Page 40

Violet could hardly stand by the time they walked the horses up to Rosehips. They’d been riding for over eight hours, including the stop they’d made at the inn. Still, she took a moment to look around her.

Rosehips was vast, two thousand acres or more if she had to guess, and quite beautiful.

The rosy glow of dawn illuminated the elegant manor house, and the air was scented with the delicate perfume of wildflowers.

The sea sparkled in the distance and the briny, tangy smell of it intermingled with the florals.

The whole of the place created a heady assault on Violet’s senses she wished she had the time or energy to appreciate.

She dismounted with the help of the stableboy, her legs shaking beneath her like aspic. She could hardly stand, much less walk. When she tried to take a step and nearly toppled over, she realized her muscles were as useless to her now as a wooden frying pan.

Alistair was by her side in a moment, reaching to hold her upright.

“Lean into me,” he whispered as she swayed on her feet. He held his arm to her, and she took it, gratefully. Together, they slowly made their way to the stately Rosehips entrance.

They’d only just ascended the steps and entered the gracious foyer when a middle-aged and strikingly beautiful woman rushed to greet them.

“Alistair!” she exclaimed and then looked at Violet and dipped her head. “Miss Goodwin. How nice to see you again.”

“Mother,” he said, leaving Violet leaning against the solid door to press a kiss to the Marchioness’s cheek as they embraced.

Violet noticed her clothes were exquisite and thoroughly rumpled.

She looked as if she had slept in them, but the dark purple shadows underneath her eyes said she likely hadn’t slept at all.

She’d probably paced and worried. Or sat by Darius’s bedside and clutched his hand, feeling utterly helpless.

“And what brings Miss Goodwin here?” Alistair’s mother asked, pulling away from her son to look at Violet.

They’d met only once before at the Crystal Palace, and yet her greeting was warm and welcoming.

“Miss Goodwin is a nurse. She’s here for Darius.”

“Pleased to see you again,” Violet said and dropped into a curtsey.

She’d thought her curtsey had improved in her time in England until her legs gave way from exhaustion and she tumbled backward.

Alistair moved to catch her again, lifting her upright and leaning her against himself this time, just as he’d done before with the door. She preferred him as her bulwark.

The Marchioness smiled at her graciously, despite the absurdity of her curtsey. And the impropriety of Alistair’s touch.

“Welcome to Rosehips, Miss Goodwin,” she said. “We’re glad to have you here, despite the circumstances.”

Violet noticed that Alistair had his mother’s eyes. They held the same inky depths as his. And they clouded now with the same worry.

“Thank you,” Violet replied. “May I see the patient? We shouldn’t waste time.”

“Jacks?” The Marchioness turned to the silent butler who had shown them into the house.

“See a room is prepared for Miss Goodwin and ask Jenkins to attend to her as soon as it is ready. In the meantime, they can breakfast in the yellow morning room.”

To Violet, she said, “Jenkins is my best lady’s maid. She’ll have you turned out in no time at all. I do apologize for the wait.”

Here, she gave her son a look that could still the hearts of even the most valiant of men. “I was not informed you’d be with us, or we would have been better prepared for you.”

“I apologize, Mother,” Alistair said with a sheepishness that made Violet think he’d said it just like that a thousand times over during his childhood for any number of boyish offenses.

“You’re forgiven. Now go, before your father comes down. You know how he is.”

Alistair cast his eyes briefly up the stairs and nodded briskly while the butler herded them out of the grand foyer and away to the morning room.

Violet sat at the table, bleary eyed and exhausted while coffee was poured, and toast and kippers were placed in front of her.

“I’d like to see your brother,” she said to Alistair. “As soon as possible.”

“This is as soon as possible. Although, you ought to rest. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“It’s important that I start treatment, which I can’t do until I examine him. So, if we could dispense with the pleasantries and the breakfast, I’d like to begin.”

“Jenkins must tend to you first.”

“Alistair!”

She was too tired to hide her irritation.

“How can you be concerned with my appearance at a time like this?”

Alistair reached across the table and grasped her hand. “I am not, I assure you. As I said, I like you in those breeches.”

He gave her the same smile he’d shot her in the tavern where they’d stopped to rest. It was completely inappropriate given the current circumstances, but it made fire flash through her belly, nonetheless.

“But unfortunately, my father will not stand for anything other than the highest level of propriety.”

She felt his hand clench around hers.

“Believe me, the next few hours will be markedly easier if you are not wearing breeches, no matter how much I enjoy them. I’ll consult with him on the surgeon’s report while you are dressing, which should be of help to you. And then you can examine my brother.”

“I don’t want to wait,” she said, acquiescing against all her instincts. “But I will.”

This was his family; she’d let him lead.

Violet allowed her body to be stuffed into a chemise, corset, skirt, bodice, and apron. She rushed through dressing as quickly as possible, impatient to be done with it.

