One Perfect Rose (33 page)

“Really? I thought you were nerveless. You're so good in a sickroom.”

“I've had plenty of practice, but it's harder when the patient is someone you care about.” She sighed and rubbed her temple. “And I care about Stephen a great deal. He has always been a friend to me, and to my daughter, too. Amy is going to be devastated.”

“It's selfish of me, but I'm glad you're here.” Rosalind gave a faint, wry smile. “I considered asking my mother or sister to come. However, they both tend to get queasy when anyone is ill. That's why I was the one who got the job of tending the cuts and bruises of everyone in the troupe.”

“I gather that you took on every task that your temperamental colleagues couldn't be trusted with,” Catherine said with amusement. “I've always been the same way. Talent is all very well, but someone must mend the socks.”

Rosalind's brief smile faded. She leaned her forehead against the cool window glass. “Catherine, I'm so ashamed of myself, but part of me just wants this to be
over
. Yet how will I bear it when he's gone?”

“Wanting an end to suffering, for both Stephen and yourself, is normal,” Catherine said softly. “As to how you will bear it—you'll do that minute by minute, because you must. For your sake, and the sake of your child.”

Remembering that Catherine had buried two parents and one husband, Rosalind straightened, feeling ashamed of herself for her weakness. She must be strong for the sake of the baby who would be Stephen's greatest legacy.

From behind them Stephen's voice said faintly, “Rosalind?”

She turned swiftly and went to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Well enough.”

In other words, he was in pain but not about to complain. How could he be so calm, so composed? She'd thought him a hero when he saved Brian, but that courage was nothing compared to this.

Silently she gave him two more opium pills. After he'd swallowed them, she kissed his forehead. “Would you like some more eggnog? Or perhaps some broth?”

“The eggnog sounds good.”

She turned to the decanter that the cook had prepared earlier in the afternoon and set in a basin of crushed ice. As she poured a glass, he said softly, “There's been something I've been meaning to tell you.”

She glanced up with a smile, just in time to see him gasp, “Damnation!”

Then he convulsed on the bed, face white and eyes closed as he suffered the most violent attack Rosalind had witnessed since the one in the hayloft. She gripped his hand, raging inwardly because there was nothing she could do to help him.

The episode passed quickly, for even illness took more strength than he could spare. Within minutes he was still and unconscious again. Wordlessly Rosalind and Catherine worked together to replace the soiled bedding.

When that was done and Rosalind began to sponge Stephen's face with a moist cloth, Catherine said urgently, “Let me call a doctor I know.”

Rosalind glanced up. “You know I promised him not to allow that.”

“Ian Kinlock isn't like other doctors,” Catherine said. “I knew him in the army. He's brilliant and unconventional, with qualifications as both physician and surgeon. He saved Michael's life when other surgeons wouldn't even bother to try. In fact, one of the principal reasons Michael went searching for Stephen was the wish to take him to Ian.”

Rosalind hesitated, torn between her promise and the desperate desire to grasp at any hope, no matter how slim. Seeing that she was wavering, Catherine continued, “At least let Ian perform an examination. He'll respect your wishes if you forbid any treatments that would increase Stephen's suffering.” Catherine closed her eyes and pressed her wrist to her forehead. “Please, let me call him. We must do
something
.”

Rosalind capitulated with an exhausted sigh. “Very well. Send for your friend.”

Catherine left the room at a pace that was almost a run. Rosalind finished sponging Stephen's face. Then she straightened the covers and kissed him. “I love you, Stephen,” she whispered. “I always will.”

He might not want to hear that. But the words were ones she had to say.

 

Hubble, grateful for something to do, was dispatched to find Ian Kinlock. It took several hours to locate the surgeon and bring him to Ashburton House. By then, Stephen was breathing more easily and showing signs of returning consciousness. Rosalind sat beside him and held his hand, watching his face as if sheer concentration would keep him alive.

The door opened, and Catherine got to her feet. “Ian, thank heaven you've come.”

Rosalind looked up to see her sister-in-law hug a broad-shouldered man with an unruly shock of white hair who had just entered the bedroom. Then she brought him to the sickbed, her arm through his. “Rosalind, my friend and miracle worker, Ian Kinlock. Ian, the Duchess of Ashburton.”

He said with a distinct Scottish burr, “Flattery will not get you a miracle, Catherine. Those are dispensed only by God, and he's almighty sparing of them.” He nodded to Rosalind and set his instrument bag by the bed. “Tell me about your husband's illness, Duchess.”

