Page 9 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

F reddie did not linger over her dinner. By the time she changed her clothes and returned to Wareham’s chambers she found the truckle bed waiting, so the duke must have given the order even though he had not agreed with her decision.

Wareham woke twice during the night, making her glad of her decision to sleep in his room. His fever spiked and Freddie briefly wondered if she had done wrong to send Doctor Finch away when he had made his evening visit to cup Wareham for the second time that day.

“Lady Telford warned me of this,” he had snapped when she’d told him he would not be bleeding her brother. He had glared daggers at Winifred as he’d put his cupping implements back in his bag with more force than was necessary. “I wash my hands of this. When his lordship worsens, it will be on your conscience, my lady.”

The duke had entered the room for the end of his tirade and had seized the man by the arm. “Apologize.”

Finch’s eyes had gone comically round at Plimpton’s quiet, menacing snarl.

“I—I beg your pardon, my lady. I never should have—”

He continued to apologize as the duke dragged him from the room.

But his threat lingered and left Freddie worried and shaken.

Only the duke’s reassurance after he had returned eased some of her concern. “Madsen opposes cupping in your brother’s case, Winifred. You did right to stop that butcher.”

Both times Wareham woke during the night she encouraged him to drink his fill of water. Once he’d fallen back asleep, she bathed his forehead with cool cloths.

He woke a third time near dawn, needing to visit the necessary. Without his own body servant to help him—the man had died in the accident—Freddie was forced to summon the duke’s valet.

Digby came so quickly that she knew the duke must have alerted him yesterday. He was every bit as impassive and taciturn as his master.

“I will help his lordship if you wish to break your fast, my lady.”

“But what if the duke—”

“His Grace has no need of me, ma’am. He has gone riding. I am at his lordship’s disposal for as long as he needs me.”

Likely Wareham would want to shave and bathe. Freddie nodded, “I will return in two hours.”

As it transpired, she had just finished indulging in a bath and a breakfast tray in her room when a servant knocked to inform her that Doctor Madsen had arrived.

She hastily dressed and hurried to her brother’s chambers, unsurprised to find the duke was there before her.

Both men turned at her entrance and the stranger—a short, stout man—smiled, looking genuinely delighted to see her.

“Madsen, this is Lady Sedgewick, his lordship’s sister,” the duke said.

The doctor took her hand and bowed over it. “You have worked miracles since I last saw your brother, my lady.”

Wareham was propped up against several pillows and was freshly shaved, his hair slightly damp, evidencing if not a bath, then at least a hair washing. He wore a sheepish smile to be the object of such intense inspection.

She smiled at the physician. “I think it is His Grace’s valet who effected the miracle.”

“No, no. I am told it was you who put your foot down and halted the bleeding.”

Freddie cut him an apprehensive look. “I hope I did not—”

“You did exactly the right thing,” he assured her. “I managed to bull my way back in here two days ago—before Lady Telford had me forcibly ejected—and I was appalled by the sudden downturn in his lordship’s health.” A scowl spasmed across his cherubic features, making him look quite fierce. He appeared to master himself with some effort and turned a reassuring smile on his patient. “I am delighted to find you back on the mend. I believe you will continue to get better if you rest, sleep, and submit to your sister’s nursing.”

Wareham laughed, and then winced. “Don’t let her hear that—she is already a tyrant.”

“Good.” The doctor turned to Freddie. “If you have a moment, I would like to confer with you on his treatment.”

“Of course. Let us retire to the drawing room. I am sure you would like some tea.”

“That would be most welcome. I have been up these past two nights overseeing a very tricky delivery.”

“I’ll return shortly,” Freddie said to her brother.

Rather than look annoyed that his doctor and sister were leaving to talk about him in private, Wareham nodded, suddenly exhausted, his eyelids sliding closed even as they watched.

“I will stay with him,” the duke said, moving a chair closer to the bed.

“I hope your efforts were successful?” Freddie asked the doctor as they made their way to the drawing room.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The baby?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Quite. The child survived and is healthy. And the mother is fine, if exhausted.”

He opened the drawing room door and Freddie barely waited until they’d both taken a seat before she asked, “How is my brother, really, Doctor? Please do not mince words.”

“He suffered a relapse, there is no denying that.” He scowled. “Being bled twice daily was almost as bad as being half-drowned with gin. I am not, as you may have guessed, an exponent of cupping. It is too often used and too little understood.”

That opinion probably caused him no end of trouble within the medical community. In fact, she could not recall meeting a doctor who believed there was no benefit to bleeding a patient.

“There is no denying my brother looks a good deal better after just one day without it.”

Madsen nodded. “Indeed. I believe he is once more on the path to recovery.”

“When you say recovery , do you mean he will be the same as he was before the accident?”

