He was no fool. He’d never felt worse in his life. Even lying flat during the whole damned carriage ride didn’t make any difference. A gun wasn’t really necessary.
“I’m dying,” he snarled at Finchley. “How in the bleeding hell do you think I feel?”
“Irritable,” Finchley rejoined. “You’re not dying, Your Grace.” His poor valet was one of the few who refused to accept the truth. “You’re on your way to a Christmas house party, just as you always do at this time of year.”
“More fool me,” he murmured. The fever was coming on again. He knew its calling card by now. It came in as inexorably as the tide of the ocean and swept him under. He tossed about in a red haze on the brink of succumbing, as undirected as a piece of jetsam.
“Where’s Miss Tatlock?”
“She’ll join us at the duke’s house.”
“Where’s Benjamin?”
There was no answer.
“Barnabe?”
“Who’s Barnabe?” Finchley said. “Your Grace?”
“Dautry? My cousin?”
“He’ll join us as well,” Finchley said soothingly.
But he was slipping away. One of these days he’d stay under, but at that moment the carriage lurched, and jolted his side. The pain was so excruciating that he woke up again with a cry.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.” Finchley sounded close to tears and that sobered Villiers as much as the pain. “We’ll be there soon, I promise. Another hour or two, that’s all. I shouldn’t have let you do this.”
It was the right thing to do, though Villiers had no energy to explain it. He’d had two friends in his life, Benjamin and Elijah. Elijah had turned into the Duke of Beaumont, a pompous politician. Benjamin was gone.
He’d ask for Elijah’s forgiveness, politician or no. For what, he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember their quarrel now. It happened so many years ago, but it took place at Beaumont’s house, so it made sense to go there.
Say goodbye, he thought dimly. Make it all right. And then he let himself slip away again where it didn’t hurt quite as much.
He didn’t wake up for hours, not til he’d been slipped between linen sheets. What woke him up, finally, was the bellowing. Well, that and the fact that someone had slipped a knife under his arm pit.
“Christ,” he panted. “Christ.” He flailed a bit, tried to open his eyes, panted. Dimly thought that he expected to fade onto the red tide, not leave in a wash of icy pain. It didn’t seem fair. The knife turned again. “Bloody hell!” And he managed to pry his eyes open.
There was a big man standing over him, a kind of rustic monster with a bushy beard. With one huge paw he was holding him down and with the other he was doing…something to his shoulder. Something that was so excruciatingly painful that all Villiers could do was pant. He tried to twist away and humiliatingly, couldn’t even stir under the great hand holding him down.
“Hold on,” the man said in a sticky Scottish brogue. “I have to get this wound cleaned out or you’re done for.”
Villiers would have said something, would have protested, would have—it wasn’t a red tide this time; it was a black wash that covered his eyes and threw him off a cliff.
“Thank God for that,” Dr. Treglown said. For the country bear was a doctor. “Ach, and this is a benighted mess, it is. Who in the bloody hell’s been taking care of the duke, then?”
“The surgeon, Dr. Banderspit,” Finchley said. “Is it because I wouldn’t let him bleed the duke? He kept wanting to bleed him and I wouldn’t allow it. Is it all my fault?”
Dr. Treglown rolled his eyes and started pouring something over the wound that smelled like acid. It even smoked a little. “You’d have killed him for sure if he’d been bled, so there’s a happy thought for ye. With this infection in him, he must have the constitution of a bloody ox to have survived this long.”
“What are you doing?” Finchley whispered.
“Cleaning the damn thing. Disgusting.”
“We cleaned it,” Finchley said anxiously. “We did clean it with lots of brandy, just as the surgeon told us to, until it finally healed over.”
“Brandy! Chaw!”
Finchley wasn’t sure what “chaw” meant, but he didn’t mean to enquire. There was the master, lying as still as death. “Are you sure he’s not gone?” he asked. “He’s looking—bad. I can’t see him breathing.”
“He is bad,” the doctor said, turning away to wash his hands. “Didn’t you see what came out of that wound? It was killing him.”
