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“Not possible. Even if the men could carry you up, the result would be that you could not come down again, possibly for weeks. If you stay on the ground floor, the bath chair could take you out into the gardens and even to the stables while your ankle mends. Surely you see that is the best solution until your leg heals sufficiently for you to walk with a crutch.”

“Fine.” Ralph, his voice slightly stronger, gave in with bad grace.

The dandy cleared his throat. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting this young lady,” he said as he assessed me with a sweeping gaze.

“Mr. Conrad, this is my companion, Margaret Dashwood,” Juliana said with a smile.

“I have heard Hodgson speak of you, Miss Dashwood,” he said with a sly grin.

The words catching in my throat, I replied, “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Conrad.” My eyes dropped to Ralph. “I will sit and read to you every day, Mr. Hodgson,” I promised.

“That new novel, Frankenstein ,” the Earl offered. “I have just finished it and it would be the perfect thing to distract you.”

Juliana, who had listed from side to side impatiently during this dialogue, broke in, her words breathless and tinged with a slight acid edge.

“The room is ready. The men may carry Mr. Hodgson there now and put him to bed. Dr. Whitacre is in the drawing room. By now, he must be heartily tired of staring at the teapot.”

“I will accompany him,” Conrad said.

“How long do you expect to stay, Conrad?” The Earl’s tone was cool.

“Merely a day or two. I must return to London on business, but I wanted to make sure Hodgson would be comfortably settled.”

“Sorry, my dear. I will make my apologies.” The Earl took his fiancée’s arm and moved toward the door.

“I will show the surgeon in once Ralph is settled.” As if by magic, the hall cleared.

Ralph, followed by Conrad, disappeared down the corridor to the late earl’s former sick room.

Altheney and Juliana disappeared into the drawing room.

I stood alone, wondering what to do next.

Ralph

Resentment filled me with a rage I could not express.

The idea of spending weeks in the room where my uncle died produced horrible visions of mortality, even though my uncle had died quietly in his sleep, without pain or struggle.

Still—sleeping in that bed! If I had been able to move, or even just raise my voice, I would have protested.

Lying on the palette, I swore under my breath as the men moved me through the corridor from the hall. Conrad chattered cheerfully.

Memories confronted me, and I twitched with melancholia.

The thoughts made me shudder as I remembered heavy curtains closed against the light, the fusty smell of an old man on his sickbed.

Tables crowded with medicine bottles. His ancient spaniel lying on the coverlet.

I resolved to remonstrate with Spencer. I would sleep in the drawing room rather than remain here.

The chamber we entered was unrecognizable.

I remembered the room as small, uncomfortable, and old-fashioned.

This space was none of those things. Refurbished, newly painted, new furniture installed.

The mahogany-frame bed was enormous, with a just-firm-enough mattress.

The hearth, framed in Delft tiles, was empty on this warm late-summer day, but the mantelpiece displayed a clock and above it hung a mirror if I cared to peruse my battered visage.

Nothing like it had been when my uncle spent his last days here.

But memories of that time lingered in dust motes that drifted in the air.

Sun warmed my face from the large windows that overlooked the terrace and gardens.

Spencer’s father had replaced all windows in the house, the stone mullions being ousted by the new sash windows, each in a grid pattern of three groupings of six over six.

They opened to admit a gentle breeze that brought the heady scents of Damask roses, lavender, and rosemary, but the wisteria floribunda climbing the wall almost overpowered them all with its sweet, almost cloying fragrance.

The overwhelming odors caused my nose to itch.

My arm throbbed when I tried to scratch it.

Pins and needles, nay sword stabs, assaulted me and I cried out. Spencer, arrival heralded by the sound of thudding boots, threw open the door. By now my eyes were streaming from the red-hot flames licking my ribs as I vainly suppressed the urge to sneeze.

The faint lines that framed my cousin’s mouth drew deeper and his brow furrowed. “What’s happened, Ralph?”

The man who entered with him sniffed. “The air, My Lord. We must have the windows closed to exclude the noxious odors.”

“Flowers, surely,” Spencer protested. “A garden ‘makes all our senses swim in pleasure, and that with infinite variety.’”

“William Lawson. I’ve always loved that quotation,” Conrad said.

