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CHAPTER TWO

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“Dear God,” Philip said, collapsing into a chair some time later. “The boy is a plank. An utter plank. Possibly the most outrageous specimen of plankhood I have ever encountered. A fortnight! God damn Martelo, and Amanda Frisby with him.”

“Have a drink,” Corvin said soothingly. He didn’t actually get up to pour one, but it was a kindly thought, which Philip acknowledged with an obscene gesture as he went over to the decanter. “That’s the way,” Corvin said. “Pour me another while you’re there.”

“What are we to understand by ‘plank’?” enquired Sheridan. He was short, sharp, cocky as a schoolboy, and still, after a year’s partnership, running rings round Philip’s old friend Harry, who constantly looked as befuddled and proud as any bridegroom on his wedding day. Philip felt a vague urge to say something avuncular every time he saw the pair of them.

“Oh, the obvious,” Corvin answered on Philip’s behalf. “Straight, unbending, wooden, and only suitable to be walked on.”

“His sister’s in a bad way,” John said. “That leg was nasty.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Philip snapped.

“I helped set it.”

“You pulled where David told you to pull. Stop pretending you’re a bonesetter. Brute strength, that’s what you provided.”

“Strength and a bit of common sense, which is why he didn’t ask you.”

Philip held up a hand in acknowledgement, partly because John had won that round, partly because he was damned grateful not to have been asked. The woman had been screaming and sobbing when she’d been brought in, dress soaked in blood, and David had insisted there was no time to lose. John had acted as his assistant to pull the leg straight without causing any more damage, and emerged from the room with bloody hands, stained cuffs, and his normally rich complexion gone the colour of dry earth. The idea of wrenching a broken leg around made Philip feel queasy, he had not enjoyed John’s vivid description of the sound of bone-ends scraping together, and in any case, the woman in the drawing-room was Eleanor Frisby’s daughter, and Philip wouldn’t have touched her at gunpoint.

The Frisby children, in his house, for a fortnight. “Oh God,” Philip said aloud. “Someone tell me David was exaggerating. Tell me she’ll walk away tomorrow.”

“Her foot was all but pointing backwards,” John said. “You’re stuck with them. Well, you’re stuck with the girl, and you won’t get the plank out of here while he’s got her virtue to protect.”

“I’m not letting the plank out of here,” Philip said. “I’ll bar the doors if I must. The last thing I need is to find myself accused of compromising Eleanor Frisby’s daughter.”

John’s lips rounded in silent surprise, then he started to laugh. “Oh, my God, I didn’t think of that. Oh, that’s a good one.”

“Hit him, Corvin,” Philip requested.

“You have to admit, it has a certain piquancy,” Corvin said, but he leaned over to swipe a hand. John ducked sideways mostly as a formality.

“Who’s Eleanor Frisby?” Sheridan asked. “The girl’s mother? Do you know her?”

“Phil’s brother did,” Corvin replied on his behalf. “In the Biblical sense, you understand.”

“Shut up.” Philip looked around the room. They lacked Isabella Crayford, since her Marianne had a theatrical engagement, and David Martelo was still attending the Frisby girl, but otherwise they were all here. Corvin and John, his lifelong companions and the heart of the Murder, impossibly dear and endlessly exasperating in their very different ways. Harry with that perennially surprised look of his, and Sheridan resting his head against the bigger man’s shoulder. George Penn the composer, and Ned Caulfield, deeply reserved and extraordinarily gifted, who played the violin for him. These were Philip’s closest friends. They were here for comfort and safety, to think and talk without constraint, to touch as they chose, or sleep in the same bed without worrying about it. That was what the Murder offered, it was a rare privilege for some of them—for all of them, really, except Corvin, who could afford safety—and Philip was furious that the Frisbys had arrived to ruin it.

He sighed. “Eleanor Frisby, the mother of the girl and the plank, was the woman with whom my brother ran away.”

That ought to have been a startling revelation. It wasn’t, because Corvin and John remembered it all, and the others, not being in Society, clearly had never heard of the great Rookwood scandal. Sheridan glanced around at the other blank looks and offered, “Well, that’s...awkward, I suppose?”

