Sky grimaced. The nausea was becoming worse in the rattling coach. It had started soon after he’d eaten that supper at the fete, but it had been faint enough to ignore.
But as the evening wore on, it had grown stronger, and it had been with a sense of relief that he’d summoned the coach for the duchess and her daughter.
Now Sky slumped across the seat of his own carriage, feeling with every bump of the wheels the desire to retch. He held on, knowing it was not far to his house.
He’d managed to hide his bouts of indisposition up to now, but they were becoming more severe. The fever couldn’t be striking him again. No! He hit the seat with his fist in futile anger.
The coach stopped. He sat up, allowing the groom to let down the steps and open the door. Sky exited as if nothing was the matter and bade the man good-night as he held the front door open for him.
The candles in the candelabra had gone out, but they weren’t needed. Already a gray light crept into the house.
Glad his father was away—Sky neither knew nor cared where—he staggered up to his room.
“Good evening, my lord,” Nigel greeted him from the chair where he’d been dozing.
Sky collapsed on his bed.
Nigel hurried over to him. “Tired, my lord? What’s the matter?” he asked more urgently when Sky said nothing but sat with his head between his knees.
“It’s hitting me again,” he answered finally through gritted teeth. “I can feel it.”
Nigel touched his bowed forehead. “Your skin is warm.”
He nodded assent. “Get me something—a basin. I don’t know how long I can hold my meal down.”
Nigel hurried to comply. Then he gently helped Sky remove his coat and waistcoat. He undid his cravat and let his shirt hang loose at the neck. As soon as he’d removed his boots, Sky lay on the bed, his legs curled up in an effort to mitigate the discomfort. Nigel threw a blanket over him.
He heard Nigel’s soft tread across the room. He came back with a cold compress.
“You’ll have…to…cancel my engagements tomorrow. Tell everyone…I—I’ve gone out of town.” He couldn’t think beyond the pain in his gut and between his temples. “Go. Leave me in peace.”
Nigel leaned over him, his brown face inches from his. “It’s her. She won’t let you go.”
“Don’t speak idiocy,” he mumbled, closing his eyes to those greenish-yellow irises looking at him with such certainty.
“She won’t stop till she have you back in Kingston.”
Sky groaned. “You think a human can make me this sick? What do you think, she’s laced my food with arsenic all the way across the Atlantic?”
“She have her ways.”
Sky cursed. “Get out. You can’t help me anymore. Don’t let anyone know anything. Say I’m out of town, say anything but that I’m ill. And don’t, for pity’s sake, call any doctors.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll leave the laudanum by your table.”
A few minutes later the room was silent. Soon it would be fully light. Who knew how long he’d be laid low this time. One thing was certain, he would rely on no more physicians. If the illness hadn’t killed him the last time, the physics they filled him with would have. The bleedings alone had probably cost him most of his strength.
Finally relief came as Sky heaved over his washbasin. After cleaning himself, he measured the laudanum drops into a glass of water Nigel had left, doubling his usual dosage, hoping for numbness from the pounding between his temples. Finally he climbed under the covers, seeking the blessed unconsciousness of sleep.
Gillian’s mare stamped restively as she waited with her groom at the entrance to Hyde Park. She patted the horse’s neck and whispered a few words to her. Then she flipped open her watch. They had been waiting three quarters of an hour and Lord Skylar had yet to appear. Had he forgotten his invitation? Or had he been too tired from the evening’s exertions?
He hadn’t struck her thus far as a gentleman who would forget an engagement, least of all with his fiancée!
Perhaps he was indisposed after last night. Although he insisted he was recovered from the illness that had hit him in the Indies, to Gillian he still looked like a man recuperating.
Yes, that must be it, she decided, feeling a momentary sympathy for him as she remembered his solicitude to her last night when he’d thought her fatigued.
Her groom coughed behind her. “My lady, hadn’t we better return? The crowds are getting thick.”
She debated a minute longer. She wasn’t ready to go back yet. Since last night, a restlessness had seized her. Finally, she turned to her groom and said, “I shall go for a ride first.”