“But it was all mended on top,” Finchley said miserably. “I didn’t know…”
“No reason you should have,” the doctor said. “Yer not calling yourself by the name of ‘surgeon,’ are ye?” His sneer was frightful. “This time we’re keeping it open, you hear? You’re going to wash that wound four times a day with spirits of turpentine.” He put a black bottle down on the bureau with a clink. “Yer duke here is going to yell like the de vil when he comes around enough to notice what you’re doing. You’d better prepare yerself. And I’ll stop by tomorrow night. If he lives til then, he might survive. Or he might not.”
“Oh God,” Finchley moaned. “And it’s Christmas.”
“Not yet,” Treglown said. “There’s a few days still. I expect you’ll know fairly soon whether he’s going to blight the ceremonies by tumbling into the grave. Wash it again in six hours. You’ll have to do it during the night too.”
“Yes, sir,” Finchley said. “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”
“When’s the rest of the party coming? Beaumont himself and the duchess? We’ve never seen her, you know. She flit off to Paris before coming to the country. My patients are all beside themselves with excitement.”
“In a few days, as I understand it.”
Treglown chuckled. “It’ll make an unusual house party, I’d say. Dying duke howling off in the rafters. It sounds like one of them women’s novels to me.”
Finchley looked around at the gracious old bedchamber. The Duchess of Beaumont had sent orders ahead to put Villiers in the royal suite. He would like the irony of it, if he woke up long enough to see it.
“Lots of liquids, if you can get him to drink,” Treglown said, taking himself out the door. “I’ll try to stop back later, if I can. There’s babies sprouting all over the place, and the midwife’s just had one of her own. I hardly have time to deal with the handiwork of asinine London
surgeons
!” He snorted and left.
Finchley looked at his master.
He was lying on the bed, as straight as a board, as if he were ready to be measured for a coffin.
“You said you cried for months,” Poppy said weakly.
“I cried because I was broken-hearted. But you are an odd combination of anxious and cheerful.”
“He says he still loves me,” Poppy said with a rush.
Jemma gave her a crooked little smile. “You see? Your marriage and mine have no similarity.”
“Although he doesn’t desire me anymore.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“My mother said that men are fickle and lose interest in a woman’s body after a number of years. Fletch agreed.”
“In my experience,” Jemma said, “a man is quite happy to greet anyone who shows up ready for the business, as it were. If there’s a smiling woman in his bed, he won’t make a fuss about it.”
“Well, Fletch said—”
“You can’t listen too carefully to what men say. Perhaps he wants you to desire him,” Jemma interrupted.
“But that’s not—well—”
Jemma looked at her shrewdly. “Are you sure?”
“How do you know when you desire someone?”
“I feel like taking his clothes off,” Jemma said bluntly. “It’s easier to know when you don’t feel desire. For example, when you see Lord Manning, do you feel that it would be very nice to stroke his tummy?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. Now replace that image with one of Fletch. Would you like to stroke his…tummy?”
Poppy couldn’t help laughing. “You are absurd, Jemma.”
“Men’s bodies were made to be admired. That’s one thing that your mother seems to have forgotten. You are lucky: you’ve got a husband who seems interested in paying your body appropriate attention. Now you just have to learn how to do the same to him.”
“He doesn’t feel that way anymore,” Poppy said, feeling a prickle of sadness.
Jemma snorted. “We’ll see if he comes to the house party after the note I sent with his invitation.”
“What did you say?”
“I mentioned that I was inviting naturalists and philosophers, so he would find the party remarkably tedious. By the way, a footman brought me a note this morning that Villiers has arrived before us.”
“How is he?”
“I don’t know. Beaumont told me that he’d trade our marriage to have Villiers live. I was furious.”
“So would I be!” Poppy put in.
“But part of me agrees with him. Villiers is—”
“I’ve never met him. What is he like?”
“He’s charming, wry, fierce, arrogant and incredibly clever. And he’s a chess master,” she added, as if that explained everything.
On their third day of traveling it was already dark before the carriage rocked to a halt at the Ring O’Roses inn. The innkeeper ran out gibbering with excitement over the visit of not one duchess, but two. “Your servants have everything ready for you, Your Graces,” he kept saying, rubbing his hands together.
“Wonderful,” Jemma said.
“His Grace has already arrived as well,” the innkeeper told Jemma.
“Really? I thought Beaumont had a last session of Parliament. I was beginning to be afraid those men would never close down this year. He must have ridden like the wind to catch up with us.”