“It was a great deal more than awkward,” Corvin said, taking over as always where there was drama to be found. “Sir James, as he had recently become, was some five years older than Phil, which made him twenty-one when he distinguished himself by absconding with his neighbour’s wife, the famous Frisby. She was thirty if she was a day, and by all accounts merely passable in looks—”

“The plank is well enough,” George observed. “If that’s the pretty boy who was shouting at Phil in the hall.”

“I dare say, but in any case, the mother swept young James off his feet, age and beauty or no, such that he was not content to make it the usual discreet affair. Well, he couldn’t if he wanted. Her sister had married extremely well—Easterbury’s younger son, a shocking dullard—and that aristocratic connection was all that was needed. The scandal spread like wildfire. James and la belle Frisby fled to the Continent, abandoning on his part an estate—in which we now sit—and on her part a husband and two children. The husband took it poorly.”

Philip couldn’t help a groan at the memory. He had been just sixteen when James had bolted, and the enraged Mr. Frisby had descended on him for lack of any other living Rookwood, venting his fury in a torrent of threats and abuse. Philip had lived in the Corvin household then, as he had most of his youth. No adult had troubled to step in between the outraged cuckold and the boy, but his best friend had strolled in after some moments, as preternaturally self-possessed as ever, and called for footmen to see the fellow off. At that time it had been perhaps the most frightening experience of Philip’s life.

“Yes, he was dreadful,” Corvin agreed, correctly interpreting the groan. “I dare say that’s how the son came by his own plankishness. Anyway, Sir James and Mrs. Frisby left for the fleshpots of Europe, and lived in carnal enjoyment right up to the point that their carriage fell off an Alp.”

“You say that as if it’s related,” John said. “They didn’t drive off a mountain because they were at it.”

“How do you know? They might have.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad way to go,” Sheridan said thoughtfully. “Until you started falling. So that was how you became Sir Philip, Phil?”

“Yes. I was eighteen.”

“And Romeo and Juliet only had two years. That’s rather sad.”

“For them,” Philip said. “Whereas it was a damned nuisance at every turn for everyone they left behind.”

“I suppose so. It must have been dreadful for the children,” Sheridan said.

“I imagine it was, since the humiliated cuckold flung himself to the devil at a great rate. It was not joyous for me, at sixteen, bearing quite so much of other people’s notoriety on my shoulders. And it has caused a great deal of awkwardness since. If I wanted to mingle in Yarlcote society—”

“Where’s that?” Ned asked.

“Where we are,” Philip said patiently. “The nearest—for want of a better word—town. If I wanted to mingle in this society, it would cause endless difficulty, and particularly because one could not ask a Frisby to be in a room with a Rookwood. I’ve never actually aspired to be in a room with them, needless to say.”

“But now they’re staying in your house,” Sheridan said.

“And one of them an unmarried young lady,” Corvin finished. “Which raises the spectre of Philip ruining the daughter as his brother did the mother, only without the carnal pleasure.”

Sheridan scowled. Philip said, “I am not going to compromise the woman under any circumstances. Her brother is here. I will send for all the women of Yarlcote to protect her virtue in a phalanx if I must, and if they’ll come. I must say, Corvin, it is gratifying to discover quite how well we have destroyed our reputations. I’ve never laid a finger on anyone within fifty miles of Yarlcote, yet this house is renowned as a sink of corruption.”

“Well done, boys. Do you want us to leave?” John asked.

“No. I’ve a fortnight’s work here to keep my steward honest and reacquaint myself with the books. In hell’s name don’t abandon me.”

“Never, dear heart,” Corvin assured him. “What’s that noise?”

It was shouting, and it came from the direction of the Blue Drawing-Room. Philip said, “Oh God,” and hauled himself up from his chair. Nobody offered to help.

Sinclair, his man, stood in the hall. He wasn’t actually shaking his head in disapproval, but might as well have been. “What’s going on?” Philip demanded.

“Local doctor’s arrived. He’s not getting on with Dr. Martelo, by the sound of things. They’re having a right dust-up.”

Philip shot him a glare. Sinclair regarded the goings-on of the aristocracy as a theatrical entertainment laid on for his benefit, and his mask of professional courtesy was tissue-thin at best. Philip kept him on out of a vague sense it would be hypocritical to sack the man for regarding social convention with as much contempt as Philip did himself, and because he was a rather good valet, and mostly because he and Corvin’s man Cornelius (christened Albert Scrope, which naturally Corvin found intolerable) shared a bed. It made life a great deal easier when one had the right sort of people around one.

