“Take him up to his rooms,” he ordered. “One of you fetch the physician. Carry him gently, as he may have been hurt in his fall.”
Obeying him, four liveried footmen, all similar in appearance under their powdered wigs, stepped forward to carefully pick the Duke up. The staircase was wide enough for them to carry him, two to each side, and Reggie, Amalia at his side, followed them up. When they reached the Duke’s rooms, His Grace’s valet, busy brushing out his master’s clothes, hastily went into the bedroom to pull the covers back on the bed.
The footmen settled the unconscious Duke onto it, then bowed their way out. Amalia pulled a chair up to sit beside her father and lightly brushed her fingers down his cheek. “What is wrong with him?” she whispered, near tears. Her amber eyes met Reggie’s. “Reggie, what if I lose him?”
Burning with the need to take her in his arms and hold her close, Reggie never felt more helpless in his life. “You will not,” he replied grimly, his fists clenched. “He will be all right.”
His own grief rose to thicken his throat at the prospect of the Duke dying, for Reggie was fond of him, and regarded Noah Gallagher as a second father. “He will be all right,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say.
The physician arrived then, sliding the strap of his leather satchel from his shoulder. He bowed to them both, then peeled the Duke’s eyelids back to inspect his eyes. “I must insist you leave, My Lady,” he said, “for the valet and I need to undress him.”
Nodding, Amalia stood. “May I return shortly? I wish to be with him.”
“Permit me to examine him fully, then you may.”
Reggie walked out with her as the valet bowed them through the door. Lost for words, Reggie said, “The physician will cure him.”
“Yes, of course he will,” Amalia answered, choking back her tears.
Hesitating, Reggie stopped, forcing Amalia to pause with him. “Listen, Amalia,” he said, his voice low, his eyes on hers. “No matter what happens, I am here for you.”
She tried to smile. “I know you are, Reggie,” she answered, a gleaming tear slipping down her cheek. “Thank you.”
“I will always protect you and keep you safe. It is what your brother would have wanted.”
She glanced away from him, and instantly, Reggie knew he had said the wrong thing. While it was certainly true enough that Marshall would want his best friend to watch out for his beloved sister, Reggie realized he had missed an opportunity to let her know how much he loved her.
“Yes,” she agreed, wiping the wet from her cheek. “It is what he wanted. You are a good friend, Reggie.”
Despairing, Reggie followed her down the stairs. “It is not just for his sake,” he told her, trying to find the words to express his affection without allowing her to reject his suit. “It is for yours also. You know how fond I am of you.”
“Just as I am equally fond of you,” she said with a gracious smile. “Marshall and I are fortunate to have you as our friend.”
He groaned inwardly. Not once but twice did he indicate to her that he was only a friend to her when he wanted so much more. How can I tell her how I feel when her father is upstairs and possibly dying? If I told her, would it add to her burdens or relieve them? Without an answer to that, he accompanied her into the dining room.
Eastcairn and Patrick were already inside, waiting for them. Both stood as Reggie and Amalia entered, anxiety clear on their expressions. “How is he?” Patrick blurted, then hastily bowed.
Amalia curtsied, then indicated Reggie was to sit at her father’s place at the table. Not liking that, as it seemed to him a foreshadowing of the Duke’s death, Reggie did so. “He is still unconscious,” Amalia replied. “In his place, Lord Lyonhall will act as host to you, our guests.”
Something flicked across Eastcairn’s expression, a swift there and gone flash of anger, then was replaced by a pleasant smile. “His Grace will be fine, Lady Gallagher,” he announced as though his words would be held as law. “Then I will begin to court you, permitting you to see what an excellent husband I will be to you.”
As the footmen poured tea into cups, and Perkins gestured for breakfast to be served, Reggie eyed Eastcairn with a friendliness he did not feel. “Are you a member of Whites? If not, I would enjoy hosting you both at supper some evening.”
“That is very gracious of you, Reggie,” Eastcairn answered with a wide grin. “I am not yet a member, though my father was.”
