by KJ Charles
Philip couldn’t help a groan at the memory. He had been just sixteen when James had bolted, and the enraged Mr. Frisby had descended on him for lack of any other living Rookwood, venting his fury in a torrent of threats and abuse. Philip had lived in the Corvin household then, as he had most of his youth. No adult had troubled to step in between the outraged cuckold and the boy, but his best friend had strolled in after some moments, as preternaturally self-possessed as ever, and called for footmen to see the fellow off. At that time it had been perhaps the most frightening experience of Philip’s life.
“Yes, he was dreadful,” Corvin agreed, correctly interpreting the groan. “I dare say that’s how the son came by his own plankishness. Anyway, Sir James and Mrs. Frisby left for the fleshpots of Europe, and lived in carnal enjoyment right up to the point that their carriage fell off an Alp.”
“You say that as if it’s related,” John said. “They didn’t drive off a mountain because they were at it.”
“How do you know? They might have.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad way to go,” Sheridan said thoughtfully. “Until you started falling. So that was how you became Sir Philip, Phil?”
“Yes. I was eighteen.”
“And Romeo and Juliet only had two years. That’s rather sad.”
“For them,” Philip said. “Whereas it was a damned nuisance at every turn for everyone they left behind.”
“I suppose so. It must have been dreadful for the children,” Sheridan said.
“I imagine it was, since the humiliated cuckold flung himself to the devil at a great rate. It was not joyous for me, at sixteen, bearing quite so much of other people’s notoriety on my shoulders. And it has caused a great deal of awkwardness since. If I wanted to mingle in Yarlcote society—”
“Where’s that?” Ned asked.
“Where we are,” Philip said patiently. “The nearest—for want of a better word—town. If I wanted to mingle in this society, it would cause endless difficulty, and particularly because one could not ask a Frisby to be in a room with a Rookwood. I’ve never actually aspired to be in a room with them, needless to say.”
“But now they’re staying in your house,” Sheridan said.
“And one of them an unmarried young lady,” Corvin finished. “Which raises the spectre of Philip ruining the daughter as his brother did the mother, only without the carnal pleasure.”
Sheridan scowled. Philip said, “I am not going to compromise the woman under any circumstances. Her brother is here. I will send for all the women of Yarlcote to protect her virtue in a phalanx if I must, and if they’ll come. I must say, Corvin, it is gratifying to discover quite how well we have destroyed our reputations. I’ve never laid a finger on anyone within fifty miles of Yarlcote, yet this house is renowned as a sink of corruption.”
“Well done, boys. Do you want us to leave?” John asked.
“No. I’ve a fortnight’s work here to keep my steward honest and reacquaint myself with the books. In hell’s name don’t abandon me.”
“Never, dear heart,” Corvin assured him. “What’s that noise?”
It was shouting, and it came from the direction of the Blue Drawing-Room. Philip said, “Oh God,” and hauled himself up from his chair. Nobody offered to help.
Sinclair, his man, stood in the hall. He wasn’t actually shaking his head in disapproval, but might as well have been. “What’s going on?” Philip demanded.
“Local doctor’s arrived. He’s not getting on with Dr. Martelo, by the sound of things. They’re having a right dust-up.”
Philip shot him a glare. Sinclair regarded the goings-on of the aristocracy as a theatrical entertainment laid on for his benefit, and his mask of professional courtesy was tissue-thin at best. Philip kept him on out of a vague sense it would be hypocritical to sack the man for regarding social convention with as much contempt as Philip did himself, and because he was a rather good valet, and mostly because he and Corvin’s man Cornelius (christened Albert Scrope, which naturally Corvin found intolerable) shared a bed. It made life a great deal easier when one had the right sort of people around one.
Some aspects of life, anyway. “Has anyone brought a nurse or female attendant for the Frisby girl?”
“Bert’s working on it, Sir Philip.”
“Cornelius.”
“If you say so. In any case, he ain’t sent anyone yet. I dare say they’re all feared for their virtues. It’s a pickle, this, and no mistake.”