Some aspects of life, anyway. “Has anyone brought a nurse or female attendant for the Frisby girl?”

“Bert’s working on it, Sir Philip.”

“Cornelius.”

“If you say so. In any case, he ain’t sent anyone yet. I dare say they’re all feared for their virtues. It’s a pickle, this, and no mistake.”

“Stop enjoying yourself,” Philip told him, and went to see what was going on.

The local man, Dr. Bewdley, proved to be white-haired, red-faced, and puffed up with outrage. That still put him slightly ahead of David, who was dishevelled and bloodstained, as well as foreign and thus inherently dubious. The two doctors were nose to nose, leaning in, and speaking at an unnecessary volume. The plank Frisby stood unhappily by his sister’s body, now decently covered with a sheet. She seemed to be asleep, or unconscious.

“She is my patient,” David was saying. “And if you think, after what I have told you, that you can move her—”

“If you think that Miss Frisby can be left in this house—”

“If that bone slips it could pierce a blood vessel,” David said. “We had hell’s own job to set it in the first place. She will be moved over my dead body.”

“I assure you, sir, a magistrate will take the dimmest view of your efforts at obstruction. I am her family doctor.”

“And Mr. Frisby is her family,” Philip put in. He sided with David as a matter of principle, but if the plank actually wanted to remove the girl, it would solve all Philip’s problems. “Dr. Bewdley, yes? I am Philip Rookwood, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Please let me assure you that while my hospitality is extended to Mr. and Miss Frisby for as long as is required, we will not hinder the wishes of her brother—”

“Yes, we damn well will,” David snapped. “If she is moved she could die. Will you please get that into your thick English skulls?”

“It’s not up to me or to you,” Philip said. “Or indeed to Dr. Bewdley, although if Mr. Frisby wishes this gentleman to attend the lady, he is most welcome.” David made a noise suggestive of extreme contempt. Philip reminded himself to have that talk about tact with him, again. “It is Mr. Frisby’s decision,” he said loudly. “And if he feels it necessary to remove the lady, I will supply all the assistance required to do so safely.”

“There is no safely. You cannot put her in a cart with her leg in that state,” David said. “The jolting— I beg you, don’t let this happen. Phil, as a friend, please.”

Dr. Bewdley’s eyes bulged at the informality. Philip took a long, reluctant moment during which he reminded himself that David was one of his best friends, and then met the plank’s eyes. Frisby was nearly as white as his half-dead sister, his hunched stance speaking of misery, and he didn’t look remotely the pretty boy George had called him. He looked like a man with all his worst fears coming to life around him.

“Mr. Frisby,” Philip said, cursing himself with every word. “You will do as you wish, but let me say three things to you. First, Dr. Martelo is an excellent and highly experienced man; if I had a sister I would put her in his hands without hesitation. Second, I quite understand your reluctance to accept my hospitality, but I give you my word as a gentleman that your sister will be treated with the utmost care and respect by me, my friends, and my staff while she remains here.”

Dr. Bewdley snorted. It wasn’t as good as David’s snort, but it was still quite expressive enough to constitute an insult, and Philip made a mental mark accordingly.

“That was two things,” Frisby said. His voice was cracked.

“Yes. The third is that I hope you will not allow the idle words of”—he flicked a glance at the doctor—“petty, malicious busybodies and spiteful gossips to influence your decision. Miss Frisby has suffered a severe injury, and Dr. Martelo advises she should be moved as little as possible. You might well consider any other concerns to be trivial until she has made a recovery.”

“And certainly not worth risking her recovery,” David said. “Thank you, Philip.”

“I beg your pardon,” Dr. Bewdley said, swelling. “Miss Frisby’s reputation is not ‘trivial’. Reputation is a woman’s crowning jewel, her greatest possession, and I will not stand by to see it tarnished.”

“I think her life is a greater possession than her reputation.” Frisby’s voice shook slightly. “Dr. Bewdley, do you think, as a medical man, that there is any risk—any at all—to Amanda if she is moved?”

