Anita Mills (17 page)

As she hurried up the stairs, she heard Lady Sturbridge offer the doctors brandy while they determined a course of treatment for the baron. Kitty found the bedchamber door slightly ajar, but even before she opened it fully, she was surprised by the heat coming from the room. It reminded her of the bakehouse at Rose Farm on bread day.

“Colonel Rayne?” she whispered, entering the stifling warmth. When he did not answer, she approached the bed, saying more loudly, “Lord Haverhill?”

He was swathed in blankets despite the intense heat, and his face was red beneath his auburn hair. To her relief, his forehead was wet with perspiration. His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, it seemed that he had difficulty focusing them.

“Good of you to come,” he said in croaks.

“What happened?” she asked, moving to the side of the bed.

“Sick.”

She felt as though she were in an oven herself. The heat from the blazing fire overwhelmed her. “Would you that I opened the window, my lord? Surely you cannot breathe in here.”

“Cold,” he muttered.

“Cold? But you cannot be!”

“Cold,” he repeated.

“Do you hurt anywhere?”

He slipped one hand from beneath the covers, reaching out to her. His fingers were hot where they touched hers. Placing her hand over his shoulder, he nodded. “Like the devil.”

“When did this happen?”

“After you left me. Tried to walk back on my own—leg wouldn’t hold me.”

Telling herself that she could endure the heat if he could, she sank onto the chair, beside the bed and leaned over him. “It came on rather suddenly, did it not?”

He nodded. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“I feel awful, my lord—awful,” she admitted painfully. “But I cannot see how—”

“Stay with me.”

“What?”

“Stay with me.”

“Jess—”

“No. Didn’t offer for her.” His eyes closed as though he were too weak to keep them open.

There were a lot of things she wanted to ask, but she realized he was in no condition to answer her, so she forbore saying anything more. Instead, she sat there, her hand held against his breast by his. When she could stand it no longer, she reached with her free one to pick up a discarded newspaper to use for a fan. After a while, she wondered if he slept or was unconscious, if perhaps she ought to fetch his doctors.

“Woooeeee, Kit! Damned if it ain’t an inferno in here,” Roland complained, joining her. His eyes dropped to where her hand rested beneath Red Jack’s, and his eyebrow shot up.

“Uh—he was showing me where he hurt,” Kitty muttered, retrieving her fingers gingerly.

“Hot,” Jack croaked.

“Should think so,” Roland agreed with feeling. “Damned hot—er,
deuced
hot.”

Bathed in sweat herself, Kitty breathed relief. “Open the windows for air, Rollo.”

She had not needed to ask, for her cousin already busied himself with throwing open the sashes. Cool spring air blew in, fluttering the canopy above the bed. For a long moment, she sucked in the fresh air, filling her lungs with it. She felt like a dying man saved. As Roland pulled up a chair beside her, she picked up a cloth and poured water from the pitcher over it, catching the excess in the basin. Leaning over Jack, she wiped the sweat from his brow and smoothed the unruly auburn hair back from his forehead. His eyes opened, showing his gratitude. And once again, she was struck by the unusual beauty of them.

“My thanks,” he whispered.

The task done, she turned the cloth to herself, mopping her own streaming face, cooling it. And then she proceeded to wipe her neck and arms.

“What do you think?” Roland asked anxiously at her elbow.

“If he needed this much heat to warm himself, he must be exceedingly ill,” Kitty admitted.

“Told you he was.” Her cousin’s forehead creased in a frown. “Wish I had more confidence in the demned physicians, though—cannot agree on what to do with him. Crawford wants to reopen the wound and probe, while Ellis wants to bleed him.”

“Bleed him? Rollo, he lost far too much blood when it happened.” She looked down at Jack, who lay quiet again. “Rollo, we cannot allow it.”

“Now, Kit, I ain’t a doctor! Cannot tell ’em what to do.”

“Well, I will,” she declared forcefully. “Bleed him indeed!”

“Got to get the poison out somehow.”

“Well, there must be another way.”

“Cold,” Red Jack muttered. “Deuced cold.”

“Cold?” Rollo fairly howled. “Just got to where I could breathe!”

“Got to have the fire.”

Kitty exchanged glances with her cousin. “I suppose you will have to shut the windows, Rollo, but how he stands it, I am sure I do not know.”

“Sick man,” Rollo said succinctly.

“No doubt.”

As the younger man went about closing up the room, Kitty started to rise, promising Red Jack, “I shall return later, sir.”

“No. Stay with me … please.” His hand closed over hers again. “Please.”