“Stop enjoying yourself,” Philip told him, and went to see what was going on.
The local man, Dr. Bewdley, proved to be white-haired, red-faced, and puffed up with outrage. That still put him slightly ahead of David, who was dishevelled and bloodstained, as well as foreign and thus inherently dubious. The two doctors were nose to nose, leaning in, and speaking at an unnecessary volume. The plank Frisby stood unhappily by his sister’s body, now decently covered with a sheet. She seemed to be asleep, or unconscious.
“She is my patient,” David was saying. “And if you think, after what I have told you, that you can move her—”
“If you think that Miss Frisby can be left in this house—”
“If that bone slips it could pierce a blood vessel,” David said. “We had hell’s own job to set it in the first place. She will be moved over my dead body.”
“I assure you, sir, a magistrate will take the dimmest view of your efforts at obstruction. I am her family doctor.”
“And Mr. Frisby is her family,” Philip put in. He sided with David as a matter of principle, but if the plank actually wanted to remove the girl, it would solve all Philip’s problems. “Dr. Bewdley, yes? I am Philip Rookwood, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Please let me assure you that while my hospitality is extended to Mr. and Miss Frisby for as long as is required, we will not hinder the wishes of her brother—”
“Yes, we damn well will,” David snapped. “If she is moved she could die. Will you please get that into your thick English skulls?”
“It’s not up to me or to you,” Philip said. “Or indeed to Dr. Bewdley, although if Mr. Frisby wishes this gentleman to attend the lady, he is most welcome.” David made a noise suggestive of extreme contempt. Philip reminded himself to have that talk about tact with him, again. “It is Mr. Frisby’s decision,” he said loudly. “And if he feels it necessary to remove the lady, I will supply all the assistance required to do so safely.”
“There is no safely. You cannot put her in a cart with her leg in that state,” David said. “The jolting— I beg you, don’t let this happen. Phil, as a friend, please.”
Dr. Bewdley’s eyes bulged at the informality. Philip took a long, reluctant moment during which he reminded himself that David was one of his best friends, and then met the plank’s eyes. Frisby was nearly as white as his half-dead sister, his hunched stance speaking of misery, and he didn’t look remotely the pretty boy George had called him. He looked like a man with all his worst fears coming to life around him.
“Mr. Frisby,” Philip said, cursing himself with every word. “You will do as you wish, but let me say three things to you. First, Dr. Martelo is an excellent and highly experienced man; if I had a sister I would put her in his hands without hesitation. Second, I quite understand your reluctance to accept my hospitality, but I give you my word as a gentleman that your sister will be treated with the utmost care and respect by me, my friends, and my staff while she remains here.”
Dr. Bewdley snorted. It wasn’t as good as David’s snort, but it was still quite expressive enough to constitute an insult, and Philip made a mental mark accordingly.
“That was two things,” Frisby said. His voice was cracked.
“Yes. The third is that I hope you will not allow the idle words of”—he flicked a glance at the doctor—“petty, malicious busybodies and spiteful gossips to influence your decision. Miss Frisby has suffered a severe injury, and Dr. Martelo advises she should be moved as little as possible. You might well co
nsider any other concerns to be trivial until she has made a recovery.”
“And certainly not worth risking her recovery,” David said. “Thank you, Philip.”
“I beg your pardon,” Dr. Bewdley said, swelling. “Miss Frisby’s reputation is not ‘trivial’. Reputation is a woman’s crowning jewel, her greatest possession, and I will not stand by to see it tarnished.”
“I think her life is a greater possession than her reputation.” Frisby’s voice shook slightly. “Dr. Bewdley, do you think, as a medical man, that there is any risk—any at all—to Amanda if she is moved?”
“I think this man greatly overstates it.”
“Is the risk equal whether she is moved or not?” Frisby persisted. “Absolutely equal? Are you sure that moving her will not alter the outcome, or the dangers, one jot? Whether it would endanger her recovery now or her chances of walking again?”
“Compound fracture of the fe-mur,” David said in a sing-song sort of way to nobody in particular.