“I think this man greatly overstates it.”

“Is the risk equal whether she is moved or not?” Frisby persisted. “Absolutely equal? Are you sure that moving her will not alter the outcome, or the dangers, one jot? Whether it would endanger her recovery now or her chances of walking again?”

“Compound fracture of the fe-mur,” David said in a sing-song sort of way to nobody in particular.

“Perhaps there are some risks inherent to moving her. But if you are asking me whether I should leave her in a sewer because it would be dangerous to take her out—”

“I beg your pardon?” Philip said. “What was that, sir?”

“An exaggerated illustration,” the doctor said, reddening. “I intended no disrespect.”

“Then you should exert more control of your metaphors. And if you are so concerned with Miss Frisby’s reputation, you are welcome to supply as many nurses as you see fit. In pairs. With armed men to protect them, if you choose,” he concluded, letting the sarcasm drip on the carpet. “Mr. Frisby, a decision please.”

Frisby glanced between the doctors. “If moving her is dangerous, then she mustn’t be moved until she’s better. I shall stay with her, and if you will please arrange for nurses, Dr. Bewdley, then I’m sure Jane and Mrs. Harbottle will come too.”

“I cannot approve of this,” Dr. Bewdley said. “Not at all, and I shall not oblige any nurse to attend a house about which she feels a very natural discomfort. And I am surprised at you, Guy Frisby. What would your father say?”

The blood drained from Frisby’s face. Philip wondered if the man was going to faint, and decided that he’d had enough of this conversation. “Very good, the lady remains. Kindly address your bill to me, Dr. Bewdley. The door is that way.”

With the huffing doctor safely off the premises, Philip returned to the Yellow Drawing-Room where the others were making inroads on his brandy. It was almost eight o’clock, he realised. He trusted that dinner had not been too greatly disrupted by the medical drama; he was damned hungry.

“Did you pour oil on troubled waters?” Corvin enquired. “More importantly, have you got rid of her?”

“No to both. I persuaded the plank to stay here when his doctor was persuading him to take his sister and wipe our dust off his feet.”

“That was peculiar of you.”

“Blame David. He’s flying the lady’s colours. Blah blah liable to die if moved. Bah.”

“You’re all heart,” John said, grinning. “Still, if David says so, he’s probably right. And it would be a bit much to have another Frisby’s death on your hands, after James.”

“That’s what I thought but I don’t have to be pleased about it. This house is liable to be rendered hideous by nurses creeping around in pairs, in hourly expectation of rapine.”

“What on earth have you done down here?” Harry demanded. “There may be men who pose less of a threat to women than you, but—well, they’re mostly in this room. Where did you get this reputation as a ravisher?”

“Corvin,” Philip and John said in chorus.

“I am not a ravisher,” Corvin said indignantly. “I have never in my life forced myself on the unwilling. It’s not my fault if the willing aren’t willing to admit they were willing.”

“And it’s not your fault if they won’t form an orderly queue either. It’s never your fault. We know,” John said.

“My parlous reputation is a combination of Corvin’s priapism, my brother’s indiscretion, this society’s notoriety, and my failure to marry,” Philip concluded. “Popular opinion and a lack of alternative entertainment round here has turned me into a sort of Bluebeard without the wives, which, I may say, I have never regretted before, but there’s a first time for everything. Ah, the dinner bell. Christ, should I have invited the plank to dine with us?” Surely not, he decided; he would drag David out of the sickroom and leave Frisby in charge there. The man would not wish to mix with their set any more than was absolutely necessary.

He went along to the Blue Drawing-room to communicate that in the most courteous manner at his disposal. Frisby just nodded. He looked worn and pallid.

“Ring for a servant to find me or come to the dining room if you’re worried,” David told him, while Philip waited at the door. “I won’t be long.”

“Is there much to worry about?” Philip asked him, once they were all seated. “Presumably it’s simply a matter of the bone healing straight?”

“I don’t know when you became an expert.” David was wolfing down his meal with scant respect for the artistry of its creation. They had, of course, brought Corvin’s cook. “When her femur—thighbone—broke, one end tore through the leg and pierced the skin, sticking out.” He waved his knife, apparently to simulate splintering bone. “She was lucky not to tear any of the larger blood vessels in the leg, and we’ll be lucky to avoid infection, fever, or worse. I’ve sent for whatever medicaments Yarlcote can supply, and cleaned it as best I can, but it’s an ugly injury. Thank you for taking my part.”

