Page 8 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

M y lady? I’ve brought fresh ice.”

The voice jolted Freddie from her fugue, and she was confused for a moment. The sight of her brother—on clean bedding, wearing a fresh nightshirt, and no longer sweating profusely or a violent shade of reddish purple—reminded her of where she was.

She smiled at the maid. Betsy , she reminded herself. One of the clear-eyed and clean young women Goodrich had sent to help care for Wareham.

“I must have dropped off to sleep,” she admitted, suppressing a yawn and rising from her chair before taking the basin of ice chips from the girl. “Thank you.”

“His Grace said I was to help in any way you needed.”

“This is good for now, Betsy.”

The girl hesitated.

“Yes?” Freddie urged.

“May I stay and watch? I know only a little of nursing and I would like to learn more.

“Of course you may stay.” Freddie poured a tiny amount of the distilled lavender she had brought into the ice.

“Why do you add lavender, my lady?” Betsy asked quietly.

“Some people believe it has a cleansing effect—an astringent. Others believe the smell of it lifts a person’s mood.” She smiled faintly. “I think a little of both is true. Will you take one of those clean cloths, wet it, squeeze it thoroughly, and then bathe his lordship’s forehead, please? I will check his feet to see if they have warmed up.”

“Why would his feet be cold if he has a fever, my lady?” Betsy asked, her hands busy while she spoke.

“It can be an indication of a more serious infection called sepsis.”

While the maid cooled Wareham’s brow, Freddie checked her brother’s feet, which were still too cold for a person who was burning up with fever, but at least they were no longer as chilled as the ice in the basin.

As much as she wanted to slip a hot brick into the bed and warm them up, she did not want to hide his symptoms. The wounds on his torso had just begun to succumb to infection, which told her that Lady Telford’s recent care had been the turning point for her brother; and not a good one.

She was weak with relief that the duke had taken the dowager away. She had only met her once before—at Wareham and Sophia’s wedding—and could still recall what an unpleasant woman she was. It was saying something that even Sophia could not tolera—

“Winny?”

Freddie’s head whipped around at the sound of her brother’s voice. She gestured for the girl to take away the cloth and took Wareham’s hand—also cold, although not as bad as it had been. Now that his eyes were open, she saw that they were yellowed and bloodshot, but the pupils seemed to be focusing and he was smiling—albeit dazedly. He was, she suddenly understood, more than a little intoxicated.

Anger and relief mixed in her breast. Anger that the dowager would approve of dosing Wareham with gin, and relief that much of his relapse might be due to alcohol, rather than any worsening of his wound.

“You came.” He squeezed her hand so weakly she could barely feel it.

“Of course I came,” she said, her vision blurring.

“I am sorry—so sorry. I never should have—”

“ Hush. I know you are,” she said, and squeezed his hand back. “But I will want to have a full, proper apology from you, so you will have to get better to deliver it.”

He gave a weak chuckle that turned into a cough and his hand flew to his chest as he wheezed and grimaced. “Hurts,” he rasped when he could catch his breath.

“I will not make you laugh if you agree to eat a little broth.”

He nodded.

Before Freddie had to ask, Betsy said, “I will fetch it right away, my lady,” and speedily left the room.

Freddie tried to release her brother’s hand, but he clung tighter. “Stay.”

“I will stay. I am just going to bring my chair closer.”

He released her with obvious reluctance.

Once she was seated near the bed, she took his hand between hers. “Is it difficult to breathe?”

He shook his head. “Just…hurts.” His eyes slid shakily around the room. “Dowager?”

“She is gone.”

The muscles in his face sagged with relief. “Plimpton?”

“He is here.” Freddie could not hold back her smile. “It was the duke who routed Lady Telford.”

Wareham’s lips quivered into a smile. “Wish I…could have watched.”

Freddie laughed softly. “Me too.”

“Good…friend.”

“He is.”

Wareham took several breaths and then opened his mouth. Instead of speaking, he coughed.

Freddie squeezed his hand as his body was wracked by paroxysms, tears leaking from his eyes as he gritted his teeth and clutched at his chest.

“Do not try to talk, Dicky. We will have time for that later.”

Rather than calm him, her words seemed to agitate him more. “No,” he wheezed. “Need…talk.” He held up a finger in a just a moment gesture and Freddie nodded.

“Take all the time you need. I am not going anywh—”

The door opened and Freddie was marveling that Betsy had returned so quickly when she saw it was the duke.

His normally inexpressive face creased into the closest thing Freddie had seen to a smile yet. “The maid told me you’d awakened and were already shouting orders,” he said to his friend, hovering on the threshold. He turned to Freddie. “May I stay for a few minutes?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He quietly closed the door and approached the bed. “You were doing so well that I obeyed your order to leave and what do I find now that I have returned?” He awkwardly patted her brother’s shoulder, but Wareham grabbed his hand. “Thank you., Plimpton.”