The surgeon was younger than she'd thought at first, no more than forty despite the white hair. He also radiated intelligence and imperturbable calm. Glad she'd agreed to call him, she replied, “I believe the pains started in late spring or early summer. He said his physician diagnosed the disease as a tumefaction of the stomach and liver.”

“That's more of a description than a diagnosis,” Kinlock grunted. “What are the symptoms?”

Wishing she'd asked Stephen more questions, she answered the surgeon as best she could while Catherine withdrew. Kinlock began his examination. After a thorough palpation of Stephen's abdomen, he muttered, “A tumefaction can either be a hard mass or a swelling. I don't feel either, though there's obviously sensitivity.”

All too true. Even semiconscious, Stephen was groaning from the surgeon's probing. Rosalind flinched along with him. “Does that mean he's less ill than we thought?” she asked hopefully.

“Ashburton is in a critical condition and no mistake.” Frowning, Kinlock dug into his case and pulled out a needle. “But I must admit to being puzzled about what he's suffering from.”

She bit her lip when he lifted Stephen's hand and stuck the needle into the middle of the palm. Stephen hardly reacted at all, which was more than could be said of Rosalind.

He hadn't wanted to suffer from medical abuse. But as she tensely watched the surgeon's tests, she reminded herself that Stephen had once said that he'd have tried every quack in England if there had been a chance for a cure.

Any chance, no matter how slender, was better than none at all.

Saturated by the chilly rain, Michael and Blackmer rode the last short distance through Mayfair in silence. It was a night as dismal as Michael's mood.

His spirits lifted when they turned into Grosvenor Square and he saw Ashburton House. “Look at the lighted windows and the straw on the street. Stephen is here, and, God willing, Catherine as well.”

Blackmer straightened in the saddle, his dull expression becoming alert, “I hope to heaven you're right. I'd almost begun to think this search would never end.”

Michael understood the feeling perfectly.

In the stables the groom confirmed that the duke and his new wife had been in London for a fortnight or so, and that Lady Michael had arrived the day before. The servant's voice dropped to a whisper when he continued that the duke was very ill. Not expected to last more than another few days at most, they said.

Face like granite, Michael used his key to let them into the house. Giving his younger brother that key was one of many things Stephen had done to make Michael feel as if he were really part of the Kenyon family instead of a despised outcast. And now Stephen was—harshly Michael cut off the thought. Not much caring if Blackmer followed or not, he cut through the public rooms to the bottom of the sweeping staircase that led to the private quarters. There he glanced up and saw his wife sitting on a bench in the hall outside Stephen's apartments. Her dark head was tilted against the wall, and her expression was as weary as his own.

Instinctively keeping his voice down, he called her name. Catherine lifted her head as if startled from a doze. Then her face lit up. “Michael!”

She leaped to her feet and raced down the stairs as Michael bounded upward three steps at a time. They met on the landing where the ascending staircase split in two, coming together like striking cymbals.

“God, Catherine, I've missed you!” He swept her off her feet in a fierce embrace. Home. At last.

“The feeling is entirely mutual.” Oblivious to his cold, wet clothing, Catherine locked her arms around his neck and raised her face. Her kiss almost made him forget the last maddening weeks.

Ending the embrace with reluctance, he set her down. “How is Stephen?”

She sighed and rested her forehead on his cheek. “Alive. He's just woken up, but his condition is very grave. He…he won't last much longer.”

Blackmer, who had been waiting a discreet distance away, came up the steps to join them. “Take me to him,” he said urgently. “Perhaps I can do something.”

The physician looked almost wild-eyed, poor devil. He must be hoping to work a miracle that would justify all the time and effort he'd expended on the search.

“Ten minutes shouldn't make a difference. I want to see him first, since he's conscious. Use the time to find some food or change into dry clothing.” Michael started up the remaining steps, one arm around his wife, not giving a damn how improper his behavior was.

“But I'm his doctor,” Blackmer said vehemently. “I must see him immediately.”

Michael turned and said in the voice that could make a hard-bitten sergeant blanch, “
Later
.”

Catherine interjected hastily, “There's a surgeon with him now, Dr. Blackmer. A friend of ours, Ian Kinlock.” Her brow furrowed. “Ian seems puzzled, though he hasn't said why. Perhaps the two of you can confer while Michael visits with Stephen.”

Blackmer opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, looking almost ill. “I'll change and be up in a few minutes.” He turned and went down the steps, flagging down a footman who'd appeared with the new arrivals' baggage.