“A pleasure,” Philip said. “Or rather, the very last thing I wanted to do, but never mind. Why such concern for the lady?”

“I resent losing patients at the best of times,” David said. “I particularly resent it when it’s caused by human stupidity rather than Nature’s ways. John and I worked hard to put that leg back together, and I will not see it bumped apart on a cart because of some damn fool nonsense about propriety.”

“I second that,” John said. “What a ghastly job you have.”

That led to a spirited debate, in which the relative ghastliness of David’s bloody work, Harry and Sheridan’s grovelling in mud for old bones, George and Ned’s grovelling to wealthy patrons, and John’s likelihood of being beaten to death, sued for libel, or both, were addressed in some detail.

“They’re all ghastly occupations,” Corvin pronounced at last. “Whereas I, as a gentleman of leisure—”

“You work harder than any of us,” John said. “When it comes to making yourself a spectacle, getting on people’s wicks, and tupping, I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you.”

That provoked cheers, laughter, and much clinking of glasses and hammering of knives on the table. Corvin attempted a rebuttal, which failed because he was laughing too hard to speak, and the room bore some resemblance to a rowdy tavern when Sheridan twisted round and raised a hand. Philip followed his gaze, as did the others, and one by one, Corvin last, they fell silent.

Frisby was standing by the door. He was very pale, eyes huge and shadowed, and Philip felt a flash of guilt that they had been enjoying themselves while his sister lay in pain, followed by a stronger flash of annoyance that he should be made to feel that by a stranger in his own damned house.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Frisby said in a shaking voice. “But, Dr. Martelo, I think Amanda is feverish.”

David threw his napkin onto the table and rose. He hadn’t drunk more than half a glass of wine; Philip wondered if he’d been expecting this. “Don’t wait for me,” he told the assembled Murder, and strode out.

It put something of a damper on the evening. None of those present knew the Frisbys or had any reason to care what became of them, and Philip felt no obligation to turn any part of his house beyond the Blue Drawing-Room into an infirmary. Yet as the clock ticked and David did not return, the mood became increasingly sombre, and they all retired around eleven rather than making a night of it. Corvin cocked a brow at Philip, who shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood.

“Your loss,” Corvin told him, unmoved.

“I’ll take his leavings,” John said. “Come on, you bugger.”

That left Philip alone in the drawing room of what would have been his childhood home if he’d ever been invited here. He’d grown up either at school or in the Corvin household, and the five-year gap between himself and his brother might as well have been a century and an ocean. James had never had the slightest interest in making his acquaintance, and when he’d died, Philip had been left to conduct obsequies for a stranger. If he’d been a few years older he wouldn’t have bothered wearing black at all, and occasionally still regretted the magnificent cat that would have thrown among society’s pigeons.

All of which meant that he looked around at the accumulation of Rookwood wealth and history without fondness. It was a damn fool inconvenient house, and if he were Corvin he would probably raze it to the ground to make way for a new, practical building with servants’ accommodations that were less like rat warrens, fewer pointless corridors, windows that kept the heat in, fireplaces that worked, and rooms that weren’t panelled till a man felt he lived inside a linen-chest. A modern house, that was what he wanted, amid lands farmed in the modern way. He wouldn’t get the former because his wealth, unlike Corvin’s, was entirely exhaustible, and because he saw no reason to rebuild a house that he had no plans to live in or pass on, but the latter...he needed to talk to his steward about that.

He extinguished the candles except for one he took to light his way, and headed out. He intended to go to bed, but stopped in the hall, then trod softly towards the Blue Drawing-Room. Light spilled out from the door, which was ajar, and he heard the quiet murmur of male voices and a little whimper, which he assumed was the patient. He hesitated, wondering whether to enquire after his unwanted guest, or whether Frisby would not appreciate the reminder of whose house he was in. He had not decided at the point the door opened.

Frisby emerged carrying a basin, and recoiled with a muffled exclamation on seeing Philip. Water sloshed from the bowl. “Blast it! Why are you here?”

