A half-hour later, Lewis found Cassie in the morning room, pacing like a wild pony cooped up in the home paddock. Her cheeks flamed and her eyes glittered with fury. She greeted him with a loud sniff and marched away to the window where a glimmer of late afternoon sunlight shone through the haze. There she stopped, facing the little shrubbery behind the house that Londoners called a garden.
If she’d been crying, he could have comforted her, but he’d learned years ago not to touch her when she was angry. Particularly when her anger was directed at him. She knew how to make a fist, and she knew how to use it.
“Aw, Cassie. You knew they wouldn’t like it.”
No reply.
“I did what I could. I’d expect them to investigate any man you wanted to marry, wouldn’t you? Whether it’s Neil Fuller or the Duke of Bedford, that’s what parents do. At least, if they care about you.”
She sighed, and her shoulders drooped. “Bedford’s married.”
Chuckling, Lewis walked over and put an arm around her. “That’s my sensible girl. Though I believe he has an heir…”
Cassie choked on a laugh. “Six years of age, perhaps? Just a little too young for me.” She rested her cheek against his chest and sighed again. “What am I going to do, Lewis?”
He took hold of her shoulders and gave her a shake. “You’re going to let your father do his duty. If he finds Fuller’s circumstances to be as you described, I have no doubt they’ll give in.”
“Say, Cassie.” Lewis led her to the sofa and sat beside her. “You were joking about Gideon, weren’t you?” He’d seen nothing. But since Miss Spain left town, he’d avoided most of the Society events Cassie attended.
“About the attentions he’s been paying me? Not at all.” She giggled. “He wants to dance with me, and in between he glares at Neil and tries to keep him away from me. He seems quite lovelorn, can you imagine? He’s amazingly good at it. I used to think Anna and the others a bit silly, but I can understand falling for him.”
What was that devil up to? In all these years, Gideon had never shown any interest in Cassie. Was it possible that seeing her with a serious suitor had engendered some hidden jealousy? More likely, he couldn’t tolerate being bested.
But Cassie seemed to think he might be serious. Lewis jerked straight up in his seat, banging his knee against Lady Wedbury’s tambour frame. “You’re not—?”
“Heavens no!” Cassie exclaimed, throwing her hands up in horror. “There’s Neil, for one thing.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “But how Gideon could think I might, with all the horrible things I know about him…”
Relaxing, Lewis reached into his pocket. “Here’s your letter back. It’s a bit worse for wear, I’m afraid.”
“So I see. I thought it a very pretty apology, to both of us, but I collect you did not feel the same.”
“It’s pretty enough.” He leapt to his feet and paced the room as Cassie had done. “Do you believe it? Do you know what these goddamned—sorry!—circumstances are she makes so much of?”
Cassie shook her head, perusing the letter. “They must be the reason they left town.”
“I wondered if she was ill. But that would hardly keep you from writing to her. I’ve been thinking such horrid things about her, calling her names…”
“No, why?” asked Cassie, dropping the letter in her lap. “She’s heartbroken and confused. Would you expect her to switch her affections so quickly? It doesn’t work like that, Lewis. But the fact that she makes such a point of apologizing to you in this letter must mean she likes you a great deal.”
Lewis had taken up Cassie’s former stance at the window, but he saw nothing of the view outside. After a few moments’ silence he said, “I’m going to Bristol.”
She clapped her hands and jumped up. “Oh, yes, do! I hate mysteries! Then she’ll understand beyond a doubt how much you like her, and maybe… Well, if it is mutual, you’re not too young to marry.”
Good God. Marriage! Lewis rather thought he was too young. By at least five years.
Make it ten, or twenty. Yes, Anna Spain had him thinking about it. But he understood not one thing about women. How could he expect to build a successful marriage?
Two months ago, he would have collected Jack and gone for a good, hard ride. The right sort of ride could not be had in London, however…and Jack might no longer be the right sort of friend. Instead, he turned his energies to the arrangements for his visit to Bristol.
In his room, he pulled out the things he would need. A day of travel each way, plus morning and evening wear for the day in between. He might be kicked off the doorstep, or he might be invited to dinner and the theater. Best to be prepared for anything.
Jack did not appear for dinner. No surprise to anyone—his place was not even set. Probably he’d been told not to come unless he could act like a gentleman, which made it easy for him to do what he wanted to do anyway.
Afterward, at Jack’s door, Lewis lifted his hand for the particular rat-a-tat-tat-tat they had used since childhood—and hesitated. If they were no longer friends… Don’t be a dolt. At least he’ll know who’s knocking.
He heard something in response, some utterance he chose to interpret as a welcome, and pushed the door open.