“Perhaps there are some risks inherent to moving her. But if you are asking me whether I should leave her in a sewer because it would be dangerous to take her out—”
“I beg your pardon?” Philip said. “What was that, sir?”
“An exaggerated illustration,” the doctor said, reddening. “I intended no disrespect.”
“Then you should exert more control of your metaphors. And if you are so concerned with Miss Frisby’s reputation, you are welcome to supply as many nurses as you see fit. In pairs. With armed men to protect them, if you choose,” he concluded, letting the sarcasm drip on the carpet. “Mr. Frisby, a decision please.”
Frisby glanced between the doctors. “If moving her is dangerous, then she mustn’t be moved until she’s better. I shall stay with her, and if you will please arrange for nurses, Dr. Bewdley, then I’m sure Jane and Mrs. Harbottle will come too.”
“I cannot approve of this,” Dr. Bewdley said. “Not at all, and I shall not oblige any nurse to attend a house about which she feels a very natural discomfort. And I am surprised at you, Guy Frisby. What would your father say?”
The blood drained from Frisby’s face. Philip wondered if the man was going to faint, and decided that he’d had enough of this conversation. “Very good, the lady remains. Kindly address your bill to me, Dr. Bewdley. The door is that way.”
With the huffing doctor safely off the premises, Philip returned to the Yellow Drawing-Room where the others were making inroads on his brandy. It was almost eight o’clock, he realised. He trusted that dinner had not been too greatly disrupted by the medical drama; he was damned hungry.
“Did you pour oil on troubled waters?” Corvin enquired. “More importantly, have you got rid of her?”
“No to both. I persuaded the plank to stay here when his doctor was persuading him to take his sister and wipe our dust off his feet.”
“That was peculiar of you.”
“Blame David. He’s flying the lady’s colours. Blah blah liable to die if moved. Bah.”
“You’re all heart,” John said, grinning. “Still, if David says so, he’s probably right. And it would be a bit much to have another Frisby’s death on your hands, after James.”
“That’s what I thought but I don’t have to be pleased about it. This house is liable to be rendered hideous by nurses creeping around in pairs, in hourly expectation of rapine.”
“What on earth have you done down here?” Harry demanded. “There may be men who pose less of a threat to women than you, but—well, they’re mostly in this room. Where did you get this reputation as a ravisher?”
“Corvin,” Philip and John said in chorus.
“I am not a ravisher,” Corvin said indignantly. “I have never in my life forced myself on the unwilling. It’s not my fault if the willing aren’t willing to admit they were willing.”
“And it’s not your fault if they won’t form an orderly queue either. It’s never your fault. We know,” John said.
“My parlous reputation is a combination of Corvin’s priapism, my brother’s indiscretion, this society’s notoriety, and my failure to marry,” Philip concluded. “Popular opinion and a lack of alternative entertainment round here has turned me into a sort of Bluebeard without the wives, which, I may say, I have never regretted before, but there’s a first time for everything. Ah, the dinner bell. Christ, should I have invited the plank to dine with us?” Surely not, he decided; he would drag David out of the sickroom and leave Frisby in charge there. The man would not wish to mix with their set any more than was absolutely necessary.
He went along to the Blue Drawing-room to communicate that in the most courteous manner at his disposal. Frisby just nodded. He looked worn and pallid.
“Ring for a servant to find me or come to the dining room if you’re worried,” David told him, while Philip waited at the door. “I won’t be long.”
“Is there much to worry about?” Philip asked him, once they were all seated. “Presumably it’s simply a matter of the bone healing straight?”
“I don’t know when you became an expert.” David was wolfing down his meal with scant respect for the artistry of its creation. They had, of course, brought Corvin’s cook. “When her femur—thighbone—broke, one end tore through the leg and pierced the skin, sticking out.” He waved his knife, apparently to simulate splintering bone. “She was lucky not to tear any of the larger blood vessels in the leg, and we’ll be lucky to avoid infection, fever, or worse. I’ve sent for whatever medicaments Yarlcote can supply, and cleaned it as best I can, but it’s an ugly injury. Thank you for taking my part.”