Freddie was touched by obvious bond of affection between the two men. Touched and also jealous that Dicky had worked to keep his friendship with the duke, but not his relationship with his sister.

“You can repay me by getting better.” Plimpton turned to Freddie. “The cook has prepared a late dinner for us.”

She glanced at her brother. “I really should not—”

“One of the maids can sit with Wareham for an hour,” Plimpton said, looking at the earl and raising an eyebrow.

Wareham nodded. “I will…be fine. Go to dinner.”

“Will an hour give you enough time?” the duke asked, taking her acquiescence for granted.

Freddie was too tired to argue. “An hour will be fine, Your Grace.”

He bowed and quietly left the room.

A moment later, the door opened again and this time it was Betsy.

“Here you go, my lady. Cook made it just as you instructed.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the small tray from the girl. “You may go now, but please return in half an hour.”

“Aye, my lady.”

Freddie picked up the bowl of broth and the spoon and turned back to her brother. “Eat five spoonsful and then you can talk for a minute. And then another four or five.”

Wareham gave her a tired smirk, looking more like her brother. “Tyrant.”

“Yes, and do not forget it.” Freddie lifted the spoon to his mouth. It was slow going, but he looked astoundingly better after just a bit of nourishment.

“When have you last had food?”

He shrugged. “Days.”

Freddie scowled. What had the dowager been about to starve him and leave him in filth? It was almost as if—she cut off the nasty thought and focused her attention on Wareham.

Once he had swallowed the fifth spoonful she wiped his mouth and sat back in her chair, keeping the bowl in her hands. “Now, you may speak for a minute—no longer.”

“Piers is alive, Winny—I was wrong all those years ago. He didn’t die. And—and he is back. In England.”

It was the last thing she had expected him to say and for a moment, she did not respond. “I know,” she finally said.

His eyes widened and he struggled to sit. “How do you know? Did he—”

Freddie held the bowl with one hand and set her free hand on his shoulder. “If you are going to become excited, then we will wait to talk.”

He opened his mouth and his eyebrows descended—a sure sign he was angry—but his arms had already begun to tremble under his weight. He made a low growling sound and sagged back against the cushions. “I am as weak as…kitten.”

“You are. It is time for more broth.”

He gave her an exasperated look but complied.

“I forbade him to drag you into… his dangerous foolishness,” Dicky said as soon as he’d swallowed the last mouthful.

Freddie scowled. “He did not ask me for anything, Wareham. Indeed, he wanted to give me something.”

“Money?” Wareham spat, as if the word were dirty.

“I will not discuss Piers with you. And I will not abandon him. And neither of those things is up for discussion. I intended to care for you until you are out of danger, but if you badger me on this point—” She did not want to finish the thought. Instead, she dipped the spoon into the broth and said, “Open.”

This time, Freddie didn’t stop until the bowl was empty.

“There is danger,” Wareham said as she returned the empty bowl to the tray and lifted the glass of water to his lips. She was pleased when he took several swallows without being coaxed.

Once he’d had his fill, she asked, “What danger?”

“Meecham’s killer never found…still out there.” His voice had become breathy. Freddie knew she should make him wait to discuss the matter, but it was obviously bothering him.

“If you think that, then you never believed Piers did it, did you?”

“Didn’t matter what I believed. Evidence was damning. Still damning. If he pokes around… could stir trouble.”

“Do you truly expect him to stay away from his home forever when he is innocent?”

“Finding the truth too dangerous. For him…and those who help him.”

“Who else will pursue the truth?”

“Personal inquiry agent.”

Freddie frowned. “Why haven’t you engaged one before?”

“I did . Turned up nothing.”

“So what will change now?”

He shrugged, and then winced. “Don’t know.”

“If Piers asks for my help, I will give it.” She paused and then added, “The same way I would for you.”

He looked sheepish at her words. And then he yawned.

“You are tired,” she said, getting up from her chair.

His hand shot out and grasped her forearm. “More to say.”

“You can say it in the morning. Right now, you will sleep.”

His mouth opened, as if to argue, but another yawn came out. He gave a weak laugh. “Winny wins.” His eyelids were already at half-mast. It took less than a minute for him to fall asleep.

Freddie watched him sleep, relieved that his breathing sounded even and unobstructed.

A few moments later the door opened, and Betsy tiptoed into the room.

“He has just fallen asleep,” Freddie whispered. “Send for me immediately if he becomes restless or if his fever worsens or—or if there is any other change. Otherwise, I will return in two hours.”

Betsy nodded.

