Emily Hendrickson (21 page)

“Hot mulled cider is what you need, my lord,” Colyer intoned in his
I told you so
voice. The valet set about assisting Adrian from his sopping garments into dry things. He then urged him to sit before a blazing fire in his room. The valet tut-tutted under his breath as he considered the ruined garments. “These might be salvaged, but Weston would weep to see that coat.”

“I can order another.” Adrian gave a frightening sneeze, before subsiding against the comfort of a high-backed wing chair.

Colyer handed him an enormous white handkerchief before going out the door. “I shall return with your hot drink.”

The implication to Adrian was to remain where he was, and no nonsense about it, either. He made a wry face, staring into the fire while he considered the consequences of this day.

A rap on his door disturbed his peace. Ives poked his face around it. When he observed Adrian stuffed onto his chair, a robe wrapped about him and a huge scrap of white cambric in hand, he entered the room. “Well? Have you learned anything regarding Lady Felicia?”

“Too soon to tell.”

“Your dragon wouldn’t let anyone near her while you were gone.” Ives sauntered to the fireplace, hands in his pockets and a casual curiosity on his face.

“Most proper.” Adrian sneezed, a satisfying sound at the mention of the woman who caused him such grief.

“You should have taken a carriage.” This observation was met with another sneeze.

“I agree,” Adrian replied with far more civility than he felt.

“You think Lady Felicia will recover without permanent damage?” This was uttered with a rush of words, quite as though Ives hated to express his fears. “I worry about her remaining unconscious for so long.”

“We should be so fortunate,” Adrian muttered. When Ives pinned him with a fierce glare, Adrian said more loudly, “We should hope for the fortunate. Did Dru say anything at all?”

“Not a word—other than to scold us for daring to make a sound.”

“Well, one does not stampede through the bedroom of the wounded or ill. I doubt they will allow me back into the room. If you like, go find out what the doctor has to say.” He waved his friend off.

The room was silent when Ives left. The gentle crackle of the fire, the rain still lashing at the window, and muted sounds from below were all that could be heard.

The door opened again to admit Colyer with the hot mulled cider. Adrian had to admit the drink felt good on his throat. It also made him feel sleepy, and he wondered what the valet had added to the drink.

Ives stepped into the room just at that moment. He approved the hot drink in hand with a nod.

“Well? What did you learn?” Adrian was beginning to feel a bit muzzy. Probably due to a drop of laudanum in the drink. He’d bet on it.

Ives shrugged, stalking across the room to stand before the fireplace once again. “He has bled her. Says she is resting comfortably. No reason why she shouldn’t revive.” Ives studied the toe of his highly polished black boot. “But she hasn’t. At least to this point.”

“Cheer up, my friend. A temper like hers isn’t about to give up easily. She will recover to plague us all before you know it.”

“I don’t believe you care a jot for her.” Ives stared at Adrian with cold eyes. Well, Adrian couldn’t blame him in one way. It would seem his friend gave more than a jot for the vixen.

“I suppose I best ask her to marry me,” Adrian said, feeling as though he was pounding nails in his coffin. If her head was seriously injured, it would be the least he could do, or so his garbled brain was insisting. She fell in his home. His mother wanted the marriage. He truly was not thinking very clearly, but he suspected his reasoning was sound. Wasn’t it?

Ives gave him a disgusted look. He strode from the room, the sharp clicks of his boots sending his disapproval of Adrian’s scheme.

Well, Adrian decided as he began to sink into a muzzy-headed slumber, he hadn’t proposed as yet. Perhaps there would be a miracle, and his proposal wouldn’t be required.

And wouldn’t
that
be the day!

Chapter Thirteen

Adrian was certain he was on fire. He couldn’t recall being so hot in his life. He stirred, wishing he had a drink. His throat felt dryer than last week’s toast. He tried to ask for water. All he heard was a squawking mumble. Did that croak belong to him?

His eyelids were too heavy to open. It was almost too much trouble to breathe. He inhaled the scent of lavender, thinking it brought healing with it—and memories of a gentle touch, a calm voice.