“A pleasure,” Philip said. “Or rather, the very last thing I wanted to do, but never mind. Why such concern for the lady?”
“I resent losing patients at the best of times,” David said. “I particularly resent it when it’s caused by human stupidity rather than Nature’s ways. John and I worked hard to put that leg back together, and I will not see it bumped apart on a cart because of some damn fool nonsense about propriety.”
“I second that,” John said. “What a ghastly job you have.”
That led to a spirited debate, in which the relative ghastliness of David’s bloody work, Harry and Sheridan’s grovelling in mud for old bones, George and Ned’s grovelling to wealthy patrons, and John’s likelihood of being beaten to death, sued for libel, or both, were addressed in some detail.
“They’re all ghastly occupations,” Corvin pronounced at last. “Whereas I, as a gentleman of leisure—”
“You work harder than any of us,” John said. “When it comes to making yourself a spectacle, getting on people’s wicks, and tupping, I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you.”
That provoked cheers, laughter, and much clinking of glasses and hammering of knives on the table. Corvin attempted a rebuttal, which failed because he was laughing too hard to speak, and the room bore some resemblance to a rowdy tavern when Sheridan twisted round and raised a hand. Philip followed his gaze, as did the others, and one by one, Corvin last, they fell silent.
Frisby was standing by the door. He was very pale, eyes huge and shadowed, and Philip felt a flash of guilt that they had been enjoying themselves while his sister lay in pain, followed by a stronger flash of annoyance that he should be made to feel that by a stranger in his own damned house.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Frisby said in a shaking voice. “But, Dr. Martelo, I think Amanda is feverish.”
David threw his napkin onto the table and rose. He hadn’t drunk more than half a glass of wine; Philip wondered if he’d been expecting this. “Don’t wait for me,” he told the assembled Murder, and strode out.
It put something of a damper on the evening. None of those present knew the Frisbys or had any reason to care what became of them, and Philip felt no obligation to turn any part of his house beyond the Blue Drawing-Room into an infirmary. Yet as the clock ticked and David did not return, the mood became increasingly sombre, and they all retired around eleven ra
ther than making a night of it. Corvin cocked a brow at Philip, who shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood.
“Your loss,” Corvin told him, unmoved.
“I’ll take his leavings,” John said. “Come on, you bugger.”
That left Philip alone in the drawing room of what would have been his childhood home if he’d ever been invited here. He’d grown up either at school or in the Corvin household, and the five-year gap between himself and his brother might as well have been a century and an ocean. James had never had the slightest interest in making his acquaintance, and when he’d died, Philip had been left to conduct obsequies for a stranger. If he’d been a few years older he wouldn’t have bothered wearing black at all, and occasionally still regretted the magnificent cat that would have thrown among society’s pigeons.
All of which meant that he looked around at the accumulation of Rookwood wealth and history without fondness. It was a damn fool inconvenient house, and if he were Corvin he would probably raze it to the ground to make way for a new, practical building with servants’ accommodations that were less like rat warrens, fewer pointless corridors, windows that kept the heat in, fireplaces that worked, and rooms that weren’t panelled till a man felt he lived inside a linen-chest. A modern house, that was what he wanted, amid lands farmed in the modern way. He wouldn’t get the former because his wealth, unlike Corvin’s, was entirely exhaustible, and because he saw no reason to rebuild a house that he had no plans to live in or pass on, but the latter...he needed to talk to his steward about that.
He extinguished the candles except for one he took to light his way, and headed out. He intended to go to bed, but stopped in the hall, then trod softly towards the Blue Drawing-Room. Light spilled out from the door, which was ajar, and he heard the quiet murmur of male voices and a little whimper, which he assumed was the patient. He hesitated, wondering whether to enquire after his unwanted guest, or whether Frisby would not appreciate the reminder of whose house he was in. He had not decided at the point the door opened.
Frisby emerged carrying a basin, and recoiled with a muffled exclamation on seeing Philip. Water sloshed from the bowl. “Blast it! Why are you here?”