggled out and given into the care of a decent family.”
“Would Lord Ormonde really have harmed an innocent child?”
“He had two compelling motivations. First … Cordelia was an heiress. Her family had established a trust that would go to her husband if she died without issue. But if she had a child, all of it would go to him or her. Ormonde would never have allowed any possibility of the child inheriting.”
“Is the trust so large it would make someone want to commit murder?”
“I’m sure Ormonde would be willing to do it for free,” the duke said dryly. “But yes, the portfolio includes commercial and residential properties in London. The annual rents bring in a fortune—and Ormonde desperately needs the income to keep his estate solvent.” He paused briefly before continuing. “The second reason Ormonde wanted him dead is that regardless of who sired him, Cordelia was married to Ormonde at the time of Keir’s birth. And therefore …”
“My God,” Merritt whispered. “Keir is his legitimate son.”
Kingston nodded. “Even if Ormonde marries again and produces a son by his new bride, Keir will still inherit his viscouncy. As long as Keir’s alive, there’s no chance Ormonde can pass down his family’s title and estate to his own blood. It will all go to Keir.”
“He won’t want it,” Merritt said. “Oh, he won’t like this at all, Uncle.”
“He doesn’t have to know about that part until later, when he’s ready to hear it.”
“He’ll never be ready to hear it.” Groaning softly, Merritt rubbed her weary face with both hands. “How did Ormonde find out Keir was alive?”
“I’m afraid that was my doing.” Kingston’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Cordelia named me as the executor of her will, and asked me to protect his rightful inheritance in the event he was still alive. The only way to keep the will in probate while I was searching for Keir was to provide a copy of Cordelia’s letter to Chancery Court. From that moment on, Ormonde and I have each done our damnedest to locate Keir before the other one did.” With a touch of annoyance, he commented, “I would have found Keir months ago, had I been able to hire Ethan Ransom, but he gave me some excuse about fighting an international conspiracy.”
“From what I understand, he saved England,” Merritt pointed out gently.
The duke waved away the comment like a bothersome gnat. “Someone’s always plotting against England.”
“As it turned out, you didn’t have to find Keir. He found you.”
Kingston shook his head with a faint, wondering smile. “He walked into bloody Jenner’s,” he said. “I knew who he was the moment I saw him. He has the look of a Challon, even with that scruffy crumb-catcher covering the lower half of his face.”
“Uncle,” she reproved softly. It was hardly a fair description of a handsome, neatly trimmed beard.
Carefully the duke took the thermometer from beneath Keir’s arm and squinted at the line of mercury, holding it farther away from his face until the numbers were clear. After setting it aside, he glanced down at Merritt. “My dear, if you don’t have some proper rest, you’ll fall ill yourself.”
“Not until the crisis has passed and Keir is out of danger.”
Merritt looked at him sharply. “What?”
“He’s past the worst of it. His temperature has fallen to one hundred and two, and his pulse rate is normal.”
She flew to Keir’s side and felt his forehead, which was cooler and misted with sweat. “Thank God,” she said, and let out a sob of relief.
“Merritt,” he said kindly, “you’re turning into a watering pot.” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and nudged her chin upward with a gentle forefinger. “Go to bed,” he said, drying her eyes, “or you’ll be of no use to anyone.”
“Yes, but first may I ask … was Aunt Evie very upset when you told her about the letter?”
“No. Only concerned for the boy’s sake, and mine as well.”
“Many women in her position would consider him as … well, an embarrassment.”
That drew a real smile from him, the first she’d seen from him in a while. “You know Evie. She already thinks of him as someone else to love.”
Chapter 18
THE CLICK OF A china teacup on a saucer awakened Merritt from a deep sleep. She stretched and blinked, discovering the bedroom curtains had been drawn back to admit deep slants of afternoon sun. A blaze of coppery red hair caught her gaze, and she pushed up to a sitting position as she saw someone at the little tea table in the corner.
“Phoebe!”
Lady Phoebe Ravenel turned and came to her with a laugh of delight.
They had known each other their entire lives, growing up together, sharing secrets, joys, and sorrows. Phoebe was strikingly beautiful, as tall and willowy as Merritt was short and solid. Like Merritt, she had been widowed a few years ago, although in Phoebe’s case, the loss had not been unexpected. Her first husband, Henry, had suffered from a prolonged wasting disease, and had passed away before the birth of their second son. Then West Ravenel had come into Phoebe’s life, and they had married after a courtship so brief, it hardly even qualified as whirlwind.
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