“Very well, my lady.” Together the two entered the park and headed for the Ladies’ Mile.
As they were returning along the Row, she spotted Gerrit in the distance. He and a fellow officer were leaning over an open carriage, having a good time chatting with the ladies inside.
She pressed her lips together, determined to ride past him without acknowledging him. It hurt to the quick to admit how little she had meant to him. She had given him everything, and he had never even bothered to let her know he was back in town. Clearly he had forgotten her in the intervening years since their tearful goodbye.
Gillian skirted some other riders and was almost past the carriage, the laughter of its female occupants intermingling with the lower-timbered laughter of the officers—one she recognized so well. It was like a fresh wound, hearing it now, and knowing it was not meant for her.
“Lady Gillian!”
She looked up involuntarily and then wished she hadn’t.
Gerrit looked splendid in his scarlet uniform and shako. He had one hand raised and his devastating smile reached into her very heart.
She gave a nod and kept on going.
Five minutes later she heard the muffled clip-clop of hoof-beats against the sandy path behind her. She kept riding.
“Good afternoon, Lady Gillian. What’s your hurry?”
His black charger had pulled up alongside her mare with ease. His voice sounded amused.
“Good afternoon, Captain Hawkes. I am in no hurry. This is my usual gait.”
“Care to go for a canter? I recall you used to be quite a good rider.”
The challenge was unmistakable. Without a word, she veered from the crowded path and went off onto the grass. Gerrit’s horse was right beside her. Only her groom, with a faint, “Lady Gillian!” was left several paces behind.
They rode across the vast parkland, under massive elms and plane trees and wide fields. Finally, after several moments, having reached almost the opposite side of the park and nearing the ring, they slowed their horses.
He tipped his hat to her with a smile. “You have improved.”
“So have you.”
He grinned, showing those devastatingly white teeth against bronzed skin. “It comes from marching anywhere from ten to twenty miles a day across all sorts of terrain in Spain and France.”
“I read your name in the lists when you were wounded.”
The amusement in those blue eyes deepened. “Were you concerned?”
She could not share his humor. “The only way I could discover if you had recovered was to have a maid talk with a maid at your household.”
He sobered. “I’m sorry if I caused you worry.”
Her smile was tight. “I wouldn’t describe it precisely as ‘worry.’ More like agony of mind and soul.”
He looked down at his gloved hands on the reins. “I’m sorry I didn’t write you after I arrived on the Peninsula.”
She waited.
He sighed, as if sensing the moment had arrived for explanations. Would he have ever given her any if she hadn’t run into him at Carlton House?
“I didn’t write you anymore after those first few times because, once I understood what I was really in for—between the summer fevers and the long sieges to capture Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz—I doubted very much if I’d ever be home again in one piece.
“My closest comrades didn’t come home. Those who didn’t die on the battlefield died of the putrid fever from their wounds. The few that are home are missing a limb or two. I didn’t want you to be obligated to half a man.”
“Oh, Gerrit, you know that wouldn’t have mattered.”
He gave her a smile that made her think no time had passed at all and he was still that wonderful dancing partner in her quadrille class. “To you it wouldn’t, but to me it would have.
“You’ve grown very beautiful, Gillian,” he said softly. The way he looked at her made her feel warm all over.
And then he had to ruin it all by saying with a smile, “I hear congratulations are in order. The future Countess of Skylar, and someday the Marchioness of Caulfield. I stand in admiration.”
“Doesn’t it matter to you?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
His blue eyes looked into hers with absolute understanding. “Of course it does, but what is that to the purpose? Your father and mother would never have countenanced a match between the two of us—I’m a third son, don’t you recall? I had few prospects except to die a glorious death on the battlefield. I did you a service by not letting you hope.
“Look at you now, betrothed to one of the biggest titles and fortunes on the market. Every young lady envies you.”
The words were a bitter consolation. Once again, as she had three years ago, she felt caught in a web not of her own making. Before, her mother had forbidden her to see Gerrit. Now, her mother had neatly tied up her future to the most eligible bachelor on the market.
“Come now,” Gerrit told her, “cheer up. We can still be friends. Let’s finish our ride before your groom takes you home.”