The surgeon frowned in response, not reacting to the mention of the seventeenth-century parson and author. “Your cousin suffers from rose cold, My Lord. It is a catarrh brought on by the scent of flowers.”

In response, I sneezed, emitting an involuntary cry. The three men shook their heads and turned to the footman who had accompanied them. Some message passed between my cousin and the servant, who pulled the windows closed while the doctor wiped my nose with a cloth.

“The symptoms will lessen as the foul air leaves the room. Meantime, Mr. Hodgson, I must look to your injuries. The Earl has provided me with a full report from the attending apothecary in London.” His voice took on a judgmental tone as he pronounced those last words.

Apothecaries were beyond the pale, according to surgeons, fit only for creating tinctures, many of them worthless.

He continued in a more professional tone. “I propose to remove the poultices and bandages, then replace them on the cuts and bruises. Limit your movement as much as possible and your ribs should heal.”

Spencer said, “Is there anything else we can do?”

The doctor pulled out his watch and consulted it. “Tinctures of laudanum will help ease the pain but watch the dosage carefully. Be mindful of his breathing. Shallowness of breath and inactivity can lead to pneumonia. Otherwise, the healing will have to take its course.”

This pronouncement caused my muscles to twitch, increasing the throbbing and stabbing sensations. Barely above a whisper, I asked, “How long will this process take?”

“No more than an hour, perhaps less.”

The raspy, breathy sounds that came out from the effort not to scream made my voice so weak as hardly to be heard. “I mean the knitting together.”

“Ah, that will depend. But you are a young man and should heal well. I would say six to eight weeks.”

“In bed? All that time?” I managed to ask.

“No, no. You will be able to get out of bed as soon as the swelling dissipates and you can move with less pain. I have advised his lordship that for the first few weeks, the bath chair is advisable. After, you will have a cane to enable you to move without aid. But always have a servant or relation nearby.”

The surgeon and his assistant worked quickly, cutting away bandages, removing poultices, and rebandaging the area around my sadly cracked rib cage and my injured ankle.

Then they took their leave, the man and the boy, heels cracking against the oaken floorboards, then clattering as they moved through the hall.

I lay back and closed my eyes. What would I do if Merrivale arrived to see the horses?

Perhaps my plight would touch him. Then I recalled that sneering face with the hardened jaw.

I could picture him in a pugilistic pose with pitiless eyes, the color of coal and red sparks that emanated as if from a fiend of hell.

Conrad interrupted these gloomy forebodings. “You’ll be fine, Hodgson. Remember my injuries during the campaign in Spain with Wellington? The doctors predicted I might never walk again, and now you can barely discern the limp.”

Spencer reappeared. Arms folded, he looked down at my pitiful frame. “Well, cousin, what have you to say for yourself?”

Conrad sidled toward the door. “I’ll see you later, old chap.”

My jaw locked but, heedless of the pain, I forced it open. “Yes. Come sit with me at dinner.” He left, softly closing the door behind him.

My cousin sat in the armchair, a scowl still dark on his face. Avoidance was not an option. Spencer would have to be apprised. A temporary loan from my cousin would keep me both from another beating and debtor’s prison. Then I could somehow win enough at the races to repay him.

Heat suffused my face as I recollected how my uncle, and later my cousin, had rescued me in the past. Once healed, I would flee to the continent. With a pang, I wondered if Margaret would even notice if I were gone.

Like the Beau, decamping meant I could never return. Brummell and I were of an age and had been schoolfellows at Eton. Now we would share the same fate.

Although not close friends, I had some intercourse with his set, even though Spencer warned me to keep my distance.

I followed him to Oriel, as my uncle hoped I might have a career in the church.

But I was not meant to be a churchman and soon left Oxford.

I moved to London and took up a commission with the Household Cavalry, where I got in with a fast set.

Father left me ￡20,000. Instead of prudent investment, I attempted to increase the amount at Brook’s tables and the racecourse, a choice that ate up much of the money I had.

The more I played, the more I wanted to play, and the poorer I became.

The hole I dug was now a well and would soon transform into an oubliette.

Altheney, fingers tapping with impatience, pierced me with his penetrating glare. Gathering as much strength and courage as I could, I mumbled, “I owe Lord Merrivale money.”

“A gambling debt.” He sounded disgusted.