“It’s my house,” Philip retorted, without thought.

“And I’m so sorry to inconvenience you with my unwanted presence in it!” Frisby snapped. “I dare say you’ll be delighted if I’m not here long!” He turned on his heel even before he’d finished speaking, almost as if hiding his face, and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen. Philip stared after him for a moment, shrugged to himself, and went to bed.

***

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SINCLAIR BROUGHT THE news with his morning tea. “Lady’s in a bad way.”

“Lady—you mean, Miss Frisby?” Philip sat up, yawning.

“We ain’t got any others. Dr. Martelo was up all night. Bad fever, he says. Not sure she’ll pull through.”

That jolted him awake. “Are you serious?”

“Not a joking matter, is it? The doctor’s that worried. Mr. Frisby’s sent for Dr. Whatsisname, you know, the old snot we had yesterday, but Dr. Martelo says if he tries bleeding or purgatives he’s going to kick him out so hard he bounces. That’s Dr. Martelo kicking Dr. Whatsit out,” Sinclair amplified helpfully.

Philip knew all about David’s obstinate opposition to bleeding. They’d had trouble with this before, since it was the treatment of first resort for most doctors, whereas David ranted about admitting infection and causing unnecessary damage to an already weakened constitution. He’d lay ten pounds that Dr. Whatsit would want to bleed Amanda Frisby. Any doctor would.

“Oh God,” he said.

“I should say so. Oh-oh, carriage on the drive,” Sinclair added, cocking his head at the sound of wheels. “That’ll be the other quack, I expect.”

“Oh God. Shut up and get me dressed. Quick.”

Even with Sinclair doing his impressive best, it took too long for Philip to be ready. The argument was in full swing by the time he half-ran along the hall to the Blue Drawing-room.

“This woman is in a high fever!” Dr. Bewdley was saying in a kind of subdued shout. “It is vital that we relieve the inflammation by drawing off blood at once!”

“A decoction of willowbark will bring down the fever,” David retorted. “Bleeding her will simply drain her body of strength.”

“Nonsense. You suggest nothing more than old wives’ remedies—”

“She’s already weak enough! Why do you want to exhaust her further?”

Philip glanced past the warring doctors. The subject of their disagreement looked, to his inexpert eye, as sick as a dog. She was a nasty sort of colour, pallid and sweating. Frisby crouched over her like a mouse at bay, eyes darting between his sister and the doctors. He was patting her forehead with a wet cloth, and his grey face and dishevelled state suggested he hadn’t slept.

“Nonsense!” David shouted at Bewdley. Amanda Frisby moaned, eyelids fluttering, and Frisby’s eyes met Philip’s just for a second. They were hazel-green, full of fear and misery and, unquestionably, a plea. Perhaps it was a plea to some deity rather than to Philip, but unfortunately none of those were available.

“Gentlemen,” Philip said, pitching it loud enough to cut through the doctors’ row. “Take this professional dispute into another room, now. And don’t come back until you have reached a civil conclusion.”

“Sir Philip, I—”

“I said, take it elsewhere. Will I be obliged to summon footmen to remove you both? Get out. And don’t let me see either of you until you can speak like gentlemen.”

Dr. Bewdley’s mouth dropped open. David snarled, “Very well,” and marched to the door. Dr. Bewdley, evidently feeling he had gained ground, turned to Philip and opened his mouth.

Out,” Philip said. He filled the word with command and contempt mixed, and the doctor went, leaving Philip, Frisby, and the supine woman in a room.

Frisby was staring at him. “What—what will happen now?”

“I expect they’ll continue that endless and unanswerable argument,” Philip said. “I shouldn’t dream of trying to sway you, but I will observe that David kills significantly fewer patients than most doctors of my acquaintance, and he never bleeds.”

“He told me about it.” Frisby’s voice had the vague quality of exhaustion. “He explained why he wouldn’t and it sounded awfully convincing but—Dr. Bewdley’s always been our doctor. Always.”

“The decision is yours. If you want her bled I will remove David from the premises while it’s done, although I can’t promise he will be polite about it afterwards.”

“Why is it mine?” Frisby demanded. “I don’t know what’s best!”

“Nor do I. I would, myself, leave it to one or the other doctor, but not both.”