When Tertius finally awoke, he shivered under the weight of the coverlets and his head felt as if a vise were pressing his temples together.
Thankful to be conscious at least, he made an effort to sit up.
Nigel was immediately at his side. He pressed him back down on the bed, feeling his forehead. “The fever is strong. You must stay put.” He turned to pour some water from a pitcher and measured some drops into the glass. “Here, drink this. It’s barley water.” He held his head up enough for Tertius to take a few sips. The liquid felt good against his parched lips and mouth.
“I must get up. I have too much to do.”
“You not be going anywhere today. Let others do what has to be done.”
“Talk to Father’s secretary,” Tertius told him, lying back down on the bed, finding it too difficult to concentrate. “Tell him to cancel my engagements and send out the proper notes. You know what to say.” Hadn’t they just been down this road a scant few months ago?
“Yes, sir.”
The new dose of laudanum was already taking effect. Suddenly nothing mattered but the oblivion of a drugged sleep. Tertius burrowed down, trying to get warm. He felt, rather than saw, Nigel rearrange the covers and put another coverlet over him.
Nigel made his way down to the ground floor. He knocked on the door he knew led to the study, although he had never been in that room himself except when Lord Skylar had shown him around the first day.
“Come in,” a peremptory voice called out.
He entered quietly and went to the desk. Mr. Scott, Lord Caulfield’s private secretary, watched him. “Yes, what do you want?”
“Lord Skylar wishes to inform you he will be unavailable for a few days,” he said, hoping it would be only a few days. “He instructs you to cancel any of his appointments and send out the appropriate messages.”
“Well, why doesn’t he come and tell me himself?”
“He had to leave town on urgent business.” He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the charade up before the rest of the servants, but perhaps the secretary could be made to believe Tertius wasn’t in residence.
Mr. Scott stood and came around the desk. “You may inform your master I am not accustomed to taking my orders from a valet.” His look said clearly that he didn’t welcome Nigel’s presence in the study.
Nigel took a step closer, not liking to use this weapon but finding no alternative. He stared down at the man, knowing he had probably never had a six-and-a-half-foot black man standing over him.
The man cleared his throat and retreated. “Very well, you may inform Lord Skylar I shall do as he asks.”
Nigel bowed silently and left the library.
“Over my dead body,” Mr. Scott added when the door had shut behind the black man. With that, the secretary turned back to his desk and straightened some papers, the hammering in his heart making it impossible for the moment to concentrate on anything else.
From the study, Nigel went down to the kitchen. He approached the cook, knowing the eyes of the kitchen maids followed him.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Jenkins. I would like to request some strong beef broth for the next few meals.”
“What’s a matter? Somethin’ ailin’ you?”
He hesitated, but knew he wouldn’t be able to fool the other servants. “No, it be for Lord Skylar. A trifle indisposed.”
“Too much to drink at the Prince’s reception last night?”
“Precisely.”
“Tsk-tsk. I hope he’s not going back to his old ways. We was so hoping for him to settle down—have a family—now that poor Lord Edmund’s gone.” The cook shook her head with a sigh. “Very well, I’ll send the broth up.”
“Thank you, madam.”
She turned away from him and noticed the scullery maid. “Stop that gawking and get to chopping them vegetables.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl closed her mouth and dragged her attention from Nigel. As he turned to leave the room, he glanced at the other kitchen maids. They hastily looked away and bent back to their tasks. All but a housemaid—he recognized her different rank by her black dress and starched white apron. She backed away a step as he passed by, but kept her gaze fixed on him.
As the door swung closed behind him, he took a deep breath, allowing a moment to release the emotions each step outside Lord Skylar’s rooms occasioned him. He hated the feeling of being an oddity, which had gripped him since arriving in England. He might as well be in a freak show. The only other men of color he’d seen since coming to these shores had been an occasional footman dressed in ridiculous velvet knee breeches, coat and white powdered wig and gloves.
At least Lord Skylar no longer made a spectacle of him. He had learned over the years that the only times his master made sport of anyone was when he himself felt threatened.