Michael resumed his ascent, savoring the feel of his wife's soft, familiar body next to his. Quietly he said, “I'm glad you called Kinlock. It was my intention to do so the moment I got here. If anyone can help, it's Ian.”

“He says he can't supply miracles,” Catherine said soberly.

That didn't mean Michael couldn't hope for one. “What do you think of Stephen's provincial actress?”

Catherine gave him The Look that any married person recognized. “Let go of your preconceptions, my dear. Rosalind is wonderful. She and Stephen are thoroughly in love with each other, and I wish they'd met ten years earlier.” Her eyes twinkled. “She's also so attractive that I'm glad I got to you first.”

He laughed a little and buried his face in her hair. Her scent was sweet and fresh and irresistible. “There will be time enough to fish for compliments later, shameless wench.”

Her hand caressed his unshaven chin for a brief moment of promise before she resumed climbing the steps again. “Rosalind has also very efficiently managed to get herself in the family way, so I suggest you pray as hard as you can for a boy.”

He felt like a prisoner who'd just glimpsed an open door. “That's marvelous! Stephen must be delighted.”

A shadow crossed Catherine's face. “He is.”

Michael understood what she wasn't saying, because he knew how he would have felt if he'd become mortally ill when Catherine was carrying Nicholas. A combination of gladness that something of him would survive, and fury that he wouldn't be there to raise his child.

His pleasure in the reunion with his wife faded at the reminder of why he had come. He paused to peel off his wet cloak and toss it over the railing. Then, face grim, he opened his brother's bedroom door.

 

Stephen woke under Ian Kinlock's examination. Though obviously in pain, he was stoic and didn't reproach Rosalind for calling in the surgeon. Nonetheless, she felt twinges of guilt as she moved away from the bed so the men could talk privately.

She settled in the window seat, her gaze on Stephen, and remembered something she'd told Jessica in simpler days. Dignity was so much a part of Stephen that nothing, not even death, could rob him of it. She had spoken more truly than she had known.

Then the door opened, and a man with a thousand-yard stare came into the room. Lord Michael Kenyon, of course. Even travel-stained and weary, he had the air of predatory alertness that Rosalind had seen in other soldiers. He also had a strong family resemblance to Stephen, and Catherine tucked under his arm like a favorite cloak.

Since Stephen was talking with Kinlock and hadn't yet noticed his brother, Rosalind decided to get the introductions out of the way. With luck, Lord Michael would be so concerned with his brother that he would hardly notice her.

She stepped forward and said quietly, “Lord Michael, I'm glad you've come. Dr. Kinlock is almost finished with his examination.”

He turned his gaze on her. Piercing green eyes, not like Stephen's more peaceful gray-green. She felt like a mouse being regarded by a cat.

Then, amazingly, he smiled. The predator vanished and his resemblance to Stephen became even stronger. “Rosalind. Catherine has told me about you.” He clasped her hand briefly, since bowing would have meant letting go of his wife.

Good heavens, how could this meeting she'd been dreading go so easily? “I'm almost afraid to ask what she told you,” Rosalind said truthfully.

“She said that you are wonderful and must be treated with all due courtesy.” His arm tightened around Catherine's shoulders. “And I always do what my wife tells me.”

Catherine rolled her eyes in an elaborate show of disbelief. “And the moon is made of Cornish clotted cream.”

Their laughter caught Stephen's attention. He turned his head toward the door and gave a tired smile. “Michael. In the nick of time.”

There was death in Stephen's drawn face. The recognition caused Michael's lungs to constrict with a faint early warning of the asthma that he'd never entirely outgrown. Forcing himself to breathe evenly, he broke away from his wife and went to the bed. “No thanks to you. Did Catherine explain how Blackmer and I have spent weeks chasing you around Great Britain?”

Though his face was drawn and his voice hardly more than a whisper, Stephen said lightly, “I must be cleverer than I thought to evade you for so long.”

Ian Kinlock glanced over. He'd patched up Michael twice during the wars, and he had the interested expression of a carpenter checking to see how one of his tables was wearing. “Good to see you, Colonel.”

“My pleasure.” Michael gave the surgeon a brief, firm handshake. “Are you through with your poking and prodding?”

“For the moment. Go ahead and talk. I've got to think about this.” Brows furrowed, Kinlock went across the room and stared broodingly into the fire. Catherine and the new duchess also tactfully withdrew to the far end of the room, out of earshot.