“As was mine,” Reggie went on, watching Amalia begin her meal from the corner of his eye. “I enjoy an evening out now and again.”
“The price of the membership is far out of my range and ability,” Patrick said with a laugh. “I would be honored to go.”
With the conversation off Amelia and Eastcairn’s desire to court her, Reggie tried to mentally plan the situation and words he might use to tell her how he felt. The worry that she would remind him that she only felt friendship toward him nagged his gut, and he feared her rejection. She must choose me, she must. For there is no one for me save her. I love her.
“After breakfast, would you gentlemen like to join me for a little gambling at a gaming establishment?” he asked.
Patrick shook his head. “Thank you, but no, Reggie. I must report to Lord Bainbridge in an hour, then begin the transition to working from here.”
“And I, too, thank you, Reggie,” Eastcairn added, “but I must pay a call on a business associate of mine while I am here in London.”
“Perhaps another day, then.”
Relieved that Eastcairn would be away from the house and Amalia, Reggie ate his breakfast while making small talk. Amalia said little and did not eat everything on her plate. Once the meal was over, she made her courtesies and left the dining room. Patrick vanished down the hallway and left Reggie to offer Eastcairn a feigned friendly smile.
“Surely His Grace will return for supper this evening,” he said.
“Of course, he will,” Eastcairn replied with an easy grin. “Until this evening then.”
Reggie watched him depart, ordering a footman to have the grooms saddle his horse as he went. Suspecting Amalia went upstairs to be with her father, Reggie also climbed the stairs and knocked on the door that led into His Grace’s private suite of rooms. The valet bowed him inside and escorted him to the bedchamber. “His Lordship, the Marquess of Lyonhall,” he intoned.
Amalia, seated beside the Duke’s bed, beckoned him over. “He is still unconscious,” she murmured, her anxiety clear. “The physician bled him again and is baffled by his illness. He does not know what is wrong.”
Pulling a chair up to the Duke’s side, opposite Amalia, Reggie saw Edwina seated in a chair with her sewing in her lap, her eyes on him. He offered her a small nod and a smile, then studied the Duke’s face. His flesh appeared pale, his face drawn as though with pain. Under the coverlet, his chest rose and fell slow and evenly as though he slept, and his bandaged wrist indicated where the physician had opened a vein to bleed the sickness from him.
“This is confusing me as well,” Reggie muttered. “I am no physician, but no illness I know of behaves this way.”
“I cannot understand it, either.” Amalia rested her hand on her father’s. “He has a fever and breaks into chilled sweats now and then, and his hands were trembling at supper last night.”
Reggie frowned. “This does not even emulate Marshall’s illness.”
“I know. Father has not traveled to any place where he might have caught a contagious disease, either. So, what is wrong with him, Reggie?”
He glanced across the bed at her. “I wish I knew. I would take his place if I could.”
Amalia nodded, her eyes warm as she gazed at him. “You are my rock. What would I do without you here?”
Marry that idiot Eastcairn. “You would be fine, Amalia,” he replied gently. “You are a strong woman.”
She glanced back at the Duke’s face. “I do not feel very strong right now. I am a wreck inside. I cannot lose him, I
simply cannot.”
“You are tougher than you know.” Reggie tried a grin, even if he knew it was lopsided. “Remember how Marshall always called you his suit of armor?”
“Because I was always trying to protect him.” Amalia nodded with a weak smile. “Even though he was older, I always felt the need to keep him safe.”
“Just as I will keep you safe.”
Struggling with the words, Reggie swallowed the urge to add, Because I love you. He did not want to add to her burden or make her feel pressured right now. He could not possibly know if she ever would return his feelings, his love, and finding out that the answer was no, would crush him. I have to tell her somehow. If His Grace dies, she will need me there, not some stranger named the Earl of Eastcairn.
Chapter 8
“Well, I am certainly sorry to see you go, Mr. Miller,” Lord Bainbridge said heavily, leaning on his walking stick. “But I can understand the desire to work for your esteemed uncle. How is His Grace, by the way?”