Three nights later, Gillian sat with Templeton, smiling and chatting with the many beaus who stopped by her box to pay their respects during the performance. Her eye kept scanning the boxes opposite. During the last act of the first performance, she saw Captain Hawkes enter Lady Winthrop’s box. She could see him conversing over the ladies’ shoulders, see their smiles, and she burned with jealousy over what they found so amusing.
Lord Caulfield’s box remained empty.
It had been three days since his missed engagement in the park and rumor had it he was out of town.
How dare he? How dare he make such a fool of her?
Her only consolation was in showing Captain Hawkes how sought-after she was by all the young gentlemen in their circle. When the lights were raised during the intermission, he acknowledged her with a smile and bow of his head.
Later, as she sat pretending to watch the performance, she heard a low voice behind her.
“You look ravishing.”
Gerrit’s low voice vibrated against her ear, sending a shiver through her.
“I dreamed of you many a night lying in my tent. I imagined you in my arms under the stars, our two bodies keeping each other warm.”
Her glance darted to Templeton, but she seemed engrossed in the comedy. Gillian didn’t dare move.
The audience burst out in laughter and Gerrit took the moment of distraction to touch the spot behind her ear with his lips—the briefest, softest of touches. Surely no one saw it, but it burned Gillian’s skin. How could she bear sitting there, pretending nothing was happening?
Did he mean it? Had he really thought of her in these three long years? Gillian longed to believe it.
“Ride with me in St. James’s Park tomorrow afternoon. We can view the pagoda. I’ll find you there by the lake,” he whispered.
She made no acknowledgment she even heard him, but her mind was already feverishly at work as to how she would arrange a visit to St. James’s without Templeton. Perhaps if her mother thought she went with a friend?
How could she even be considering such a thing! She was betrothed. It was scandalous to think of meeting a man other than Lord Skylar. But what was the meaning of Lord Skylar’s absence? How little he must think of her to leave with no word.
She mustn’t contemplate meeting Gerrit. But she had to know what he really felt. Her gloved hands clutched her fan tightly.
“You are mine, Gillian. You and I both know it,” Gerrit murmured against her ear. “Don’t deny a returning soldier what you promised him so long ago….”
She drew in her breath. He hadn’t forgotten! Hadn’t she pledged her troth to this man long before she met Lord Skylar? Not in any public way, not in a legal document drawn up between his family and hers, but in secret, in the pledging of two hearts to become one.
Late the next morning as they were breakfasting, the Duchess of Burnham read from the The Times:
“Lord Cabot Pembroke, the third Marquess of Caulfield, Second Earl of Bakersfield, announces the betrothal of his son, the Earl of Skylar to Lady Gillian Elizabeth Edwards, daughter of the late Duke of Burnham and his Dowager Duchess.”
Gillian dropped her knife. The words sounded ominous, so coldly printed in a newspaper. They made the arrangement talked of by her mother permanent and unchangeable.
“I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed.
Her mother looked up. “What don’t you believe?”
“How could he?” The alarm grew in Gillian the more she thought of the announcement. She wanted to tell her mother she wasn’t ready. Couldn’t they wait a few more months?
“How could who what?” Her mother looked more and more perplexed.
“That man!”
Understanding finally dawned. “You mean that gentleman, Lord Skylar?” her mother corrected.
“I don’t call a gentleman one who forgets an engagement with a lady and does not even send round a note of apology and then publishes news of our betrothal with not so much as a by-your-leave.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” her mother asked. “When did Lord Skylar forget an engagement?”
“Lord Skylar kept me waiting almost an hour the other day at Hyde Park for our riding engagement and never appeared.”
“Oh, dear. That’s four days. He hasn’t written?”
“No.”
“I can’t imagine what could have kept him. Perhaps he is ill.” Her mother frowned, removing her reading glasses.
“I, too, thought he might be indisposed, but not even to send a note?”
“It is strange,” her mother agreed. “I’m sure you’ll receive something today.”
“I was told at Lady Shrewsbury’s ridotto that he was out of town. Can you believe that? And not a word!”
Her mother looked alarmed. “I’ll make an inquiry through Lord Caulfield.”