“Best stay, Kit,” Roland advised. “Call me later, and I’ll sit with him.” He eyed the fire that still roared in the hearth dubiously. “Tell you what—send for me when he’s hot, will you?”

“Wretch,” Kitty muttered after him, sitting down again.

It was, she reflected grimly, going to be an exceedingly miserable evening. Then, looking down on the baron’s pale countenance, she realized it would be nothing to what he must be suffering. And guilt for what had happened to him washed over her. If he could stand it, so could she. The important thing would be to get him well again. Without thinking, she tenderly brushed his wet locks back from his face.

I
T WAS MISERABLE
in the sickroom, for Red Jack insisted on either having the room at stifling temperatures or too cold for comfort. And, despite the offers of help from Rollo, Charles, Jessica, and numerous servants, Kitty could not bring herself to leave him for more than a few hours rest. Every time she rose, he clasped her hand and begged her to stay.

And any protests about the unseemliness of her presence in a man’s bedchamber were overridden by the fact that he was considered far too ill to compromise anyone. Throughout the ordeal, Kitty maintained an almost stoic tolerance, telling herself that the paramount thing was making him well. If he died, she could never forgive herself—never. And so she fed him spoonfuls of sustaining broth and held him to drink, praying all the while that he would recover fully.

Finally, in the middle of the second morning, she deemed he was resting peacefully enough for her to partake of breakfast downstairs with the others, for Louise had invited Kitty’s family to join in the vigil below. Emerging from the sickroom, Kitty exercised cramped legs, and tried to tell herself that she was not too tired to think.

“Egad, my dear, but you look hagged!” Charles exclaimed as she joined them.

“Peaked,” Rollo agreed. “And it ain’t a wonder.”

“Well,” Isabella complained to the viscount, “what an unloverlike thing to say to your betrothed.”

“Yes, what we should do without poor Kitty, I am sure I do not know,” the dowager murmured. “Tea, dear?” she asked solicitously.

“The physicker is here, by the by,” Roland told her.

“Well, he will not be cupped.”

“Now, Kit—it ain’t your business.”

“I am afraid I must agree with dear Kitty,” Louise stated mildly, pouring a cup of tea for the younger woman. “It seems to me there must be another way, after all.”

“Got to lower the poison in his body, Mama,” Charles reminded her. “Got to do it somehow.” He cut off a piece of sugar from the loaf and added it to his betrothed’s tea. “Do you think he is any better?”

“I don’t know,” Kitty answered tiredly.

“Well, dear, for what ’tis worth, I think you a positive saint,” his mother announced. “For a small female, your strength is nothing less than boggling. I am sure that I could never have managed without you.”

“Really, but—”

“Such devotion to a stranger.”

“Kit’s got substance—do it for anyone, wouldn’t you?” Roland asked.

“Of course she would,” Louise answered for her. “One can only admire her for it.”

Unused to such encomiums from Charles’s mother, Kitty bent her head in embarrassment and began to butter her bread. No, she would not do it for anyone, she had to admit. In fact, she was not at all sure she could even bring herself to endure such heat and cold for her own family. But Red Jack Rayne had become a far different matter.

“I have asked Dr. Crawford to join us momentarily that he may discuss treatment,” Louise added.

“At the breakfast table, Mama?” Charles protested. “I don’t think—”

“Don’t see why not,” Roland countered. “Got strong stomachs—except Jess, that is.”

“Rollo, I cannot help it.”

“Seems to me you cannot help much of anything, Jess,” her brother gibed. “Leaving it to Kit to tend your betrothed—it ain’t right.”

“What an awful thing to say, Roland Merriman!” Jess threw down her napkin and stalked from the room.

“Your pardon, Louise,” Isabella said, rising.

“No—no. I’ll go after her,” Charles decided hastily.

The dowager watched her son leave with a small, secretive smile. “I do not refine too much on it, Bella, for I am sure she is overset.” Turning to Kitty, she asked slyly, “Do
you
want her to take care of Haverhill?”

“No.”

“Somehow I did not think so.”

While Kitty still pondered the dowager’s meaning, Dr. Crawford arrived. After partaking heartily of coddled eggs, sausages, and bread and jam, he turned his attention to the matter at hand. “Two ways to go,” he announced, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Can cup him or purge him. Ellis and I are agreed—got to get rid of the poison. The short of it is, he ain’t getting better, and Ellis is loath to open the wound again. Says he
knows
he got it all.”

“Oh, but he’s so weak!” Kitty protested. “I don’t see how he will stand for either procedure.”