Freddie’s feet led her toward her old chambers without any instruction from her brain. When she opened the door to the room, she snorted softly. No, there wasn’t anything left of her old rooms, not even the color. What had once been a lovely Delft blue and was now a nauseating peachy shade. It was too floral and fussy for Freddie’s taste, but then she did not plan to be there above a week. Although Dicky was still weak and ill, he had already improved greatly after she had cleaned his wound, fed him, and driven the filthy air from the room. He would be even better tomorrow once the gin he had been dosed with was out of his system and he’d had a few meals of broth and plenty of water.

A maid brought hot water while she was laying out her serviceable lavender evening gown. “Mr. Goodrich said I was to wait on you, my lady.”

Freddie hesitated.

“I am very good dressing hair, my lady.”

The girl looked so hopeful Freddie smiled. “What is your name?”

“Jane, ma’am.”

“Very well, Jane. Just let me wash myself and you can try your hand at taming the mess.”

A short time later Freddie admired her new coiffure in the mirror. “It looks very nice. Thank you, Jane.”

The girl blushed. “You’ve lovely hair, my lady. It was a pleasure.” She glanced at the pearls Freddie had laid out earlier. “Will you wear these?”

She didn’t tell Jane she had nothing else.

After she had dismissed the maid, she examined her appearance, frowning. As always, the addition of pearls made the dress barely acceptable. Like it or not, she would have to buy more clothing soon. She was beginning to look dowdy.

And where will you find the money? Will you stint Miranda so that you might have new gowns?

Freddie paid no attention to the heckling voice. Instead, she sat for a moment, eyes closed, and cleared her head of all thoughts. It was a trick she had learned during her marriage and the only thing that had saved her sanity during those dreadful three-and-a-half years.

The clock was already striking eight when Freddie hurried toward the dining room.

Memories, long forgotten, flooded her as she hurried through corridors that were both familiar and not. It was jarring to see things she remembered as clearly as the back of her hand—a Titian hanging in pride of place on the stretch of wall between the two curving staircases—and a second later noticing the lovely old Aubusson carpet runner had been replaced by one that was a bilious pastel shade.

The duke was already in the dining room when she entered. He was standing in front of the large portrait of Sophia that hung on one end of the room. Wareham’s portrait was on the wall opposite.

“I am sorry I am late,” Freddie said.

“I just arrived myself a moment ago.” He turned to one of the footmen and gestured to the table. “Please move the other setting to this end.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” one of the men said, hurrying to reset the table.

Once they were finished, Plimpton said, “Tell Goodrich he may serve.”

The men left and he turned to Freddie. “The meal is a simple one so I thought we could dispense with servants tonight so that we might speak freely.”

Freddie nodded.

“Wareham already looks a great deal better.”

“Part of that is simply clean clothing and bedding. But I am pleased to say he ate a bowl of broth and drank two glasses of water. Do you have any way to contact the doctor who had been treating him?”

“I already sent a message to Madsen. He is evidently delivering a child somewhere far afield, but his housekeeper assured my servant that the doctor would present himself at the earliest opportunity.”

“Thank you.”

“What are your impressions of Wareham’s condition?”

“I have listened to his breathing and hear no sign of congestion in his chest. The infection is bad, but it has not settled in, so it must be of recent vintage.” She frowned. “The worst of his condition seems to be dehydration. The old woman must have been giving him gin to keep him quiescent.”

A brief flash of incandescent rage lit the duke’s dark eyes, the expression so vivid and forceful that it left her slightly breathless.

It was gone in less than a second. And when he spoke, he sounded as mild and dispassionate as ever. “One would almost think the dowager was trying to kill her son-in-law.”

Freddie was relieved that she had not needed to be the one to give life to the suspicion. “Why would she wish to do such a thing?”

“It defies comprehension,” he said, but Freddie knew he had more than a few ideas. “Do you have adequate help? Miss Denny has offered her assistance.”

Freddie wondered if the woman would talk as much in a sick room. “The two maids are more than sufficient.” She hesitated and then added, “I believe Miss Denny can complete her journey, Your Grace.”

Humor glittered in the duke’s eyes at her not very subtle suggestion. “She will leave tomorrow.”

“For now, I would like a truckle bed set up in Wareham’s room. That way I can be close at hand if he needs me.”

He frowned. “You will exhaust yourself if you do that. You do not trust either of the maids to stay with him? If not, I can sit with him while you get some sleep.”

She was amused at the thought of him serving as a nurse. “I do not think that will be necessary. Although if you can spare your valet, I believe Wareham would appreciate a shave.”

“Of course.”

He was still frowning, and Freddie knew he was not happy with the idea of her sleeping on a truckle.

She spoke before he could voice his displeasure. “I wanted to thank you for, er, managing Lady Telford.” She gave him a rueful look. “I doubt I could have rid Torrance Park of her presence quite so quickly and easily.”

Dark humor glinted in his eyes. “One of the benefits of rank, I suppose.”