Michael sank onto a chair by the bed, feeling a little awkward. How the devil does one speak to one's dying brother? There were a thousand things he might say, and none seemed important enough.

Stephen made it easy for him. “I'd best take care of business first. I thought I wouldn't leave any loose ends, but I ran out of time sooner than I expected. Also, last night Rosalind told me there will be a baby, which is another complication.”

“A good one,” Michael interjected.

“Very, but I literally never expected that I might leave an heir. I…I'd long since given up hoping.” Stephen closed his eyes for a moment. “I had assumed you would inherit immediately. Instead, there will be months of waiting to find out if the child is a boy or girl, which leaves my careful plans in limbo. My secretary is with the solicitor right now. They're drawing up papers that designate you and Rosalind as joint trustees of the Ashburton property for the time being. If the child is a girl, of course you'll take over then. If it's a boy, you'll remain as guardian until he's twenty-one.” A glint of humor showed in his eyes. “In other words, you'll get all the work without the title.”

“Believe me, I'd prefer it that way,” Michael said feelingly.

“Please—look out for Rosalind.” Stephen's gaze shifted to the bed hangings. “Not that she isn't perfectly capable of taking care of herself. I expect she'll marry again. Don't be too indignant on my behalf if she does.”

“You're more generous than I,” Michael said with wry self-mockery. “If I were to die, I'd much prefer to think that Catherine would never look at another man and would spend the rest of her life in sackcloth and ashes.”

Stephen raised an ironic brow. “Would you really?”

Even as a child, Michael had never been able to fool his brother. “No,” he admitted. “I'd want her to be happy. Just not as happy as she was with me.”

“Admirably honest,” Stephen said with a glimmer of humor. “When I left the abbey and went north, I considered going into Wales to see you. I wanted to ask what it was like to face death, since you know so much about the subject. But I didn't. Too much pride to ask my younger brother how to deal with fear.” The lines in his face deepened. “Pride seems rather trivial now.”

“You appear to have found your answers without my help.” Michael studied his brother's face, recognizing the bone-deep acceptance that he himself had experienced when on the verge of death. “You seem to be at peace.”

“I am.” Stephen's gaze went to Rosalind at the far end of the room. “God knows, I don't want to die. But I've known more happiness in the last weeks than most men find in a lifetime. I never would have had that if not for my illness.”

And Rosalind, the “provincial actress,” was the reason for that happiness. Michael should have had more faith in Stephen's judgment. When he remembered Rafe's admonition not to assume the worst, he wanted to kick himself for his damned aristocratic reaction to the news of his brother's marriage. Sometimes he was appallingly like the old duke. Not often, luckily.

His gaze still on his wife, Stephen said softly, “I think that if we knew the world was about to end, the streets would be full of people running to find the ones they love, so they could tell them of that love.” He turned his head back to his brother. “I love you, Michael. I wish we'd been better friends through the years.”

The grief that had been pulsing below the surface erupted with a force that seared Michael's heart. He laid his hand over Stephen's and bowed his head. “I love you, too,” he said haltingly. “We wouldn't be friends now if you hadn't reached out to me at the worst time of my life. That's a debt I can never repay.”

“There's no debt, since I benefited equally.” Stephen drew a labored breath. “Claudia was here earlier, and in a mood to make amends for past follies. If she extends the olive branch to you—and I think she will—please, for my sake, don't throw it into the nearest fire.”

“I won't,” Michael promised. For Stephen's sake. He could feel the slow pulse in his brother's hand. How much longer? Christ, how much longer? He drew an unsteady breath. “If we don't change the subject, I'm going to have an asthma attack.”

“Can't have that.” Stephen closed his eyes again, collecting his strength. “Let me go over the other outstanding business. For one thing, I'm in the process of buying the Athenaeum Theater for Rosalind's parents. See that the transaction is completed quickly. Rosalind knows the financial arrangements I intended.”

He was buying his in-laws a theater? Well, Stephen had never been one to stint. “I'll see that it's done.”

His brother tersely listed other unfinished business in an implicit display of confidence that Michael found almost as moving as the explicit declaration of love. Three years ago this conversation, this unquestioning trust, would have been unthinkable.

Stephen was clearly tiring, his sentences getting shorter, his pauses to rest more frequent. Michael hoped the blasted secretary and solicitor would arrive with the trusteeship papers soon. It would relieve Stephen's mind, and simplify the legal situation, to have them safely signed.

Ian Kinlock turned abruptly from his contemplation of the fire. “Catherine, Duchess, come over here. I want to talk to all of you.”