“No.”
Huntley dropped his gaze and spoke to the floor. “She went to check on a friend of hers and became infected with typhus. Unwilling to spread the disease, she quarantined herself, her friend and her friend’s aunt. I see her only through the window, but I can tell she is getting worse.”
Steeling himself in an effort to gather his strength, not only for Huntley’s benefit but for his own, Florian squared his shoulders, determined to put all emotion aside so he could focus on the problem at hand. “Allow me to fetch my bag and then you must take me to her at once.” Without wasting a second, he hurried off to his office, scribbled a note to Viola, and went to accompany Huntley, all the while praying Juliette would recover with unprecedented swiftness.
After leaving Vivien’s room, Juliette had staggered toward Lady Arlington’s chamber only to find the lady sleeping. Unwilling to wake her only to cause her tremendous amounts of grief, Juliette had chosen to seek her own bed and get some rest. Only then, when sleep overcame her, did she find peace. It fled as quickly as it had come when she awoke to the sound of pounding on the downstairs door. If only she could gather the strength to rise and see who it was. But the very idea of having to stand on her own two feet was too debilitating to allow for the effort. So she stayed where she was, breathing the raw air and occasionally coughing while heat blanketed her forehead.
A loud crack roused her once more, and she realized she must have fallen asleep again. It was followed by the thud of feet climbing the stairs and the sound of doors opening and closing nearby. Distraught, Juliette gathered what strength she could manage and stumbled from the bed, crossing the floor and throwing her weight against the door just as someone on the opposite side attempted to open it. Several bangs followed in an effort to make the door budge.
“Go away,” she groaned. “You cannot be here. It is not safe.”
All sound on the other side ceased, filled seconds later with a voice she’d feared she might never hear again. “Juliette.” Florian spoke as though the world was ending and the only life he cared about saving was hers. “Please open the door.”
“Are you alone? I will not put anyone else at risk.”
“I told your brother to wait outside while I came to check on you.”
Relief swamped her, bringing on fresh tears as she unlocked the door and fell into Florian’s arms. “Vivien died this morning,” she cried. “I tried to save her but . . .”
He stroked his hand over her hair. “It is not your fault, Juliette. You did what was right and your friend at least had the comfort of knowing you cared.”
A torrent of tears overflowed from her eyes, wetting Florian’s jacket and closing off her throat until she could scarcely breathe.
“Hush now,” he whispered against her ear. “You must calm yourself so you can get well.” Without warning, he gathered her up in his arms and headed toward the stairs. “I am taking you to my house so you can receive proper care.”
“But Lady Arlington . . .” Fighting the heat that burned in her eyes, Juliette looked toward the dowager baroness’s bedchamber as they passed it. “We cannot leave her here.”
As if he refused to listen, Florian marched on. “I am sorry,” he told her tightly, “but it is too late for her as well.”
With that ominous remark, the remainder of Juliette’s energy failed her and she sagged against Florian’s chest, allowing his vigor to carry her forward. Arguing over where they were going or how her staying in a bachelor’s home would affect her reputation was futile at this point. She was in his hands now and doubted any amount of resistance on her part would sway him from his determination to see her fully restored. Which was just as well, since the only thing she wanted to do was sleep.
Having placed Juliette inside Huntley’s carriage, Florian spoke to the duke. “You cannot ride with us, Huntley. The risk is too great.”
Huntley nodded. “I understand.”
“And I intend to have this conveyance burned once we have finished with it.” Considering the rampancy with which typhus could spread, Florian dared not let anyone else use it later.
“My biggest concern is Juliette’s propriety.” Huntley winced. “I know it sounds ridiculous under the circumstances, but I had hoped to offer her a respectable life and an advantageous marriage. She cannot have those things after spending so much as a single night in your home.”
“I know. But I dare not take her to the hospital or anywhere else. At present, I am the only person I know who seems to be immune, which makes this the logical course of action. I shall care for her, Huntley, and do my utmost to ensure her survival.”
“And your servants?”
Florian knew the scandal of what he proposed was immense, but he could not think of another choice. Not when it came to ensuring everyone’s safety. “They will remain belowstairs for the duration of your sister’s visit.”
Distinct discomfort colored Huntley’s cheeks. “I know you are a physician, Florian, but still, I cannot pretend to be in favor of this idea.”
“None of us are, least of all Juliette, I suspect. But if the situation calls for it in the end and you think it necessary, I will do what must be done to save her reputation as well.”
Clenching his jaw, Huntley stuck out his hand and Florian shook it. “Thank you. My sister is lucky to be in your care, but as much as I appreciate your offer, you ought to know I would never insist she marry for reputation alone.” He withdrew his hand and crossed his arms in a solid display of dukely authority. “My family has braved scandal before and shall do so again before sacrificing happiness for the sake of appeasing Society.”
“I will keep that in mind.” Even though Florian knew all too well that they might not have any choice in the end. If the gossipmongers chose to be malicious, Juliette would be ripped to shreds by their wagging tongues. The only positive outcome—the one that would truly give her the chance to decide what she wanted for herself—was the one in which no one found out she was staying with him as his patient. Especially since he knew she had long since become so much more than that.
