Page 45 of The Heir

“Send for Fairly,” the earl replied, “but only him, and not those damned quacks who think they attend His Grace.”

“I would not so insult Fairly,” the viscount said, rising. “Not even to aggravate you.”

While the viscount wrested permission to summon the doctor from the earl, Lady Amery conferred with the footman then turned to Anna.

“I’m sorry,” Lady Amery said, smiling. “You have me at a loss, Miss…?”

“Mrs. Seaton,” Anna replied, curtsying again. “Mrs. Anna Seaton. I keep house for his lordship in Town and accompanied him to Willow Bend, a property three miles east of here, which he thinks to purchase.”

“Pretty place,” Amery murmured, “but first things first.”

“The back bedroom will serve as a sick room and is being made up now,” Guinevere said. “You and the earl could both probably use hot baths and some sustenance, and I’m sure we can find you something dry to change into, as you and I appear to be of a height.”

“Come, Westhaven.” The viscount tugged the earl to his feet. “We’ll ply you with foul potions and mutter incantations by your bedside until you are recovered for the sake of your sanity. You should probably see Rose now, or she will just sneak into your room when you are feeling even worse and read her stories to you.”

It should have made him shudder, Westhaven thought as Amery tugged and carried and insulted him up to the bedroom. To be here with the man who had stopped his wedding to Gwen, and to be so ill and virtually helpless before him and Gwen. It should have been among his worst nightmares.

But as Douglas got him out of his wet clothes and shoved him into a steaming, scented bath, then fussed him into swilling some god-awful tea, Westhaven realized that what he felt was safe.

“He’ll want to notify his brother,” Anna said, sipping her hot tea with profound gratitude.

“We’ll send him a message with the one going to Fairly,” Gwen replied, handing Anna a plate with a hot buttered scone on it.

“Send it in code.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gwen set down her cup and waited for an explanation.

“It’s the duke,” Anna said. “His Grace has spies everywhere, and if you leave a note to the effect that Westhaven is seriously ill, where somebody can read it, the duke will be on your doorstep, wreaking havoc and giving orders in no time.”

“He most assuredly will not.” Douglas spoke from the door of the parlor, and there was something like amusement in his expression. “This is one household where His Grace’s mischief gets him nowhere. May I have a spot of tea, my love?” He lowered his long frame beside his wife, draping an arm across the back of the couch.

“How is Westhaven?” Gwen asked, fixing her husband a cup of tea.

“Sleeping, but uncomfortable. I thought you must be mistaken, Mrs. Seaton, as he has no evidence of chicken pox on his face, but your diagnosis is borne out by inspection of the rest of him.”

“I had a rather severe case as a child,” Anna said. “I’m available for nursing duty.”

“I can assist,” the viscount said, “and I will do so gleefully. But you, my love, should likely avoid the sickroom.”

“I will,” Gwen said, “for the sake of the baby, and because having you see him in distress is likely enough penance even for Westhaven. He doesn’t need me gloating, too.”

Anna sipped her tea, watching the smiles and glances and casual touches passing between these two.

“Westhaven said it was a miserable betrothal.”

“For all three of us,” Gwen said. “But quickly ended. You did the right thing, bringing him here. He is family, and we don’t really hold the betrothal against him, any more than we delight in his illness.”

“His sickness is serious,” Anna said, “in adults, anyway. And he is… fretful about illness generally. I honestly would not let the doctors near him if it’s avoidable.”

“The man is too proud by half,” Douglas remarked, topping off his own tea cup. His wife watched, amused, but said nothing.

“It isn’t pride, my lord,” Anna said. “He is afraid.”

“Afraid.” Douglas pursed him lips thoughtfully. “Because of his brother Victor?”

“Not precisely.” Anna tried to organize her thoughts—her feelings—into coherent order. “He is the spare, and dying would be a dereliction of his duty. For all he does not enjoy his obligations, he would not visit them on Lord Valentine, nor the grief on his remaining family. Then, too, he has seen more incompetent doctoring than most, both with his brother, and early this spring, with His Grace.”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Douglas said, flicking another glance at his wife. “Guinevere?”