“Based on how speedily he was healing before this recent relapse I am willing to say he will eventually function at pre-accident levels.”

“What can I do to aid his recovery?”

“Exactly what you have been doing: keep him hydrated and fed.”

“Broth?”

“Add some plain scrambled eggs and soups with more substance.”

“And when should he be allowed to be up and around?”

“That was what I wanted to talk about, my lady. His lordship should have been walking days ago.”

Freddie blinked. “Already?”

“I know it seems soon, but he needs to strengthen his lungs by using them. Have him get up at least five or six times a day. He should not walk to exhaustion, of course, but enough to get him breathing faster. Increase the time in small increments. It will tire him out, but that is good as he needs lots of sleep and rest. Provide him with distractions, as long as they are not too strenuous. The worst thing for any patient, no matter the injury, is worrying and fidgeting.”

“How long should he have around-the-clock observation?”

“If he continues to improve at his current rate, he can do without constant care in—let us say for now—two days. He should be well beyond any danger by then.”

Which meant that Freddie could probably leave far sooner than she had expected.

Strangely, the thought of rushing back to London no longer appealed to her quite as much as it had done.

***

Winifred dined alone with Wareham that evening. But the following day, Plimpton heard his friend insist that she enjoy a proper meal in the dining room. With Plimpton.

Winifred wore the mint-green gown again and Plimpton found it bloody difficult to tear his gaze away. She must have only brought the two evening dresses, no doubt believing that she would not need more as she’d not be staying long. And now, based on what Doctor Madsen had told him, she had been correct about the brief length of her stay.

Which meant that Plimpton had less time with her than he had expected.

“Doctor Madsen is a very capable man,” Winifred said, once the footman had set a plate of oysters in front of her.

“He is. He served in the army for almost a decade, which means he has seen more severe injuries in one month than most Harley Street physicians will see in their lifetimes.”

“How is it that you are acquainted with him?”

“He cared for my brother when he was injured.” And Simon had been far worse off than Wareham. “If not for Madsen I do not believe my brother would be alive,” he added, startling himself with the frank admission. And startling her, too, if her expression was anything to go by.

She nodded. Because what else could she do?

There is nobody who can kill a conversation quite like you, Wyndham. The mocking voice sounded like Simon and was exactly the sort of thing he would have said.

After an awkward moment, Winifred delicately cleared her throat. “Now that Doctor Madsen has decreed Wareham out of danger, I have decided to leave four days hence. The two maids who’ve been assisting me are diligent and intelligent. And one of the footmen—Jacob, is his name—has evinced an interest in filling Wareham’s valet vacancy until my brother can make other arrangements.” She paused and then added, “I daresay you will be relieved to have your valet back.”

Plimpton raised a matter that was more interesting to him than Digby’s services. “My coach will have returned to Torrance Park by then. You must allow me to convey you back to London when you are ready to leave, and I will accompany you.” And this time Plimpton would sit inside the carriage. With no talkative chaperone to get between them.

So much for caring about Winifred’s reputation…

“I am sure my brother can see to my transportation needs.”

“Actually, he cannot.”

She fixed him with a disbelieving look. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lady Telford commandeered Wareham’s traveling coach as well as his coachman and postilions. She is evidently in no hurry to send them back.”

She was routed, but not defeated. She opened her mouth.

Before she could suggest some other method of transport—stagecoach, mail coach, hot air balloon, oxen—Plimpton said, “Please, Winifred. Allow me to assist you. I, too, will be heading home now that Wareham’s circumstances are not desperate.”

Her jaw flexed as she regarded him. Plimpton knew she did not care for his informal address. He did not care. She was fortunate he did not call her Winny . The only reason he had not adopted the pet name was that he preferred her name unaltered. It was regal and suited her.

“It would be churlish to reject your offer,” she said, almost as if she needed to hear the words herself. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She pushed to her feet and Plimpton rose along with her. “I should go and check on Wareham.”

He inclined his head, and then found himself saying, “Perhaps you might honor me with a game of chess—or a few hands of piquet—once you have settled Wareham for the night.”

She could not have looked more flabbergasted if he had invited her to his bedchamber; the invitation he had genuinely wanted to extend. Perhaps he should do so now?

Instead, he pressed his offensive while she was still rendered speechless. “I recall Wareham saying once that you two played often when you visited him during your school holidays. He said you thrashed him quite mercilessly at chess and he lost thousands of pounds to you at piquet.”

Her lips curved into a fond smile. “Perhaps not thousands of pounds, but it was certainly a generous supplement to my pin money. It is true that I won more games against him than I lost. But it has been years—more than a decade—and I am terribly out of practice.”

“Good. Then perhaps I might have a chance.”

She gave a startled laugh, as if surprised that he possessed any wit at all. Well, she wasn’t the only one who thought him humorless.