But when they walked into the inn it was clear that the dukes had been confused, for Poppy glanced into the common room as they passed the open door—and stopped. There was a tall man sitting at the back of the room, leaning against the rough wooden wall. His silky hair was tied back. He was wearing all black. He looked every inch a duke.
As Poppy stood there, fixed to the ground, Fletch looked up and saw her. He lifted a tankard in greeting.
Suddenly her entire body melted with racing excitement. She lifted her hand and waved to him, as if she were a five-year-old again. He was sitting with his legs stretched out before him. And he wasn’t quite as elegant as formerly. His coat hung open, and he wore a plain neck cloth.
It made her feel queer, so she almost ran down the narrow corridor after Jemma.
Jemma took one look at her, and said, “Well, I gather Beaumont is still debating the end of the civilized world.”
“He came,” Poppy whispered. “He’s here.”
“Sharing your room?” Jemma asked with a mischievous look.
“I don’t know!”
“How many rooms have we for the party?” Jemma asked, turning to the innkeeper.
“There’s the three of you with the best rooms in the house,” he said anxiously. “And then six more for your entourage. I hope that you’ll find everything to your satisfaction, Your Grace.”
Poppy’s heart fell a bit. She dreaded making love to Fletch. So why would she want him to share a room with her?
“I told you he was tired of me,” she said to Jemma under her breath.
“Why don’t you go to his room naked and see what happens? I’ll bet you my best chess set that you spend the night in his room.”
“It would be so embarrassing,” Poppy muttered, appalled that she was even considering it.
Jemma and Fletch teased and flirted all the way through supper, while Poppy sat there tongue-tied, feeling like a stupid younger sister.
He’d brought a copy of
The Tatler
. “I didn’t have time to read it,” he said, “but I understand that your house party is viewed with disapprobation, Jemma.”
Jemma snatched the paper from his hand. “Let me see that!” She bent over it. “This isn’t about my party, but about
you
, Fletch. My goodness. I gather your recent speech in the House was a remarkable success.”
He blinked. “When did
The Tatler
begin reporting on political matters?”
“Why don’t I just read it?” Jemma said. “
It appears that the young Duke of Fletcher gave a short disquisition
—what on earth is a disquisition?”
“A speech,” he said, looking rather embarrassed. “I gave a speech about the French trade bill.”
“According to this, your speech caused the entire House of Lords to leap to their feet shouting in support. The paper maintains that any peer who dares disagree with you proves himself to be as false as he is covetous. Good work, Fletch!”
Poppy leaned forward and touched his hand. “Indeed.”
Their eyes locked for a moment.
“Apparently there were calls on the floor that Fletch should be made the Secretary of State on the spot,” Jemma continued. “And it says that the opposition party is shaking in their boots at the idea of the duke’s rhetorical power being wielded against them.”
“Foolishness,” Fletch said.
Poppy just smiled at him.
Jemma turned the newspaper over. “Oh dear! Here’s the bit about my party. It’s really about my brother. They think that all duelers should be sent to France, given the Duke of Villiers’s imminent demise. I’m sure that includes sisters as well. For, and I quote, ‘the crime of base vulgarity.’ Vulgarity!” she repeated. “I’m sure I’m never vulgar.”
“The word only describes the actions of other people?” Fletch enquired.
“Naturally. I put a whole host of words in that category.”
“Such as?”
“Virgin.”
Fletch burst out laughing. He hardly even glanced at Poppy; he was so busy flirting with Jemma. And yet she couldn’t take her eyes from him. He’d shed that overly precious air he used to have, though his coat still fit across his broad shoulders without a wrinkle.
“Surely you too have a group of words that you would never apply to yourself,” Jemma said. “Doesn’t he, Poppy? Help me. Let’s see…limp?”
“Only applies to other men,” Fletch said promptly.
Poppy hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about, but she smiled.
“Phoenix is a good word,” Fletch said. “No matter how the flames burn, it always rises again.”
“What are you talking about?” Poppy asked.
Jemma was giggling, but Fletch said, “Vulgarities,” and then shut his mouth.
Her mother said that a lady should never acknowledge a vulgarity but pretend the solecism didn’t exist. “Could you explain it to me?” she asked.