“There,” the maid said, pinning up the last of Violet’s unruly hair into the barest minimum of an acceptable coiffure. “That will do.”

Violet was out of the room and making her way to Darius’s sickbed before the words were entirely out of the woman’s mouth. Once she got to his bedchamber door though, she paused to settle her mind.

Her thoughts were returning again and again to James, her beloved twin, but she could not afford a break in her focus now. Darius needed her full attention.

She cautiously opened the door to his bedchamber and made her way inside, where she found two harrowing scenes. The first was her patient lying in his sickbed.

Darius’s skin was sallow and pale, with undertones so blue it was as if he had been emptied of blood.

His cheekbones cut sharp angles into his skin, highlighting the hollows of his face beneath them, and his collarbones protruded from his chest, too angular and bony for his large frame.

They were so prominent she could see the ridges of them beneath the linen sheets strewn over his body, which made the bedding look more like a death shroud than linens.

The second sight she took in was Alistair himself, seated in a chair beside Darius’s bed and grasping his hand. The look of anguish on his face cut right through her as easily as a scalpel might.

“Alistair,” Violet whispered. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“I won’t leave him.”

“You must. You don’t know what’s causing this fever. It may spread.”

“I spoke with the Marquess,” Alistair said, his eyes never leaving his brother. “The surgeon has come and gone already. There’s nothing we can do now. We’re too late, Violet. It’s time for the vicar.”

“No. Please, Alistair. Please trust me to try and help him.”

“Violet, don’t. It’s too late. I won’t hope otherwise. It would be too—”

“Alistair,” she said gently, not letting him finish that sentence. “I’ll give you no false hope. But let me see him. What can it hurt after I’ve come all this way?”

He remained silent, but she could see a softening in his shoulders that told her she was making progress.

“I’ll just tend his fever,” she went on, when she saw a slight nod of his head. “At the very least, it will be soothing to him. There is no reason not to try.”

She was pushing her advantage, she knew.

But she needed to get Alistair out of the room so she could begin her work.

Even from her distance she could see that Darius’s skin was clammy and pale against Alistair’s healthier coloring.

He may very well need the vicar if she didn’t begin treatment as soon as possible.

“I’ll stay by his side, Violet,” Alistair said. “But you can tend to him.”

“No.” She was gentle but firm. “You can’t be here. There’s a chance it’s diphtheria.”

“It’s not. The surgeon told Father. And he’s got lesions on his legs and feet. It’s something else. Something that won’t be cured.”

“Oh.” Violet squelched the look of alarm she was sure had just passed across her face. Lesions were…they were bad. “Leave us now. At once.”

“No.”

“Yes,” countered the coldest, most aristocratic voice that Violet had ever heard, spoken from the hallway behind her. That single word carried with it seven generations of Timsbury power and wealth and brokered no possibility of disagreement.

Violet turned to find the Marquess, Alistair’s father, standing behind her. He looked exactly like his two sons, and his eyes were boring holes into Alistair.

“You brought her here,” the Marquess said to his son. “Have the courage of your conviction and do as she says.”

When Alistair did not immediately move, he added a brisk, “Now.”

“Father,” Alistair started, but the Marquess held up a hand to cut off his son’s words.

“No. Wait downstairs for me while I have a word with Miss Goodwin. See to your mother. She needs you.”

Alistair rose reluctantly, as if he were again a recalcitrant teenager and not a man of twenty and five years. He gave his brother’s hand one last squeeze and made his way out the door.

“Thank you,” Violet said to the Marquess after Alistair had left them.

She did not care for him. She couldn’t after what he’d done to Alistair, but she was grateful, nonetheless.

The man lifted a single eyebrow at her, just as Alistair would have done. “That was not for your benefit, Miss Goodwin. Why are you here?”

“I’m a nurse. I came to be of service.”

“You are the American cousin of Lady Catherine West? The one from the Waverley Ball?”

“I am.”

“Timber, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes,” Violet said, wondering what that might have to do with anything. “My mother’s family is in timber.”

But the Marquess merely nodded, his face unreadable. “The surgeon has already seen my son. The vicar is on his way.”

“Alistair said as much. But I think—”

Here Violet lifted her head and squared her shoulders, more out of habit than anything else. “I believe I may be of help, sir, despite what the surgeon said. I am quite proficient at nursing.”

The Marquess gave her an assessing look, and then a single, curt nod of his head.

“Send word down with the footman for what supplies you’ll need. The vicar arrives tomorrow, at which point, if Darius’s condition has not improved, you will stand aside. I won’t cause my wife any more grief than is necessary.”

He turned to leave, not bothering to wait for Violet’s agreement, but then stopped just shy of exiting the bedchamber.

“It will be Alistair now, you know,” he said, in a softer voice than she’d thought him capable of. “He’s to be protected.” And then the Marquess left.