Blessedly cool hands raised his head. A glass touched his lips. It was wet and cold. Ah, water! He sipped as much as he could, feeling relief as the cooling liquid slipped down his throat. “Um.” He couldn’t talk, but he managed an appreciative sound.

A cool, damp cloth chilled his forehead. Oh, it felt so good. His throat eased by whatever was in that water and his body feeling just a little cooler, he sank back into welcome sleep.

“He is so terribly ill. What a foolish thing—to go haring off in the rain to fetch the doctor.” Lady Brentford paused by her son’s bedside, shaking her head in sorrow. “He has been like this for too long. Do you think that the fever will break soon?”

Dru glanced to the marchioness. “We can but hope, madam. He is a gallant gentleman to go for needed help. It is a shame he was so ill rewarded for his effort. You had best go to bed now, or you may take ill as well. It would not do for you to have a relapse. I will sit up for a while before turning your son’s care over to Colyer for the rest of the night. He won’t be left alone for a moment.”

“I know I can trust you, dear girl.”

“How does Lady Felicia do?” Dru asked out of politeness. She didn’t really care, for that haughty beauty was in part responsible for the seriously ill gentleman in Dru’s temporary charge.

“Greatly improved. She is fussing over the lump on her forehead, demanding her abigail do something with her hair to cover the discoloration.” Lady Brentford sounded contemptuous of such vanity. “I cannot believe I thought she would make him a good wife. A marriage between them would be a disaster!” On that note she departed after another anxious perusal of her son.

The room was utterly silent once her ladyship had gone, save for the crackle of the fire and Lord Brentford’s labored breathing. With a sinking heart Dru studied the man she was coming to love. She suspected she knew what was on his mind, behind his restlessness. He had called for Felicia in his delirium. He might have jokingly asked Dru to marry him; it was Felicia he intended to be his bride. Dru had to agree with Lady Brentford, that marriage would be a catastrophe.

What man could tolerate Lady Felicia’s behavior for long without acquiring a disgust of her? What she needed was someone to give her the discipline that she had not received the first time she put on one of her histrionic displays. When Dru’s eldest sister had tried that approach, she had been given such a swat that she had never tried it again. Her younger sisters had learned from that example. However, it might be too late for Felicia. And, anyway, Dru doubted that Lord Brentford was the sort to inflict such a punishment on a wife—even though she needed it.

She lifted the cloth, dropped it into the bowl of lavender-scented water, rung it out, then replaced it on his forehead. He was so terribly hot, the cloth dried out before she knew it.

She had little sympathy for Lady Felicia. She had suffered as a result of her own behavior. Poor Lord Brentford now ailed because he had dashed to her aid. It didn’t explain why he thought he ought to marry her. Men were so stupid at times. It was taking noble conduct too far.

If only he had taken a carriage to summon the doctor. True, he had returned to the Court in the medic’s carriage, but he was already soaked to the skin, and sitting in the cold vehicle had been little better than being in the rain.

The door opened and Lord Ives poked his head around. Seeing Dru, he entered to stand at her side. “How does he do? I must say, he looks feverish.”

She shook her head. “Not well, I fear.”

“Took a nasty soaking ride. What an idiot.”

“You say such words, yet I think you are very fond of him.” Dru dunked the cloth again. It dried so fearfully fast.

“Indeed, he is the best of friends. I’d not wish to lose him for such a reason.”

Dru took a deep breath. “He will survive. He has a toughness of spirit that will pull him through. I feel it.” She studied the man beneath the covers. He certainly did not look himself. “It is one time I wish he had done nothing.”

Lord Ives frowned. “What?”

“I once, in a fit of righteousness, informed him that the trouble with doing nothing was that you never knew when you were done. Now I wish the words unsaid. He did too much.”

“I imagine that happens to all of us at one time or another.” He edged toward the door. “I’ll attempt to keep his guests occupied. And I will be back to look in on him later. It is kind of you to take a turn at nursing him. I doubt there are many in the house who would do so.”

“Some people are utterly worthless in a sickroom. It takes patience.” And a little love didn’t hurt, either, she decided privately.

The room returned to the previous quiet once Lord Ives had gone. Dru continued with her routine of soaking the cloth in the tepid water, wringing it well, then replacing it on the forehead.

