Page 7 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

T he duke must have sent word to Torrance to expect them because the front door opened as the carriage rolled up and several footmen and a man who could only be a butler—although he was not dear old Friske, whom Sophia must have driven off—hastened to meet the carriage.

As he had every single time, Plimpton opened the carriage door himself and helped Freddie and Miss Denny out.

“This is Lady Sedgewick, Goodrich, his lordship’s sister,” the duke said to the dignified looking older man who had approached.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my lady,” the butler said, sounding as if he meant it.

“How is his lordship?” the duke asked.

“Doctor Finch was here a few hours ago and he cupped Lord Wareham after observing the deterioration in his condition. He fears the infection has become worse, Your Grace.”

The duke frowned. “And the Dowager Viscountess Telford?”

The butler’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. “She is still here.” He coughed lightly. “Although she has not attended his lordship after he sent her away two days ago.”

“I see,” Plimpton said after a pregnant silence.

The duke had not raised his voice, but Freddie could feel the force of his anger radiating off his well-tailored person. His jaw muscles flexed, his opaque gaze looking through, rather than at the poor butler, who had developed beads of perspiration on his forehead.

Freddie reflected that the duke would have to shave twice a day given that his beard had begun to poke through the tanned skin, and it was scarcely three o’clock.

She blinked at the strange observation. Why on earth was she thinking about his facial hair?

The duke turned to her. “Would you like to go to your room first and—”

“I would like to see my brother immediately.”

For the first time, approval glinted in Plimpton’s cold gaze. “I will come with you.”

Freddie was more relieved by his words than she wanted to admit. There was a strange, unpleasant atmosphere in the house—a tension of sorts—and after the butler’s confession about the dowager, Freddie suspected the older woman was the source.

As the three of them ascended the grand marble staircase the butler turned to her. “I took the liberty of having your old chambers prepared for you, my lady.”

Freddie felt a stab of pleasure at his thoughtfulness. “Thank you.” How astonishing that her sister-in-law had left any trace of her in the house.

As if she’d spoken the words aloud the butler delicately cleared his throat and said, “Er, the suite was redecorated some years ago.”

Ah. She should have guessed.

Torrance Park had been built a hundred and fifty years earlier when the original structure had suffered a devastating fire. While none of the furnishings had been ancient family heirlooms, the house had been, in Freddie’s memory, elegantly appointed.

As she looked around her, she could see few things from her childhood remaining. While Freddie wouldn’t have called the changes to the furniture, draperies, and art vulgar , the modern décor struck her as trying a bit too hard.

Goodrich stopped outside of one of the guestroom doors and knocked lightly.

Freddie frowned. “My brother is not in the earl’s chambers?”

“Er, no, my lady. His lordship moved to this suite of rooms some time ago.”

She looked at the duke, but he said nothing. Wareham had occupied the master’s chambers at Torrance Park since their parents had died. How odd that he had moved.

When nobody answered the butler’s knock he turned the handle. “It is locked,” he said, astonished.

Wearing the closest thing Freddie had seen to a scowl the duke rapped sharply on the heavy wooden door.

They waited. And waited.

Plimpton had just raised his hand to pound with the meat of his fist when the door finally opened.

The fetid stench of sickness was the first thing she noticed. Right behind that was the unmistakable odor of gin.

The woman who had opened the door was wizened and ancient looking. A pair of rheumy eyes blinked up at them and a scratchy voice wheezed, “His lordship is sleeping and not to be disturbed.”

“This is Lady Sedgewick, his lordship’s sister, Mrs. Marley,” Goodrich said, his voice frosty with disapproval.

“The Dowager said—”

“Stand aside, woman,” the duke barked.

Mrs. Marley’s jaw sagged, and her squinty eyes widened as she hastily stumbled out of the way.

Plimpton gestured for Freddie to enter.

Inhaling through her mouth, she almost gagged as she went through the study and into the adjacent bedchamber. Breathing such air would make anyone ill, even a healthy person.

She strode to the window farthest from the bed, yanked back the drapes, and fumbled with the sash before flinging it open and flooding the room with much needed air.

Behind her, the old woman gave a scandalized yelp. “Her ladyship said—”

“You are dismissed,” the duke’s voice was as lethal as a knife’s blade.

“Look here, I don’t take orders from you. I take my—”

The voices faded into insignificance as Freddie stared in horror at the motionless figure on the bed. Wareham’s normally slender, handsome face was so bloated and red that Freddie never would have recognized him as her brother. His breathing was stertorous, and it pained her own lungs just to hear him. She stepped closer and her foot struck something—a bottle, judging by the sound it made as it rolled beneath the bed. A few seconds later the botanical odor of gin—fresh this time, rather than sour and old—assaulted her.

“She is gone, Winifred. What do you need?”

Freddie jolted and turned to the duke. His face had lost all its color, and the nostrils of his aquiline, high-bridged nose were pinched against the smell.

“My valise—the smaller one—if you please.” Her gaze flickered over the pillow beneath her brother’s greasy head. “Fresh bed linens—indeed, fresh pillows and new blankets; hot water—lots of it—soap, washcloths, and some towels.” She glanced around at the dim room. “I’ll need more light, and a screen so it won’t disturb my brother.”

“You will also need help,” the duke said.

Freddie nodded and turned to the hovering butler, who was staring aghast at Wareham’s prone figure.

“Yes. Send up your two best maids—girls who take initiative and are self-directed. Once they have put his lordship’s rooms in order I will instruct them on his care.”