Chapter 23
The first thing Juliette registered when she woke was the blessed coolness upon her skin, covering her body in the most incredible way imaginable. It wasn’t until she moved that she realized she was submerged in water, the liquid shifting around her, offering weightless bliss and endless amounts of comfort.
Which was thoroughly enjoyable when compared to the aching weight she’d been feeling the last two days. Until she started wondering about how she’d arrived in a tub. The last person she recalled speaking with was Florian, but beyond that, she remembered nothing.
Curious, she opened her eyes just enough to discern she was in a room darkened by tones of gray. A candle flickering somewhere nearby cast dancing shadows across the walls. Dropping her gaze, she saw the tub had been covered by a white sheet in an effort to protect her modesty, for which she was grateful.
Her eyes slid shut once more even as the dryness in her mouth, informing her of her need to drink, pushed a groan from her throat. The impulse to use what little strength she possessed in order to procure a glass of water was suddenly uncontrollable. She grabbed at the sheet, determined to pull it away, her arms and hands splashing about in the process.
“What is it?” Florian was beside her in an instant, crouched down with his lovely blue eyes so close she imagined swimming right into his gaze. “What do you need?”
“Drink.” The effort it took to say that one word was astounding, and once it was spoken, it sounded like wood crackling in an open fireplace.
A glass was promptly produced and set to her lips, the wine she tasted upon her tongue easing away much of her discomfort. It was followed by something else—something bitter—and then by wine again. She muttered her thanks, as inaudible as they were. Her eyes, impossible to keep open, drifted shut, and she allowed herself to succumb to slumber.
When she woke again she was lying on a bed and dressed in her fav
orite nightgown. Feeling light pressure beneath her chin, she reached up and touched the fastening of the nightcap that had been firmly secured to her head. Expelling a breath she dropped her hand. The room was unfamiliar, which meant she wasn’t at home. Turning her head with some effort, she observed the man who snored ever so softly from his position in a nearby armchair. Strands of copper fell in absolute disarray around his handsome face—a face far more relaxed in sleep than it had ever been while awake. He looked . . . at peace, she decided; free from all the worry and concern he otherwise carried with him.
Further study drew her attention to his torso. He’d shucked his jacket, vest and cravat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing the fine dusting of golden ginger hair upon his forearms. Allowing her gaze to drift lower, she followed the length of his long legs until she arrived at his feet. Both were bare, which for some absurd reason made her smile. In spite of her sickliness, there was something utterly charming about Florian’s informal state of undress. She appreciated it and liked the fact that he’d had the good sense to let propriety slip in favor of comfort.
Unwilling to wake him, Juliette tried to rise from the bed as quietly as possible. Which wasn’t easy since she required a chamber pot with extreme urgency. She practically tumbled from the bed with a thud in her desperation to reach it, all the while trying to figure out how she would see to her business without Florian bearing witness.
“Juliette.” Her name spoken with hasty alarm sent all such hope flying out the window. Before she had a chance to protest, Florian had ascertained her requirement, procured the chamber pot from under the bed and helped her use it. “Hush,” he whispered while stroking his thumbs across her cheeks. “There is no need for tears. All of this is perfectly normal to me. I have experienced it hundreds of times before.”
As true as that might be, Juliette was mortified. Only Amelia and Raphe had seen her like this before, and even then it had not been quite so bad. To find herself reduced to this infirm state, while the man whose admiration she craved bore witness, was beyond awful.
After helping her back to bed, he propped her up and helped her drink more wine. “Sustenance is vital to your recovery.” His voice was firm. “I brought some chicken and fruit for you. Try to eat a little.” He handed her a small plate before going to pick up the recently used chamber pot. “I will be back soon.”
Juliette groaned but did as he asked and made a deliberate effort to push food down into her belly. To her surprise, it wasn’t as much of a struggle as she had expected, and by the time Florian returned, she only had one small piece of plum left.
Florian glanced at the plate and gave her a nod of approval. “Your appetite is excellent. If you can continue eating and sleeping like this, I do believe you will get well again soon.”
“Where . . . am I?” She wanted answers while she could get them.
“In the guest room of my house.” He moved closer, removed the plate from her hands and placed it on the bedside table before perching on the edge of the bed. “Your brother agreed it was for the best.”
Closing her eyes, she chose to ignore the impropriety and the possible scandal this might cause. There would be enough time to worry about that later if she survived. So she reached for his hand instead and squeezed it. “Thank you.” It was all she could manage to say.
His thumb brushed across her cheek. “Please don’t cry.”
She hadn’t realized she was. “Thank you,” she told him again, since she could think of nothing else. Her brain felt like a big wad of cotton. Forming coherent thought and then voicing it was proving a chore, and the small amount of effort she’d made to leave her bed and then eat had drained her completely.
“Get some rest,” she heard him say, the comforting sound of his voice accompanying her as she drifted away once more.