She regarded him thoughtfully with her silvery eyes and Plimpton had no idea what she would say.

After a moment, she nodded. “I would like that.”

His heart, which had been dormant for decades, leapt. Plimpton felt as if he’d just accomplished something worth boasting about—like delivering a rousing speech in Lords.

He suppressed the spike of excitement and said, “Shall we say an hour from now—in the library? If Wareham needs you and you find you cannot get away, I will understand.”

“An hour,” she said firmly.

He strode toward the door to open it for her, and then watched her slender, elegant form until she turned onto the stairs and disappeared from view before making his way to the library, where he could write a few letters while he waited.

How long had it been since he had actually conversed with a woman? Not the empty chatter he’d always engaged in with his mistresses, but genuinely making an effort to become acquainted. Other than his mother, daughter, or sister-in-law, he could not recall the last time, but knew it had been a long, long time ago.

Usually, Plimpton did not have to put himself to any effort at all because women did the work for him. He did not fool himself that they pursed him because he was so handsome, charming, and witty. No, it was his title and status that attracted them, even if the man in question was average looking at best, quiet to the point of taciturnity, and often so terse as to be considered rude. At least he would have been called rude if not for his title.

Yes, being a duke made up for a host of shortcomings, both physical and personal, and rendered Plimpton all but irresistible.

Although his wife had managed to resist him just fine.

Winifred appears to be resisting you quite easily, as well.

He gave a bark of laughter. Yes, she certainly did.

As for Cecily? Well, Plimpton did not want to think about his dead wife—ever—but most certainly not tonight.

He lit several more candles and then sat down at the large cherrywood desk and commenced to write the letters he wanted to go out with the morning mail.

Plimpton was just sanding a rather lengthy list of instructions for his steward at Whitcombe when the door opened and Winifred entered.

He put the letter aside and stood, vaguely surprised that the hour had passed so quickly. “How is he?” he asked.

“He slept through the dinner hour, but I managed to get him to eat a little broth when he woke, even though he said he was not hungry. The moment he finished the last mouthful he fell asleep again.”

“Is that normal?”

“The doctor said he would be very tired now that he has begun to walk regularly.”

“So, you are free to play, then?”

“Yes.”

Plimpton gestured to the game table. “Chess or cards?”

“I think cards. I do not have the proper mind set for chess right now.”

He was relieved to hear it as he never had the mind set for the tedious game. “Would you care for something to drink?”

She glanced at the assembled bottles. “If there is any madeira I would have a glass.”

There was indeed a fresh bottle. While Plimpton opened it, she fetched a pack of cards and began to absently shuffle them, her slender fingers agile and the movement of the cards fluid.

Plimpton grimaced. “I can already see I am in for a drubbing,” he said as he poured two glasses.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

“I can tell by the way you handle the cards that you know what you are about.” He set their glasses on the table. “I warn you that my idea of shuffling is to dump the cards in a pile and then mess them about with both hands.”

She laughed—a genuinely amused chuckle—and Plimpton could not recall hearing a lovelier sound.

Oh, dear. You are smitten, aren’t you?

He was; happily so.

Plimpton seated himself and took a drink. “Do you remain in London all summer?”

Her expression, which had been open, shuttered now that the subject had moved from cards to herself. “Yes.”

“You do not find it unpleasantly hot and devoid of company?”

“The weather is easy to tolerate as I am at leisure. As for company,” she shrugged. “I get quite enough of that during the Season.” She set the deck in the middle of the table, and they cut for the draw. Plimpton drew the ten of hearts and she beat him with an ace.

“A portent of what is to come,” he murmured, earning another smile. “I understand your housemate, er, Miss Fontenot, is no longer living with you?” he asked as she once again shuffled.

She paused and cocked her head. “How did you—”

“Honoria mentioned it in her last letter.”

“Honey writes to you?”

Her obvious surprise amused him. “Yes, she does.”

As he watched, a blush swept up her elegant throat to her face, reminding him of a spectacular sunrise . S he swallowed and dealt the cards. “I beg your pardon. That probably sounded rude. I just did not realize you were on such, er, easy terms.”

“I am fortunate that she is of a forgiving nature and does not hold my behavior from before her marriage against me.”

“Your behavior?” she asked, distributing the final card and then setting the talon between them before picking up her hand.

Now it was Plimpton who was surprised. Had Honoria not told her friend what he had said to convince her to marry Simon?

Guilt, an emotion he rarely allowed to take up any space in his thoughts, prickled him unpleasantly.

“What do you mean?” she persisted.

For a moment, Plimpton was annoyed at his sister-in-law for keeping her own counsel. Honoria’s circumspection meant it was up to him to inform Winifred of his high-handed—and thoughtlessly cruel—behavior.