Patrick made a face. “I fear he is not well, My Lord. An illness his physician thought would pass quickly, but it has not yet done so.”
Lord Bainbridge frowned. “The Duke is not even close to my age,” he commented. “By my standards, he is young and should be healthy. And his physician has no idea what it might be?”
“None so far. But I am confident a cure will be found soon.”
“And how is his daughter, Lady Gallagher? I had always hoped she would consent to marry my eldest grandson and assure me an alliance with Thornhill.”
“Outside of being worried over her father, she is quite well.”
“Why has she hidden herself away from society?” Lord Bainbridge asked, peering myopically at Patrick, an affectation he had that never failed to irritate Patrick. “She is a lovely young lady, and the only scandal attached to her name is that she does not socialize as other young women do.”
“Her brother’s death took her hard, My Lord,” Patrick answered, wishing the old Earl would cease staring at him like that. “She desires only to look after the Duke.”
“She cannot find a suitable husband that way,” Bainbridge said flatly. “When you see her again, Mr. Miller, please give her my regards. And I will send my own physician to His Grace this very day. Perhaps the two doctors together might find a reason for his malady and heal him.”
“That would be quite generous of you, My Lord. I am certain His Grace will send his own thanks to you once he has recovered.”
“I simply must have a chat with him about marrying his daughter to my grandson. The marriage would be quite beneficial to both of our families.”
“Of course it will, My Lord.”
Patrick had packed his belongings from his desk in the Bainbridge offices into a satchel and informed the old Earl of his departure. He bowed to Lord Bainbridge and shook his hand in farewell, then made his way back into the street. Whistling as he walked, he strode along the sidewalk amid the other pedestrians, nodding and smiling politely to those he passed. In the wide avenue, carriages and wagons rolled past, drawn by fine horses or huge drafts, while many aristocratic men and women rode.
Stopping at an apothecary shop, he went inside and purchased a specialized herbal tea, and asked the shopkeeper to wrap it well in paper. After a cheerful good-bye, he headed back to the Duke’s massive residence, inwardly planning to set up his new office next to the steward, Mr. Bannock, and begin his work the following day.
“My future is now assured,” he murmured to himself. “Perhaps it is time I searched for a bride. I must also carry on the family bloodline.”
Laughing to himself, feeling happy and excited about his new prospects, Patrick walked the miles to the Duke’s house and entered the front door. Thinking to go upstairs and see how his uncle fared, Patrick set his satchel in the small room set aside for his work, then rapidly climbed the stairs and knocked on the Duke’s private door.
Upon being shown in, he found Amalia and her tall blond maid who never seemed to smile seated near the Duke’s bed. He seemed to be sleeping, but, from Amalia’s bleak expression, Patrick suspected he had not regained consciousness. “How is he?” he asked in a quiet, sickroom voice.
“The same,” Amalia replied. “Mr. Hill, the physician, does not dare bleed him anymore.”
“Does he know what is wrong?”
“Not yet. He is as baffled as we.”
“Lord Bainbridge is sending his physician to assist,” Patrick told her, stepping closer and gazing down at his uncle. “He also sends you his regards.”
Amalia smiled wanly. “He is such a dear old man. I have always been fond of him.”
“He seems to feel the same way about you.” Patrick grinned. “Have you been here with your father all day?”
“Except for a brief luncheon, yes.”
“Where is Reggie?”
“He returned to his house to speak with his steward about his businesses,” Amalia replied, her gaze on the Duke’s face. “He will return in time for supper.”
“Speaking of business,” Patrick commented, bending to kiss her cheek. “I must get a few things organized before I begin working for your father tomorrow. I will see you shortly.”
Leaving Amalia and her silent maid, Patrick returned to the main floor of the huge house, thinking once again about his very bright future in the ducal household.