“I suppose you mean it was foolish to call Dr. Bewdley in.”

“That was exactly what I meant, yes. Did you sleep at all?”

“No. I—Amanda—”

“If you don’t sleep you’ll make bad decisions,” Philip said. “Let me order a bed made up for you. You won’t be of any use to your sister or to David if you knock yourself up.”

“I need to stay with her. You must see. I have to.”

“I will have an appropriate attendant come and sit with her. My word of honour.” It ought to be inconceivable that anyone would spread gossip about a woman lying desperately sick; he well knew it wasn’t. Worse, Philip had a vivid image in his mind: both Frisbys in his house at death’s door, needing nursing for months or, even worse, dying in Rookwood Hall, whence the last baronet had set out to ruin their mother. He enjoyed his reputation, but he liked to keep it fictional. “I insist, Mr. Frisby. Make your decision as to which doctor you trust and I will implement it. Meanwhile, get some sleep and you will be better placed to sit with her tonight if her fever has not broken by then.”

“I...” Frisby blinked. At the dizzy stage of exhaustion, Philip guessed. “You promise she’ll be looked after?”

A Frisby, trusting a Rookwood to care for a woman’s virtue. It was enough to make a cat laugh, except that there was nothing funny about the fear and pain on Frisby’s face. “I give you my word. I will order you a room and a bite to eat, and then you shall lie down and recover yourself.” Philip rang the bell and gave swift orders when the man appeared. “And send me Cornelius once the food is ready,” he added. “Very well, that’s done. Have you reached a conclusion about the bleeding?”

“I don’t know.” Frisby’s voice was tremulous. “If I say yes and it weakens her—or no and the fever worsens—”

“You can’t make the right decision,” Philip told him brutally. “You don’t have sufficient information. What we need is another patient with a similar injury. Bleed one and not the other, and observe the results in both.” Frisby was looking at him with wide-eyed horror, as though he expected Philip to break someone’s leg on the spot. “I speak purely theoretically,” he felt obliged to explain. “At the moment almost all patients are bled, and some live and some die. In order to see if bleeding is truly effective, we need to ensure more patients with similar ailments aren’t bled, and to observe the results.”

“But if you deny people the right treatment, that would be murder.”

“Negligence, surely. Notwithstanding, I grant your principle, but how else are we to test the thesis?” Frisby gaped at him. Philip sighed. “Never mind. What would you like the doctors told?”

“I want them to do their best,” Frisby whispered. “I want them to know the right thing to do, and do it. Only they won’t agree what that is, will they?”

“No.”

“What would you do?” Frisby asked, and looked startled at his own words.

Philip felt equally startled. “I couldn’t possibly make a suggestion as to Miss Frisby. It is hardly my place.”

“No. Of course not. I shouldn’t have asked.”

He looked wretched, and the misery in his big green-brown eyes was discomfiting, and Philip had, as he had often been told, no shortage of opinions. “However,” he said, and watched those eyes widen fractionally with hope. “However, were it my decision, I should compare the chance of doing harm through action or inaction, and I should probably choose the latter. And I should also bear in mind that David Martelo is a remarkably intelligent and determined man, with a wide education and varied experience.” Frisby looked slightly dubious at that. Philip reminded himself that cosmopolitan ways were not generally considered an advantage outside sets like his own. “I’d trust David with my life, or my sister’s if I had one. You have no reason to. But I would.”

“Well,” Frisby said. “Uh. Thank you.”

There was a knock: Cornelius, as commanded. “Breakfast is served, sir, and the Small Rose Chamber is made up for Mr. Frisby.”

“Thank you,” Frisby said. “Uh— Sir Philip, could you—that is—no, I should—”

“Would you like me to tell the doctors your decision?” Philip suggested. “It might be awkward for you to offend one of them, whereas I won’t care in the slightest.”

“I—no. I’ll do it.” He pulled himself upright. He wasn’t such a bad figure of a man, Philip realised: not tall, but compactly built, and his mouth was decidedly well-shaped. He wasn’t precisely striking, but he might be presentable under other circumstances. “Where are they?”

“In the study, next door on the right.” Philip could well see the rubicund old bully Bewdley reproaching Frisby into a morass of uncertainty. He had no intention of letting that happen, having spent quite enough time on this already. “I will meet you there shortly.”