Mrs. Simpson slipped into the room, bearing the results of Dru’s request. It was a poultice using ground mustard seed. Her father insisted it was the only way to cure a nasty cold.

The housekeeper handed the poultice to Dru, then helped roll the covers back to reveal Lord Brentford’s broad chest. Dru heroically ignored the intriguing sight of dark brown curls on a finely muscled chest to gently drape the poultice where it would be beneficial. Within moments, the covers were back in place, up to his chin.

“He probably will not like this, but I feel it necessary to do everything I can think might help.”

“Well, it’s a blessing you are willing to take on his nursing. As though you hadn’t enough with tending her ladyship what has a little bump on her head. Now you nurse his lordship. Of the two, he is by far the worse off.” She paused on her way to the door to study the inert figure in the bed.

“But he will be better soon. We must think confidently. He will be better, given time.”

Papa had one said that the ill could hear more than one thought. Dru resolved to speak positively in the unlikely event Lord Brentford could hear her. If he heard someone say he was likely to die, he might just do so.

Mrs. Simpson offered to bring up tea and toast for Dru, then quietly slipped from the room.

Dru listened to the crackling fire, the rain again beating against the windowpane . . . and his lordship’s labored breathing. That, most of all, caught her ear.

A light tap on the door heralded the entrance of Lady Felicia with her abigail’s assistance.

Dru held a finger to her lips, hoping that penetrating voice might be kept to a whisper.

“How is he?” Felicia studied the still form in the bed before turning to Dru. “You ought not be here. You are not even married, merely a spinster. You could find your reputation in shreds!”

“Even a spinster has her uses. It is Lady Brentford’s express wish that I am here to take my turn at nursing—as I did with you, my lady.” Dru offered a level stare at the beauty before returning her attention to the very ill gentleman in the bed.

That remark appeared to disconcert Lady Felicia a moment. “I must return to my bed. I will speak to you later. Let me know as soon as Adrian is conscious.”

Dru watched the Beauty leave and wondered if it was necessary for her to lean quite so much on her abigail. Poor woman, Dru did not envy her in the least. Not even the prospect of cast-off garments (with the hope that one would look well in pink and white) could make service to Felicia tolerable.

As to informing Lady Felicia about his lordship’s consciousness, she would think about it. She hadn’t missed his signs of agitation when Lady Felicia had been here.

When it came time for Colyer to take over, Dru left the room with reluctance. There was absolutely no sign of improvement.

She paused at Lady Felicia’s room, convinced that
that
young woman needed no further care. All she wanted now was a willing slave to pander to her wants. Dru peeked around the door, first exchanging a look of sympathy with the abigail who opened the door to her.

“Why have you not summoned me to speak with Adrian?” Felicia demanded, albeit in a low voice.

“He remains unconscious. And how are you feeling?” Dru refused to say another word about Lord Brentford’s condition; she truly had nothing to report.

“Well enough, save for this stupid bruise.” Felicia poked at her hair, arranging and rearranging it over her forehead.

Dru might privately think it was no more than she deserved, but she would never say so. “Such a pity things like this happen. How did you fall?”

“I suppose I lost my balance.” Her gaze evaded Dru’s.

“I trust you will feel better come morning.” Dru backed from the room, thankful when the abigail closed the door against the complaining voice.

Colyer had listened to Dru’s suggestions with every indication of respect. Still, Dru planned to waken in the night so as to check on his lordship. Colyer might be all well and good; he had not nursed as many patients at Dru.

Without a doctor in their village back home and the apothecary much in demand, it often fell to the lot of the rectory ladies to visit the sick and help the infirm.

Dru couldn’t count the number of seriously ill she had nursed, most of them back to health. She knew grief for those she had lost, who were beyond her limited expertise. She had no intention of losing Lord Brentford.

Mentally telling herself that she needed to wake in three hours, she slipped from her gown and into her night wear, sadly lacking the fine-quality cambric or lace and tucks found on what Lady Felicia possessed.

There was no improvement during the night, nor the day that followed. Dru resolved to try something else to bring down his fever. The mustard plaster had not helped. She had tried cooling baths in the past, but mostly on children and infants. She didn’t think it respectable for a spinster to do one for a gentleman patient.