“You most certainly will not. I’ll not go groveling for explanations to a man who doesn’t even think enough of me to cancel an appointment.” She got up from the table. “And now to publish news of our betrothal. It’s too much!”
“I’m sure it was Lord Caulfield who was responsible for the announcement, not his son,” her mother explained. “No doubt there’s a very good explanation for all this. In any case, I’m glad about the announcement. This makes everything official.
“Now, we must set a date,” the duchess continued, forgetting Gillian’s outrage and getting down to the more important business of wedding plans. “I think a wedding during the Christmas season would be lovely. Lord Skylar would be out of mourning. I shall discuss it with Lord Caulfield.”
Gillian was no longer listening. Her glance strayed to a society item in the copy of the Morning Post she’d been reading. It described the theatrical performance of the previous evening. The name “Captain Hawkes” caught her eye. The much-decorated war hero, Captain Hawkes, was seen in Lady Winthrop’s box….
When her mother finally dropped the subject of the wedding date, Gillian sat back down and took a sip of tea to strengthen her resolve.
“Mama, I have invited Charlotte to go and view the construction of the pagoda at St. James’s this afternoon. Might I drive the phaeton?”
Her mother turned to Templeton. “Can you accompany the girls?”
“Oh, Mama, we would be too crowded. The phaeton sits only two comfortably. Charlotte and I shall be fine.”
“I would prefer you take Templeton with you. There are so many undesirables about in the parks these days.”
“I can send a note over to see if Lord Skylar has returned. Perhaps he could meet us there,” Gillian suggested on a sudden burst of inspiration.
“That’s a splendid idea! But I still want Templeton to ride with you.” Her mother went back to her newspaper.
Gillian stood up and excused herself, frustrated once again in her plans for seeing Gerrit.
As soon as she was alone in her room, guilt assailed her. How could she be behaving in such a way? She’d been ready to use Lord Skylar as an excuse to see another man. It brought back the time three years ago when she had concealed her meetings with Gerrit from her mother. How could she find herself in such a position again?
She remembered Lord Skylar’s stipulation that one thing he required in a wife was her fidelity. She had given him her word.
Her heart pounded as she remembered the gravity of his tone. What would he think if he knew she was planning to meet her former lover?
She hid her face in her hands, too confused to know what to do.
She had to see Gerrit. Then she’d know what to do.
Just this one last time and then she would know.
One last time to determine what Gerrit really felt for her. She would tell him it was over. He had come back to reclaim her too late.
Was it too late?
If she were free, would he do the honorable thing this time?
A betrothal was a legally binding agreement. It was not easily broken.
No, even if Gerrit wanted to marry her, her mother would never countenance the match. The only course would be elopement.
The word filled her with terror. It conjured up tales of young girls brought back by a father or older brother in disgrace. But other couples had returned and been welcomed back into society after a period.
Hope sparked within her. But how to see Gerrit alone with Templeton following her around like a terrier?
Lord Caulfield pounded on his son’s door and jerked it open before giving anyone a chance to answer it.
“What in thunderation is going on here? I get word from my secretary that your man is holding you hostage in here, away from all the other servants—” He stopped dead at the sight that greeted him.
The shadowy interior of the room was stuffy and had that closed, sickly sweet scent of medicine.
The oath died on his lips as he approached the bed. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked the black man sharply.
Tertius cracked open an eye. Thankfully, his head no longer ached. He touched a temple tentatively, almost afraid the pain would return. “I would wish you good-morning or afternoon, Father, but I’m not quite sure which it is.”
His father stood looking down at him. “It’s afternoon,” then as if realizing how ludicrous his reply was, he frowned. “What’s happened to you? How long have you been like this? I was told you were out of town—”
Tertius turned his head slowly toward Nigel, still afraid of experiencing pain. He arched an eyebrow at him. “How long has it been?”
“Five days,” the man answered quietly.
Tertius turned back to his father. “You have your answer.”
“Five days of what?”
“You tell him, Nigel. I find I am not quite up to it yet.”
“Fever, vomiting, dysentery.” He went down the list. “The same ailment that afflicted him in Kingston.”