The serving maid let out a giggle too, which made Poppy even more curious.
“You do the honors,” Jemma told Fletch.
Fletch blinked. “The phoenix in question is a man’s privates.”
“Of course,” Poppy said. “And the fire is syphilis?”
“No!” he said hastily. “I’ll explain the other part of the reference later.”
“I think I understand it. Shakespeare talks of castles melting away,
like the baseless vision of a dream.
Your phoenix, I gather, doesn’t melt away.”
In answer to Jemma’s laughter and Fletch’s look of shock she said, “I have been married for four years. And I spend a great deal of time working alongside beneficiaries of the Charitable Society for the Reception of Repenting Prostitutes.”
“You alarm me,” Jemma said, grinning at her.
“Did you see the new print by George Townly Stubbs called
His Highness in Fitz
?” Poppy asked.
“In Fitz?” Jemma asked. “Do you mean to say,
in Mrs. Fitzherbert
?”
Poppy nodded. “He is clothed. But Mrs. Fitzherbert isn’t.”
Fletch chimed in with a print he’d seen of the prince called
The Morning after the Marriage,
and Poppy, feeling that she’d proved herself less than a idiotic innocent, went back to watching her husband.
He still had the little beard, just enough to cover the dimple in his chin, but she actually liked it. He looked more manly with it. Not at all pretty, as her mother used to call him.
Fletch wasn’t pretty. Not a bit. His eyes were black in the center, but with a ring of odd gray-blue color around them. With his hair pulled back, and no powder, he looked as wild as the men who roam the American forests, wrestling with alligators and catching possums.
Suddenly Poppy realized that the servant bringing their dishes was sending Fletch a kind of signal. She kept brushing her bosom against his shoulder, for example, and leaning down next to him to offer a spoonful of this or that, so that even Poppy could see straight down into her bosom.
Her breasts were much bigger than Poppy’s. Huge, really. And the way she kept licking her lips was absolutely revolting.
Finally the girl managed to pry herself away from Fletch long enough to come around to Poppy’s side of the table and offer her a pyramid cream. The creams were shaped in mounds, and looked just as shaky as the girl’s breasts, to Poppy.
She took another drink of her wine while she thought about it. Meanwhile the girl brushed some crumbs off Fletch’s lap—his lap! And Fletch didn’t seem to mind.
The girl came again to her to pour her some tea, her distaste barely concealed. And why? Because Poppy didn’t immediately understand the phoenix joke? She bent down and Poppy looked straight into her enormous breasts.
It was the work of a moment to scoop up her pudding and drop the rounded thing straight down her bodice.
The girl shrieked and leaped in the air.
Poppy stood up and smiled sweetly. “Oh my goodness, it must have slipped right out of my hand,” she cooed.
The innkeeper came to the door, took one look and grabbed the girl by the arm. They could hear him all the way up the corridor. “I’ve told you and told you,” he was shouting. “Save those Bartholomew wares of yours for them as wants them. You’ve disgraced me one too many times.”
Jemma was laughing again. “It’s like the phoenix, hatched out right before my eyes!”
Fletch stood up and stretched. He could almost reach the ceiling. And that put his crotch level with Poppy’s eyes. His breeches were tight as possible. They outlined his muscled thighs as if they’d been painted on.
“Wife,” he said lazily, “you’re frightening me.”
Poppy stood and tossed her hair. It felt wonderful to feel her hair move with her body. She flounced down the corridor before him until a large warm hand curled around her waist.
A deep voice said in her ear, “I really should give you a scolding, Perdita.”
“That girl deserved what she got!” Poppy snapped, looking over her shoulder.
He laughed down at her and the blood raced recklessly through her veins. “There’s hardly room in your bodice for a pudding,” he observed, looking down. “Though it would be interesting to use them as a plate.”
Her gaze followed his. From this angle, her breasts didn’t look meager. Oddly, she felt a prickling all over as if he might touch—
But he took her arm and started walking down the corridor as if nothing had happened.
The one thought in Poppy’s head was that she was too late. She was no fool. The depraved warmth between her thighs meant desire. And she would quite like Fletch to eat pudding from her breasts.
She’d found it.
She’d found that desire for her husband that Jemma talked about, and it was only her stupidity that meant she’d found it four years too late.