Never Romance a Rake (41 page)

Camille exhaled audibly.

“Do you think that's it?” asked Rothewell hopefully.

Hislop's grizzled eyebrows snapped together. “Well, that's not good news!” he barked. “It might not be cancer, but it will bloody well kill you, and a good deal quicker, too. We must heal the stomach, and it shan't be easy.”

“
Mon Dieu,
just tell us what to do.” Camille slid forward in her chair, her slender hands braced on the arms. “Tell us, and I shall see it is done.”

Hislop eyed her up and down. “Aye, you will, won't you?” he said. The doctor rummaged through his coat and extracted a wrinkled bit of paper and a stub of a pencil. On his knee, he began to jot out a list. Rothewell tried to relax in his chair. He watched Hislop's face carefully. The doctor was telling the truth, he believed. Moreover, the man seemed to have a sort of horse sense about him.

Hislop lifted his list, and cleared his throat. “Well, then,” he announced. “Here is what you may eat, my lord, and mind what I say, for you mustn't vary from it in the slightest! Boiled roots—potatoes, parsnips, and the like. Soft rice, beef tea—”

“Beef tea?” said Rothewell. “
Beef tea?
What the hell good is
that
going to do me?”

Hislop shot him a nasty look. “Bite him,” he said, motioning at Camille.

Rothewell held up a surrendering hand. “I shall acquire a taste for it,” he said. “Go on.”

“Stewed chicken, poached eggs, mushy peas, snap beans—well-cooked, mind—and perhaps a slice of bread—no butter.”

“Good God!” said Rothewell.

“Oh, and very weak soda water,” added the doctor cheerfully, squinting as he jotted it on the list. “It will neutralize the gastric secretions, and perhaps ease the pain. No other liquid of any kind—not even watered wine. That, my lord, is your diet for the next six weeks.”

“Six weeks!”

Hislop waved the list as if to torment him. “Yes, and the first week is to be total bed rest,” he continued. “
Total
bed rest. The next week you must rest comfortably at home, with no vigorous activity of any kind—and I think you know what I mean. Then, and only then, may you begin to take a little exercise. And at the end of all this, my lord, you shall be either alive or dead.”

“Or starving,” said Rothewell glumly. “Or perishing of boredom.”

Unsympathetic, Hislop ignored him. “Provided you are still alive and breathing at the end of six weeks,” he went on, “and provided the bleeding and pain have stopped, we may safely assume it is not a cancer.”

Camille made a sound of relief and shut her eyes.

“On the other hand,” the doctor continued, “if you keep on as you are—drinking, smoking, and fretting over whatever the devil it is you are fretting about—and one of those ulcerations eats through to your innards, then you may well wish you had a cancer.”

“He will do as you say,” said Camille, snatching the list. “I shall see to it.”

Rothewell was smiling grimly. “So the two of you mean to starve me to death instead, eh?” he said teasingly. “Without even the comfort of my brandy? Good God, Doctor, this is a sorry way for a man to go.”

The doctor had the audacity to lean forward and pat Rothewell's knee. “Keep on as you are, my lord,” he said again, “and you'll soon be praying for the Angel of Death. There won't be a bloody thing I can do about it, either, so do me a great kindness and don't send for me. I really do dislike watching strapping young men writhe in agony, particularly when a bit of temperance could have avoided it.”

He had painted a vivid picture in Rothewell's mind. “Yes,” said Rothewell, much subdued. “It does seem a waste.”

“Well, that's that!” Hislop rose, his knees cracking back into place. “I'd bleed him with my lancets, my lady, just to get his attention, but he can't spare it right now.”

“
Très bien,
” she said, shooting Rothewell a warning look. “We shall let him off that hook—
this
time.”

Hislop took up his bag. “Well, that will be ten pounds sixpence, my lord, for the call,” he said. “Might I ask that you settle your account now?'

“Ten pounds six?” Rothewell echoed, horrified. “Why, highwayman don't make that!”

“Yes, but I find an exorbitant fee tends to dramatically increase the value of my advice,” said the doctor. “And I like the terminally ill to pay straightaway. After all, one never knows.”

Rothewell blinked uncertainly. “But…But I thought you said…if I ate stewed chicken…?”

“Ha-ha!” said the doctor, elbowing Camille. “Just making a point, my lord! Six weeks—and no cheating!”

Camille escorted the doctor down the stairs and sent Trammel off to the cash box. At the front door, she paused to thank Hislop.

The doctor puffed out his cheeks. “Pray do not thank me yet, my lady,” he warned. “This will not be easy. I know his lordship's type.”

“
Oui,
perhaps,” she quietly acknowledged. “But you do not quite know mine.”

Dr. Hislop smiled as a footman threw open the door. As they said their final good-byes, a fine barouche pulled to the pavement, and Mr. Kemble climbed gingerly out, carrying a canvas bundle before him.

Camille was taken aback. “Good morning, Mr. Kemble,” she managed to say. “We were not expecting you.”

Kemble nodded at the passing doctor, who lifted his hat. “Yes, but I was expecting you,” he said brightly. Then, leaning into her, “
Quelle horreur!
What was that?”

“I fear it is a long story,” she said wryly.

Kemble shrugged it off at once. “Well, may I come in just a moment? I have something I wish you to see.”

“For a moment,
oui,
” she said. “But I am afraid my husband is rather ill.”

Kemble looked instantly grave. “All the more reason, then!” he said, swishing past her. He set the canvas bundle on the floor.

“
Alors,
what have you brought?” asked Camille, confused.