“Haven’t you seen any specialists?” His father ignored Nigel and directed himself to Tertius.
“Every quack from Kingston to Bridgetown,” he answered wearily. “I haven’t yet given Harley Street the pleasure of diagnosing me.”
“Well, what did they say in the Indies?”
He placed a hand over his eyes. “Let me recollect. Dyspepsia, inflammation of the bowels, brain fever, tropical malady…the list went on. Forgive me if all the medical jargon escapes me.”
“And you’ve called no physician in now?” He turned furiously to Nigel. “What is the meaning of this? My son could have died!”
“I forbade him to,” Tertius interrupted him with a feeble gesture. “Their only remedy is to bleed me. It leaves me even weaker than the fever.”
His father turned away from the bed as if the sight of Tertius sickened him. “I cannot believe this. I thought you were well. You told me you were healed. Of all the calamities to befall this family…”
As his father fumed at the Fates, Tertius made an effort to sit up. Unwashed and unshaven, he knew he presented a spectacle. After the floor ceased to shift, he attempted to stand. Nigel came immediately to aid him.
“Hadn’t you better stay abed?” his father called out in alarm.
“I’ve been prone for five days.”
“There must be something the doctors can do. I’ll send for my personal physician. He’s one of the best—”
“I don’t need any more physicians. All they can do besides bleed me to death is prescribe some worthless physics and elixirs.” He held up a dark brown glass bottle. Suddenly, a wave of anger swept through him and he hurled the bottle toward the fireplace. Despite his weakness, he managed to make his target. The bottle cracked against the stone, its liquid contents spilling and immediately bursting into flames.
“I’d as lief drown myself in blue ruin,” he said. “As you can see, the composition is the same. And it will be less dear.”
His father approached him again. “You look at death’s door.” He looked him up and down, and Tertius felt the disgust in his voice. “First Edmund and now you. Can’t I have one son who will outlive me? If anything happens to you, your cousin George will inherit and I shudder to think of that….”
“Lord Skylar will be well again for a spell.” Nigel’s soft tones startled them both.
“What’s that?” Lord Caulfield frowned at the valet.
“Once the fever breaks, my lord recovers for a time…until the next bout.”
Lord Caulfield looked from one to the other. “So, it’s a recurring fever.”
“It looks that way,” Tertius spoke up before sitting back down. His legs felt like wet dish rags.
His father clutched his jaw in his hand and stared at the carpet. At last he spoke, as if coming to a decision. “There’s only one thing to be done.”
Tertius gripped the edges of his bed, bracing himself for what his father had in mind. Another exile?
“We shall move the wedding date up. The sooner you impregnate the chit, the better.”
Tertius stared at his father. He hadn’t expected that as a solution.
Why was he surprised?
To his father, he was only a vehicle for breeding. He wasn’t, nor had ever been, this man’s son in all the ways that mattered.
“Don’t you see, Duchess, we must have them married as soon as possible. It’s the only way.” The marquess’s eyes beseeched the duchess to understand the urgency of the situation.
“But if he’s as ill as you say,” she began cautiously, “why should my daughter—my only child—be saddled with a man who might leave her a widow before the honeymoon is even up?”
“Not just a widow. A countess—with a considerable fortune. If the worst should happen, she can always remarry. But I’m counting on my son to last long enough to father an heir.
“As you know, our estates are entailed. If Tertius should die without a son, everything goes to a ne’er-do-well cousin of mine. You have already experienced that in your own family,” he added significantly. “Don’t let such a disaster be repeated. All it needs is for Lady Gillian to bear a son. As mother to the future Marquess of Caulfield, your daughter will be in a very powerful position.”
The duchess considered his words and slowly nodded as she came to the same conclusions as he.
“Very well,” she said at last with a deep sigh. “I shall explain to her that we must move the date up. She won’t like it. I don’t know how much to tell her.”
“Don’t say anything of his fever. Why worry the girl? In my day we married whomever our parents chose.”
“You are right. It would serve no purpose to worry her. We must hope for the best for your son’s continued recovery.”
“Of course. I leave things in your capable hands then.” He rose and bowed.