Pulling back his cue, Bartholomew peered across the green felt topper of his billiards table. Taking aim, he struck his target with swift precision. The ball rolled smoothly forward, knocking another ball into the corner pocket.
“It’s time for me to be merciless,” he told Mr. Smith as he straightened his posture. Reaching for his nearby glass of claret, he took a sip and savored the sweet flavor against his tongue.
“What are you proposing?” Mr. Smith asked.
Bartholomew sighed. “I’m tired of playing games and of not finding satisfaction. I gave Florian a chance to redeem himself by ensuring Guthrie’s arrest and still he refuses to comply with my wishes!”
“I believe he’s been a bit busy tending to Lady Juliette.”
Bartholomew pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. “I don’t care what his reasons are. The point is, he needs to be taught a bloody lesson, which means I have to follow through with my threat this time no matter how it might affect Claire.”
“You want me to contact Harper?”
Recalling the journalist whose loyalty Mr. Smith had paid for, Bartholomew nodded. “I want Florian’s reputation ruined. And when that’s been accomplished, I intend for him to watch the woman he’s saving suffer and die so he’ll understand what it truly means to lose everything. The way I did.”
The gentling of Juliette’s breathing as she fell asleep chased away some of the panic Florian had been feeling for the last seventy-two hours. She didn’t appear as restless as she had when he’d brought her home three days ago, her body shifting about in a constant attempt to seek comfort. She’d been pale with red-rimmed eyes and a cough that never boded well. Employing the strict rules he’d used on the ship which were equal to those he’d put into place at the hospital, he’d stripped Juliette of her clothing and given her a thorough bath, which had proven more necessary than he had expected after having discovered the lice in her hair.
What he had chosen to do because of this wasn’t something she would forgive him for soon, even though he was sure she would understand his reasoning.
Sighing, he stood. The worst was yet to come, but for now at least she was able to rest and forget what he had witnessed. She hadn’t wanted him to see her like this and it clearly pained her that he had. Which was why he’d felt compelled to remind her of his profession when she’d needed to use the chamber pot for the first time. He’d reasoned that if she thought of him as a physician instead of a man, she would not mind his help quite as much. And it must have worked, because she’d seemed more accepting of his assistance since then. For which he was grateful.
Tending to Juliette like this made him feel more connected to her than he’d ever felt toward anyone else. The disease denied her the chance to dress her hair in a pretty coiffure or to put on a perfectly cut gown, and yet to Florian’s eyes, no woman had ever looked lovelier than she did right now.
Which probably meant he was losing his mind since there was no denying her cracking lips, sweaty forehead or puffy eyes.
Shoving his hand through his hair, he wondered when it had come to this. When the devil had this woman slipped beneath his skin and taken up residence in his heart? She was all he could think of—indeed she had been for some time—but where lust had initially driven his desire to seek her company, he knew there was more to it than that. There was the gut-wrenching knowledge his life would be over if she did not pull through this.
He’d meant what he’d said when he’d told her brother he would do what he could to save her reputation. In spite of all the resistance he’d felt toward marriage, the idea of vowing himself to Juliette had become increasingly appealing. Whether she felt the same, he could only hope. What mattered the most right now, however, was her imminent recovery, not the story that had appeared in several prominent newspapers after Florian had failed to see to Guthrie’s arrest.
He recalled with perfect clarity the words originally written by Dorian Harper from The Gentleman’s Daily Gazette. They had been damning and horribly precise.
Each Season has its scandal. Last year it was Raphe Matthews’s unexpected elevation in status from bare-knuckle boxer to
Duke of Huntley. This year, it seems to be the new Duke of Redding’s parentage.
More popularly known as Florian, until he claimed his uncle’s title, this physician turned peer has managed to deceive us all. He was, as rumor has it, not fathered by Viscount Armswell at all, but by the murderous traitor, Bartholomew.
While law dictates that Florian is Armswell’s legitimate son, since the earl and his countess were married at the time of Florian’s birth, one cannot help but wonder what role Bartholomew may have played in Florian’s life. The two are regrettably bound together by blood and since it is common knowledge that certain traits will invariably be passed from parent to child, one has to ask: To what extent does the new Duke of Redding resemble his real father?
As expected, a note had arrived this morning from Huntley, who naturally worried about how all of this was going to impact his sister. Unsure of how to respond, Florian had not written back yet. Instead he focused his attention on ensuring Juliette’s well-being.
Which became more of a struggle when her fever rose two days later, prompting nonsensical mutterings while she turned her head from side to side as if hoping to somehow escape the pillow, the bed, her body. He’d known this would happen and yet it still tore at his chest and made him feel more helpless than he’d ever felt before in his life. Because this was Juliette and . . . With trembling hands he forced some laudanum past her lips. Half of it dribbled down over her chin but he hoped she drank enough for it to soothe her nerves.
“Florian.”
He barely heard her, she sounded so weak. “Yes, Juliette.” He placed a new compress upon her forehead and took her hand in his. “I am right here and I am not going to leave you.”
Her body shook. “Not ever?” She clutched at the bedding as if it could save her.
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