Kemble bent over and lifted the canvas bag with a soft
whoosh
! An ornate arrangement of glistening glass bowls and silver branches sat upon the hall carpet, rising to Camille's hip. She drew in her breath sharply.

“Indeed, the epergne!” he proclaimed. “Is it not magnificent? Jean-Claude left it out by mistake, and Lady Sallwart nearly got hold of it, so when you didn't turn up, I thought I'd best bring it by—but never mind that! Where is Rothewell? What has he done to himself now?”

“
Now?
” asked Camille pointedly.

Kemble smiled tightly. “Oh, he has a death wish, that one,” he said quietly. “I trust, my lady, that you can disabuse him of the notion?”

“
Oui, certainement,
” she said grimly. “You may depend upon it.”

Kemble started up the steps as if he knew where he was going. “Frankly, the life that man has led quite chills one's blood,” he said, tossing his hand theatrically. “I shan't terrify you with the details—but never say I did not warn him!”

“
Vraiment?
Did you warn him?”

“Oh, Lord yes!” said Kemble. “Scarcely six months ago, in this very house. We quarreled horribly over it, you know, but Rothewell is most unamenable to persuasion.”

“Is he indeed?” said Camille dryly. “I had not noticed.”

Kemble turned at the top of the stairs but nearly strode past Rothewell's door.

“This way,” said Camille, lightly touching his shoulder. “We have changed rooms.”

Kemble turned and followed her in.

“
Mon cœur,
I have brought you a visitor,” she said.

Kieran lifted his head from the pillows. “Good God,” he said. “You!”

“
Oui, c'est moi!
” said Kemble cheerfully. “Try to contain your enthusiasm.”

“Do draw up a chair,
Monsieur
Kemble,” said Camille, going to the opposite side of the bed and beginning to fluff Rothewell's pillows. “I am most eager to hear your story.”

Rothewell shot her a dark glance. “What story?”

“The story of how
Monsieur
Kemble warned you about your health,” she said lightly. “Six months ago,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“A little more,” said Kemble, settling into the chair he'd pulled to the bed. “It was May Day, actually. I remember it well.”

“Do you?” said Rothewell irascibly. “I certainly do not.”

Kemble turned to look at Camille. “I was warning him, you see, that the Satyr's Club was a nasty, pernicious place, and that he ought not frequent—”

Camille dropped the pillow. “The
Satyr's Club
?” she interjected. “What a vile name.”

“Yes, the place is rife with disease—I shan't be specific, mind—
and
opium,” said Kemble knowingly. “Moreover, the poor devil was practically
living
in that hellish hole.” Then Kemble dropped his voice to a more somber tone. “And I warned him, too, that he was in grave danger of losing his looks from all the drinking and smoking,” he said gravely. “Can there be a greater tragedy, I ask you?”

“Oh, good God!” said Rothewell again. “What nonsense! You said no such thing.”

A tight smile curled Kemble's lips. “But I did, my dear Rothewell, and you know it,” he said, cutting a chiding gaze toward him. “I told you quite plainly that you had all the charm and beauty of a violent death. That your skin tone was gone, your eyes were shot bloodred, and that it appeared a drunken stonemason had carved those lines into your face with a hammer and chisel. My
exact
words, I believe.”

“
Très drôle,
” said Camille. “It now appears my husband has made a habit of ignoring good advice.”

Rothewell stared at the ceiling. “I do not recall any of it.”

“Probably because you were half-sprung and in an ill humor at the time,” said Kemble blithely. “But never fear. I recall the rest of it, too.”

“Yes, right up until the moment I tossed you out on your arse, I hope?” Rothewell suggested.

“Thereabouts, yes.” Kemble laid a pensive finger to his cheek. “Now let me see! I warned you that your skin was losing its resiliency, and that if you hadn't a bit of your island bronze left, you'd have no color at all. And then I wondered—presciently, it now would appear—what would become of you in another six months.”

Rothewell looked at him sarcastically. “And I said?”

Kemble crossed his legs, and set his hands atop his knee. “Why you said you might as well hang yourself!” he declared. “
Once a chap's looks are gone,
you said,
what else has he to live for? Good tailoring and a tight corset can only go so far.
”

“Oh, good God!” Rothewell rolled his eyes heavenward. “I didn't really mean that.”

Camille circled around the bed and sat gingerly at Kieran's feet. “I fear,
Monsieur
Kemble, that the trouble is far worse than merely losing his looks,” she said, settling a soothing hand over Kieran's ankle. “That, really, is bearable. But Dr. Hislop fears that my husband might have ulcerations—is that the word?”

Glumly, Kieran nodded.

“
Oui,
ulcerations in his stomach,” she went on. “It is very dangerous, he says, and my husband must rest for many weeks.”

“And eat a very bland diet,” said Kemble, nodding. “That is of the utmost importance. And you don't want to eat
anything
they serve at the Satyr's Club, old chap, if you catch my meaning.”

Just then, one of the footmen came in bearing a huge covered platter. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said, jerking to a halt. “Miss Obelienne said since you didn't come down, I was to bring up a late breakfast?”

“
Zut!
” said Camille, as if to herself. “I must discuss with her the new diet.” Then, to the footman, “His lordship cannot eat that, Randolph. You must take it back down again.”

The servant swallowed hard. “Must I, ma'am?” he said. “Miss Obelienne won't like it.”

Kieran motioned to the empty side of the bed. “Just set it here, Randolph,” he said. “What Obelienne doesn't know won't hurt her.”

The footman did as he was bid, shot a parting look at Camille, then hastened from the room.

Chin-Chin leapt at once onto the mattress, tail madly wagging. Clearly, the spaniel had expectations—well-founded, too, it soon appeared.