Plimpton took a generous swallow from his glass.

***

The duke looked…uncomfortable.

No, Freddie amended a few seconds later; uncomfortable was not quite the word for it. Normally, he did not display much of anything. Only on rare occasions did she see any emotion on his face, and then, it was there and gone in an instant. This expression, however, had settled. On any other man’s face, she might have called the look sheepish .

Surely not.

“I do not know how much Honoria told you about becoming betrothed to my brother?”

“At the time she told me very little,” Freddie admitted. “But since their marriage, she confessed how she had been compromised during her stay at Whitcombe. She said you persuaded both her and Lord Simon they must marry. That is all I know.” She had no difficulty imagining that conversation, and—knowing what she did of the duke—the word she would have used would have been commanded.

“She is kind to call it persuasion, ” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “In truth, I threatened her.”

“ Threatened? Surely you are exaggerating.”

“No. I am not. I told her that if she did not comply with my demand and marry my brother, I would make it difficult for her to find clients. At least any among the ton. ”

Disappointment—and something close to revulsion—rose up in her at his confession. “That—that was unkind.”

“It was unkind. Honoria told me to do my worst, that she had enough money from her father’s estate to live quite happily. Balked in that regard, I decided to threaten your livelihood, instead.”

Freddie could not have heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I told Honoria I would make it difficult for you to continue sponsoring young women. I do not think she believed I would do it. So, when she did not capitulate, I encouraged one of your clients to seek a sponsor elsewhere.”

“Who?” she said through lips that were numb with shock.

“Lady Mayfield.”

Freddie realized she was still gripping the cards, holding them tightly enough to bend them. She carefully placed them on the table. “I remember when Lady Mayfield changed her mind.”

“That was my fault,” he said, not a flicker of emotion on his face or in his voice. “I did not besmirch your name in any way, but I saw to it that she employed the services of a friend of my mother’s, instead. It was at that point that Honoria agreed to marry Simon. I then asked my mother to mention your name to the Countess of Sayle. I believe she became your client.”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “She did.” And Freddie had almost wept with relief as she had counted on Lady Mayfield’s employment to pay off long overdue bills.

“I know that doesn’t excuse what I—”

“No, it does not.”

“I am not proud of what I did.”

Freddie laughed hollowly. “Well, that is something, I suppose.” She held his gaze. “What would you have done if Honey had not complied?”

He opened his mouth.

“Never mind,” she said. “I do not want to hear you say it. Tell me, Your Grace. Knowing what you know now—how I rely on such commissions to feed myself and keep a roof over my head—would you do it again?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “It would be a lie to say no. ”

Again, she gave a humorless laugh. “At least you are honest.”

He regarded her with his usual opaque stare, a man who could destroy her with only a few well-placed words.

Freddie shook her head. “We are all just pieces on a board to you, to be used to serve your purposes, regardless of right or wrong. Do you know what I worry about almost every day of my life?”

His jaw flexed, but he did not speak.

“Let me answer that for you: money. That is what I think about, incessantly. In the eight years since Sedgewick’s death there has not been a single day that has gone by when I don’t worry that I will not have enough money to get by. And then somebody like you— a man who has never had to fear losing the roof over his head, or choose between buying food or coal, or wonder what he will sell after he has already pawned away all his valuable possessions—has the arrogant audacity to toy with my future without a second’s thought.” Her words echoed loudly in the cavernous room, making Freddie realize that she had been shouting.

Yes, shouting. Because she was angry, deservedly so.

She was breathing hard, her hands clenched into fists, and her blood thundering in her ears.

The duke sat without moving, silently absorbing all her rage. “Everything you said is correct. I did not weigh the damage to other people. In my mind, you were the best tool to achieve my purpose. I am sorry to have caused you anxiety, but I know that is too little, too late.”

Freddie looked for some evidence there was an actual man behind his opaque gaze. She saw nothing but a duke, through and through. An aristocrat who would always have his way.

Exhausted by her burst of anger and dispirited at how quickly a night that had promised pleasure had turned sour, she pushed away from the table and stood. “I am tired. I beg you will excuse me.”

The duke inclined his head. “Of course.” He strode to the door and opened it for her. “Good night, Winifred.”

Freddie paused, mortified by her shouting. “I should not have raised my voice and—”

“You do not owe me an apology,” he said, as unruffled as ever. “I deserve everything you said and more.”

Standing so close to him, she could see that his eyes—which she suddenly noticed were tilted slightly at the outside corners—were not opaque at all, but a cool, translucent gray. She opened her mouth to say…what?

There was nothing to say. The Duke of Plimpton had wanted his brother to marry, and he had done everything in his considerable power to get what he wanted. Regardless of who had been hurt in the process.

Freddie closed her mouth and left without another word.