Chapter 9
After spending a few hours in the afternoon with Hap, Reggie mounted his stocky chestnut and headed toward the Thornhill residence. Riding at a trot, he mingled with the light traffic on the wide lane lined with trees and shrubs, his mind ranging to the Duke’s illness. Pondering what his condition might be once Reggie returned there, he paid only the slightest heed to his surroundings.
When the man stepped casually into his horse’s path, his first instinct was to rein the horse away from him, the second was to yell at him for his stupidity. Then Reggie saw the pistol raised and aimed in his direction. With a startled curse, he kicked the horse into a leaping canter and bent low over the gelding’s red mane. The pistol fired, and then his horse’s shoulder struck the man, knocking him aside.
Wheeling, Reggie found the man had not actually been thrown to the ground as he had hoped. Swearing loudly, he bolted into the mix of horses spooking at the sound of the shot, their drivers hauling on reins, shouting, cursing. “Damn it,” Reggie snapped as he tried to give chase, but was obstructed by wagons and carriages and unable to find a way through the stopped traffic.
“What the hell is going on here?” called an aristocrat from the depths of a carriage, but Reggie did not recognize him immediately.
“That fool tried to shoot me,” Reggie replied, trying to wend his way through the snarl.
Gazing beyond the confusion, he saw the man duck into an alley and vanish. As drivers and riders regained control of the horses, movement on the street began again, but the nobleman’s carriage still sat where it was. Riding back, Reggie found the man beckoning to him. “I say, young man,” he exclaimed. “Why would anyone wish to shoot you?”
“I have no idea,” Reggie replied, gazing back over his shoulder toward the alley. “He escaped me.”
“I am a magistrate with the Crown Court,” the older man said. “Should you require any assistance you let me know. My name is Randolph Healey.”
Reggie inclined his head. “Reggie Davidson.”
Mr. Healey’s eyes widened. “As is, the Marquess of Lyonhall?”
“The very same.”
“Forgive me, My Lord, for addressing you as ‘young man’. I meant no offense.”
“None taken, Mr. Healey. And I thank you for your offer of assistance. When and if I catch that man, I will want him prosecuted.”
“I am also acquainted with several excellent investigators in the city,” Mr. Healey went on. “They may be able to track this villain down for you. Did you get a good look at him?”
Reggie nodded, frowning thoughtfully. “I did, indeed. And I may take you up
on your offer of an introduction. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome, My Lord.”
Mr. Healey bowed from his seat, then tapped the roof of his carriage with his walking stick. His driver snapped his whip, and the horses trotted on, leaving Reggie to stare after him. He glanced once more toward the alley where his would-be killer vanished into, then sighed, and reined his horse back toward the Duke’s mansion lay.
Amalia was, of course, appalled at the notion that someone just tried to kill him. “Why on earth would anyone want to kill you?” she asked. “You are the kindest, gentlest person I know.”
Once more, they spoke in low voices in the Duke’s sickroom, watching him as he lay unconscious and perhaps dying. “I have no idea,” Reggie replied. “I do not believe I have many enemies at court or in Parliament, I have not cheated anyone at cards, have not dallied with another man’s wife—”
“Reggie.”
He grinned. “Sorry. But if I had, per se, then I might know who and why. But I do not.”
“And this was not some random attempt to steal from you?” she asked, her gorgeous amber-gold eyes on him.
“Unless he wanted my horse, quite doubtful. I had nothing of value on my person, and as I am clearly a Lord, who dares attack a Lord?”
“Quite true, I suppose,” she answered, turning back to her silent father. “Crimes like that are so rare as to be not worth mentioning.”
“A kind magistrate stopped, and we had an excellent chat. He knows investigators and will introduce me if I so wish.”
She frowned, glancing up at him. “How can an investigator find a single man in this huge city?”
“By finding out who wants me dead. I may take him up on his offer.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
Reggie hesitated. “Amalia?”
“Yes?”
“Let us keep this between us. Do not tell Patrick, Eastcairn, or even your father when he wakes up. I want this to remain a secret.”
The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor Page 4