“Got to do it, Miss Gordon,” Crawford maintained stoutly. “Got to.”

“I cannot understand why he is forever too hot or too cold,” Roland said.

“Strangest case I have ever had,” the doctor agreed. “Defies everything I know. Got to be a poison from the lead in the ball.”

“Well, I am against it.”

“Dash it, Kit, but he ain’t getting any better! Got to do something! Don’t know precisely what, but something.”

“Just so, young man.”

“Well, I am more familiar with cupping, of course,” Isabella murmured. “Having been bled myself when I contracted a fever some years ago, I am proof of the efficacy of that. I recovered within a fortnight.”

“When was that, Bella? I for one do not recall it,” the dowager challenged her.

“Well, ’twas when the youngest girl had the measles, and we were in quarantine, Louise dear.”

“Still, one would think I would have heard, after all.”

Kitty slipped from the room as her aunt prepared to regale both Sturbridge’s mama and the physician with an account of her miraculous recovery. It was ridiculous to think that further weakening a truly sick man would improve his condition, she was certain, and yet if she did not stop them, they would agree to either purge or bleed Red Jack.

She stopped outside the sickroom door and considered what she could do to stop them. Perhaps Crawford would consider some of the Egyptian bark for the fever, but she doubted it. He did not appear to be a physician overgiven to innovation.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement from within the bedchamber, and at first she supposed it must be Charles’s valet come to shave and wash the baron. And then she detected the distinct limp. Slipping just to the edge of the door, she watched in dawning fury as Red Jack Rayne leaned his face into the heat of the fire for a long moment. And then he warmed his hands also. Sweat poured from his face. Very carefully, he wiped it away, then hobbled back to bed. She waited until he was again between the covers. Thinking he was alone, he took a few quick fans with one of the papers she’d carried up to read to him.

As she stepped inside the door, he dropped the paper behind the bed and gestured weakly to her. “Feeling better, my lord?” she asked solicitously.

“No. Fever’s up again, I think,” he said.

She walked over to him and touched his almost fiery forehead. “You
are
a trifle hot,” she admitted.

“A trifle?” He looked up reproachfully. “Burning up. Got to cool off.”

“Oh, dear. Perhaps if you were given a cool bath …”

“Too weak,” he gasped.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you are.” She picked up the wet cloth she’d been using to wipe his fevered face and wet it again. This time, she did not wring it out. “Perhaps I can help,” she murmured soothingly.

“So good to me … so good …”

“Here, hold this to your head while I fetch the doctor,” she said, dropping the dripping cloth onto his forehead.

“Don’t need him.”

“Nonsense.”

He reached out to her, but she eluded his grasp this time. “I shall be back directly,” she promised him.

Outside, she shook with the intensity of her anger. She’d been bamboozled royally, and she knew it. Ill, he was? With each step, she reviewed the care she had given him, the heat and cold she’d endured for his sake, and the hours she had spent holding his sweaty hand. Seething, she determined to get revenge on him.

“Is he any better, Kitty dear?” the dowager asked, looking up. “I vow you look as though you are utterly overset.”

“No, he is not one whit better, Lady Sturbridge,” Kitty managed. “And I am not overset in the least.” Turning to the doctor, who was finishing his coffee, she said, “I have reconsidered, sir, and in view of his deteriorating condition, I find I must conclude that a remedy should be undertaken.”

“Ought to be cupped,” he agreed, nodding.

“Actually, I was more inclined to think of a purge.”

“A purge? Deuced hard on a man,” Rollo protested. “A little blood would be easier, I’d think.”

“But a purge is so much more thorough, Rollo, and Red Jack is so filled with poison that I have all but given up hope.”

“Still …”

She looked to Dr. Crawford. “Would you not agree, sir, that a purge cleanses all the systems?”

“Most certainly. Got to balance the humors, after all.”

“His humors are definitely in need of balancing,” Kitty muttered. “Most definitely.”

“Could cup him just a trifle—a few ounces at most, I suppose. And a little senna or some salts ought to take care of die other,” the doctor mused.

“But he lost so much blood to begin with,” Lady Sturbridge complained. “And he is so weak.”

“You ain’t seen weak until you have seen a purge,” Roland told her with feeling. “I remember when I was sick with the ague, and Mama—”

“That will be enough, Rollo,” his mother declared flatly. “You are here, and that is the important thing.”

“Dear lady,” Crawford murmured to the dowager, “I shall, of course, bow to your good sense. ’Twill be the senna, followed by the salts.”

“Both of them?” Isabella asked doubtfully.