“I know just who to—”

“What is the meaning of this?” a strident voice demanded from the doorway, which had been left open by the fleeing Mrs. Marley.

Freddie was about to go and speak to the woman when the duke set a hand on her shoulder. “You stay and take care of Wareham.” His lips compressed into a grim smile. “I will see to the dowager.” He turned to the butler. “Do as Lady Sedgewick instructed.”

The servant nodded and hurried away.

Relieved to have the matter of Lady Telford out of her hands, Freddie turned back to her brother. Steeling herself, she reached for the stained bedding over his chest.

“You have no right—” the dowager began.

“Outside, Lady Telford. Now,” the duke added menacingly.

“Do not come the high-handed master with me, Plimpton! I will—”

“You will step outside under your own locomotion, or I will pick you up and carry you out, madam.”

Freddie’s lips quirked into a slight smile at the other woman’s scandalized yelp.

Only when the door shut, and blessed silence reigned did she pull back the blanket.

She gasped and caught her lip with her teeth to keep from crying out at the festering wound that met her gaze.

Wareham’s nightshirt was almost transparent with sweat. Bloody yellow stains spread out discoloring the formerly white linen.

“Oh, Dicky! What has that witch done to you?” she whispered, calling her brother by his nickname for the first time in almost two decades as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Thank God Plimpton brought me here in time.”

***

“You have no right to—”

“We will conduct this conversation in his lordship’s study rather than the corridor, ma’am,” Plimpton said, marching the squirming woman down the corridor.

“Unhand me, you brute!” Her ladyship jerked her upper arm from his grasp. Or at least she tried to, but he held her firmly. Plimpton had to force himself to walk slowly—and not tighten his grip as much as he wanted to—forcibly reminding himself that as loathsome as she was, the dowager was a lady, and an elderly one, at that.

“Will you come peaceably?” he asked coolly.

She scowled up at him. “Yes,” she said, forcing the word through clenched jaws.

Plimpton released her and gestured in the direction of Wareham’s study. “After you, ma’am.”

They made the short journey in blessed silence. The moment he closed the door the dowager turned on him, her expression wrathful. “Edna Marley has worked for my family since I was a child.”

“Then perhaps it is time you gave her a pension and allow her to retire, madam. Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a chair.

She ignored him, her mouth screwing up like a piece of paper that had been tightly twisted “You have no right to command matters here and I will—”

“I have a signed power of attorney from Wareham to see to all facets of his estate, his children, and his health.”

Her jaw dropped open like a drawbridge whose ropes had been severed. She sputtered, “That is—that is—”

“That is the way his lordship wants it,” he finished for her, although not what she would have said if her empurpling face was anything to go by.

“How dare you take charge of my daughter’s children and send them to my son and his useless wife?”

“It is what Wareham wanted.”

“Those are my grandchildren and should be in my care.”

Plimpton thought Wareham’s children—especially his young daughters—would be better off with a pack of wolves than with their grandmother. But stating that would scarcely be conducive to ending this conversation. “It is my belief that Wareham will soon be well enough that his children do not require either Telford’s or your care, ma’am. Now, tell me why you dismissed Doctor Madsen?”

She crossed her arms and scowled. “I suppose he is the one who had the temerity to write to you?”

And a damned good thing he had. Plimpton ignored her question and repeated, “Why did you dismiss him?”

“He is a quack! He refused to cup Lord Wareham even though it was obvious that is what he needed.”

“Obvious to whom?”

“To Doctor Finch.”

“And who is he, pray?”

“Finch is an excellent physician. It was he who treated my daughter after her riding accident.”

Plimpton forbore pointing out how well that had ended for Lady Wareham. Instead, he said, “Doctor Madsen is a highly respected physician who has years of experience with the sort of injury his lordship sustained. He believes cupping to be counterproductive to the healing process in this situation and I— and I ,” he repeated in a raised voice to be heard over hers. “Believe him. Not only do I believe him, but Lord Wareham was on the mend before you interfered with his treatment.”

She jumped up from her chair. “I will not stay here and be insulted by you!”

Courtesy bred into his bones had him on his feet a scant second later. “Fortunately, there is no reason for you to stay. I will be pleased to offer you the use of my carriage and servants to take you wherever you would like to go.” Preferably to Hell .

“I do not want anything from you. Your interference in my family’s affairs is outrageous. I will contact our family’s lawyer about your claims.”

“Please do so.”

“You will not get away with this!” With that salvo, she turned on her heel and stormed toward the door.

Plimpton lengthened his stride and reached it before her. He set his hand on the doorknob and turned to her, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I think it is an excellent idea to contact your family solicitor. I also want to reiterate, in case you did not hear me, that you are not to interfere with his lordship’s treatment again. Nor are you to remove the children from your son’s house.” Judging by the hatred that flared in her gaze that had been her next step. “Understood?” he asked when she merely seethed.

They locked eyes, the silence unbroken but for her hectic breathing.

Plimpton thought he might be stuck in the room all day with the stubborn old witch when she finally snarled, “I understand. Now get out of my way.”

He opened the door, and she fled his presence as speedily as a rat escaping up a drainpipe.

He sighed and rubbed his aching jaw, which he’d been clenching. A soft rasping sound came from his palm, and he grimaced; he needed a shave. And a bath. And a decent night’s sleep.

Unfortunately, it would be hours before he could have any of those things.