The room was dark, though the sun still shone this midsummer evening. Standing on the threshold, Lewis squeezed his eyes shut against a memory…
Once, when they were children, Gideon had lured Lewis and Jack into a hut on the Aubrey estate. One ramshackle room with weeds growing through the rough plank floor, empty but for some old hay in one corner and a generous sprinkle of mouse droppings. After Gideon slammed the door and barricaded it from the outside, the only light came through cracks between the rotting wallboards. They’d torn their hands to shreds pulling those boards apart to make their escape.
Lewis blinked. What had brought that to mind? The light, he supposed—in Jack’s chamber, it sliced between almost-closed drapes, laying bright stripes across the rug hidden in the shadows. And the smell, close and musty and sour. The hut had been far worse, darkness infused with mildew and fear. Yet somehow his fear felt the same, here in this luxurious London bedroom.
“Lewis?” Jack’s voice came muffled from the bed, which showed as a dim structure in the deepest-dark corner. Then, sharper, “For the love of God, shut the door and draw the curtains. It’s too damned bright.”
Lewis frowned at that, but did as requested and made his way to the bedside, stumbling over one of Jack’s boots. As his vision adjusted, he could see parts of Jack lying there—the white pillow framing his dark hair with a pale face inside that, the white of his shirt collar and sleeves, two fists against a black waistcoat.
“You’re ill,” Lewis said. He touched Jack’s arm and fever burned through the linen.
“I’m fine. It’s only a touch of influenza or something. If only this damned headache would go away.”
Lewis touched his friend’s forehead. In the short second before Jack knocked his hand away, he felt its heat, like half-cooled iron. “Let me help you get undressed.”
With much groaning and complaining, Jack submitted to Lewis’s inexpert assistance. Robert would have done a better job of it, but Jack would not have him. “He’d go haring off to Mother, and she’d have some money-grubbing sawbones in here poking at me and thinking up tortures to justify his fee.”
Clothed finally in his nightshirt, he collapsed against his pillows, sweating from the exertion. Then he gripped Lewis’s wrist. “Promise you won’t do that to me. I’ll be better in the morning.”
“I promise.” Jack released his arm and Lewis straightened the covers. “For now. But I’ll check on you later, and if you seem any worse, I’ll go get the doctor myself.”
Captain Fuller stopped by during the evening and spent half an hour closeted with Sir John. When they arrived in the drawing room, Sir John’s manner was noncommittal, Lady Wedbury’s haughty. Cassie laughed and chatted with him in the corner, more loudly than usual, as though to prove that her parents’ hostility made no difference to her. Lewis joined them for a time before excusing himself to check on Jack.
Jack flinched from the single candle Lewis brought with him, throwing an arm across his face. “Mama?”
“No, it’s me.” Mighty hard to mistake Lewis for Lady Wedbury.
Lewis lit the oil lamp and took hold of Jack’s wrist. His skin was hotter than ever. His pulse raced and fluttered. His eyes were glazed, his legs caught up in the covers. The sheets were soaked with sweat.
Taking time only to straighten Jack’s nightshirt while murmuring something comforting, Lewis bolted from the room.
Captain Fuller had left, thankfully. Some sort of argument was underway in the drawing room, but Lewis paid no heed as he burst through the door.
“Jack needs a doctor.”
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him, uncomprehending. Too abrupt a transition from whatever they’d been discussing—the captain, no doubt—but there was no help for it.
“He’s burning with fever. Do you know someone here in town?”
It seemed to take forever, but was likely mere seconds before fear and urgency overlaid the blank stares.
Lady Wedbury was the first to move, plunging willy-nilly toward the open doorway. She paused as she reached it, croaking out, “Cassandra, go to your room. It might be contagious.”
Jack’s bedchamber was brighter now, but the smells and the fear assaulted Lewis anyway as he stopped inside the door. Beside him, Sir John must have felt it too, for his eyes grew wide, his breathing rapid.
Lady Wedbury and the housekeeper flapped about the room, tossing soiled sheets to the floor and working clean ones under the flailing body on the bed. One of the housemaids, her gaze rigorously averted from Jack’s hairy legs and other parts so carelessly displayed, piled the discarded bedding into a basket.
Jack kept up a stream of groans and gibberish, an intelligible phrase occasionally breaking through. He’d been restless before, but all the commotion had made him wild with hysteria. Lewis had only read about delirium, but he figured that was what he saw.
Shouting something about a hellhound, Jack hurled himself out of bed, knocking into the housekeeper. She let out a shriek and grabbed the bedpost to keep from falling. Limbs stiff, Jack staggered toward his father and Lewis. His bulging eyes held no recognition, no reason. Was Jack in there at all?
Sir John made a strangling noise. Lewis stepped forward and planted himself in Jack’s path. As they collided, he forced Jack’s arms to his sides and bound them there with his own.
Jack struggled against captivity. Lewis had knocked him senseless less than twenty-four hours ago—could he do it again? Then, he’d had fury behind him. Now he had only dread. Not for himself, but for Jack, and the family he loved better than his own.
He did not need to test the power of his fear. Abruptly, Jack went limp.