“Both of them, Aunt Bella. I quite agree.”

“He ain’t going to like it,” Roland predicted direly. “And I cannot say as I’d blame him.”

“Rollo, sometimes one must endure for the sake of one’s health,” Kitty answered him. “ ’Tis for the best, I am sure.”

“Give you the powders to make them up.” Crawford rose from the table, bowing to the ladies. “Be back directly,” he promised, following Kitty out.

He found his bag and opened it to reveal a number of evil-appearing instruments as well as an assortment of containers filled with salves, ointments, powders, and liquids. Rummaging through them, he drew out two jars, and after opening and smelling them, handed them to her. “One spoon of the powder in half a glass of water, followed by two spoons of the salts in another half glass—ought to be quite thorough, I should say.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Can you get them down him, do you think?” He appeared to consider her. “Little for a grown female. Perhaps I ought to do it.”

“I shall manage,” Kitty promised him grimly. “And you ought to enjoy another cup of coffee.”

“Drink it for its virtues, Miss Gordon—good for the spleen. Yes, well …” He cleared his throat. “If you have any difficulty, you have but to ask for help, don’t you?”

“Exactly.”

Armed with the two jars, she made her way back upstairs to find her patient pressing the wet cloth to his head. As the cloth slipped to one side, one hazel eye gazed at her almost warily. “Thought you’d abandoned me.”

“Gracious, no, my lord—why would you think that?”

“Acting deuced odd.”

“If I am out of reason cross, ’tis because I am beside myself with worry over you.” She poured water from the pitcher into his glass, then carefully measured out two spoons of the powder into it. “Hopefully, this will make you feel more die thing.”

“What is it?”

“I am not entirely certain—’tis for the fever, I think.”

“Fever’s better,” he said feebly. “Feel.”

“ ’Tis just because the cloth was cool.” She stirred the mixture and leaned over him. “Can you sit, do you think?”

“Hold me.”

“Gladly.” Sitting beside him, she slipped an arm behind him and lifted his head. “Drink this, if you please,” she ordered crisply.

“Strong for a small woman,” he observed, postponing the moment.

“Yes.” Not to be deterred, she held it to his lips. “All. of it.”

He gulped noisily, draining the glass. “Ugh! Not much to recommend it.” He shuddered as the taste overwhelmed him. “Water.”

“Bitter?” she asked solicitously. “Well, we are almost done, in any event, and then you will be better.” Turning back to the table, she opened the other jar and measured a liberal amount of the salts into the glass, then added more water. “Perhaps this will be more to your taste.”

“What is it?” He eyed the mixture suspiciously. “I don’t think I ought to take two kinds of medicine at the same time.”

“Nonsense.” Again, she lifted him, cradling him almost tenderly. “We are almost done.”

“Easy for you to say,” he grumbled. Then, sighing as though he were badly goaded, he swallowed it. “Aaaaaarrrrrgghhhhhh! Awful!” For a moment, it looked as though he might shoot the cat, then he lay back in her arms. She moved aside, letting him fall, and stood over him.

“Hopefully, we have discovered a cure for fire-sickness,” she said sweetly. “Good day, my lord.”

“Wait! What the devil?”

“I don’t think you will wish me here when the medicine takes effect. You see, you have been roundly purged.”

“Purged?” For an awful moment, he looked as though he might come out of the bed. “Egad.”

“Just so.” She’d meant to leave and let him discover his predicament for himself, but there was that perversity within her that wished him to know she
knew.
“How could you, my lord? How
could
you? I worried about you—I prayed over you! You—you fakir! You bamboozled me!” Drawing herself up to her full five feet, she turned on her heel. “I shall not, of course, tell the others, for ’twill only make my gullibility even more apparent.”

“Miss Gordon—Kitty—”

“Hero of everything, indeed! Did you spend the war in the sick tents?” she asked sarcastically as she reached the door.

“Kitty, I merely wished—”

“I don’t care.” She wrenched the door open fully. “Good day, my lord.”

“I did not wish you to wed Sturbridge.” Throwing the covers off, he lunged from the bed, trying to reach her before she left him. “ ’Twould be a mistake.”

“There was never any question of that. And my mistake, sir, is you,” she told him coldly, stepping into the hall.

“Kitty!”

“Good-bye, my lord.”

He considered going after her and trying to explain, but he had little hope that she could be brought to listen to him. Instead, he would only make a bigger cake of himself than he already had. He sank back to sit on the side of the bed, his head in his hands, feeling as though he’d gotten his just desserts.