Frisby went off, visibly steeling himself. Philip turned to Cornelius. “Right, where’s the female attendance?”

“I regret, Sir Philip—”

“For God’s sake! I promised Frisby we’d look after her. How hard can it be to find a woman in this blasted country?”

Cornelius coughed in a manner that made his displeasure clear. “I regret, Sir Philip, that an attendant will not be available until the early afternoon. I have secured the services of one Mrs. Fossick, who will arrive once her daily tasks are performed. She is not medically experienced except, she informs me, in the delivery of infants, but I judge her highly qualified to sit on a chair.”

“While drinking gin? Marvellous.”

“Unfortunately, I was unable to find an alternative candidate willing to visit Rookwood Hall. Sir.”

“And we all know whose fault that is. Stick your master with a pin for me when you next dress him.”

Cornelius coughed again, this time with a nicely judged tone of breaking bad news. He had what Corvin sourly described as a complete wardrobe of coughs for all occasions. “The female individual demanded a half-guinea for her services.”

Philip winced. “It’s a tribute to propriety, we’ll pay it. Thank you.”

David stuck his head through the door. “Philip, there you are. I’ve left Frisby trying to get rid of that elderly ass. I’m busy, go and help him.”

Philip muttered, but duly headed studywards, where he found Frisby stammering miserably as Dr. Bewdley upbraided him. “Excuse me,” Philip interrupted without compunction. “Are you the lady’s relative, Doctor?”

“No, sir, I am her physician, and have been since her childhood.”

“Whereas this gentleman is her brother, so his wishes will be respected. You heard what he told you. Or do you need it repeated more loudly, perhaps with an ear trumpet?”

“I shall wash my hands of Miss Frisby’s welfare,” Dr. Bewdley said, very red. “If my experience is to be dismissed in favour of this damned foreign nonsense, I shall not return to this house to be further insulted.”

Philip bowed low. “If your self-esteem is of greater concern to you than your patient’s welfare, then I can only conclude your absence is for the best. Good day.”

He waved the gobbling doctor away, packed Frisby off to breakfast, and went back to the sickroom, where David was in place. He gave Philip an absent smile, his focus on the sick woman. “You have done good work. Thank you. Is there news on a nurse?”

“We may have to find one ourselves. It’s possible I may have offended Dr. Bewdley.”

“You amaze me. Where’s Frisby?”

“I persuaded him to take some rest by assuring him his sister would have female attendance.”

“Some drunken sot to mumble in a corner? I can’t see the use of it, but as long as your damned proprieties don’t get in my way... I don’t like this, Phil. She’s running a very high fever. Will you help me sit her up so she can sip the decoction?”

Philip could think of nothing he wanted to do less than manhandle Eleanor Frisby’s half-clad daughter. “Just a moment.” He rang the bell and ordered the footman to summon Mr. Sheridan Street. David’s eyes were rolled ceilingwards when he turned back. “Yes, I know it’s ridiculous,” he snapped. “I gave my word, blast it.”

Sheridan arrived a few moments later. “Can I help?”

“I don’t know,” Philip said. “I promised Frisby his sister would be appropriately attended, expecting Cornelius to magic up a woman to sit with her, and she won’t arrive till this afternoon.”

“Ah,” Sherry said. “And you want me to be Mrs. Salcombe? Drat. I’d be happy to, but I didn’t bring any of my petticoat wardrobe with me.”

Sheridan had inadvertently caused the freethinking but personally conventional Harry a great deal of confusion when the older man found himself falling hopelessly in love with his beardless apprentice. In the end, Corvin had had a quiet word with both parties to clarify matters, following which they had married privately and swiftly. Sherry kept to his masculine identity for professional and personal convenience, was Mrs. Harry Salcombe when needful or desired, and regarded the whole business with indifference. He was a geologist and Harry’s partner in life; anything else was, in his opinion, trivial. 

“Is it necessary to dress up?” Philip asked. “It’s all lip service anyway, her virtue is safe with us. But if you’d be willing to play Mrs. Salcombe at a later date if any testimony is required, then I won’t have entirely broken my word to Frisby. Stretched it to snapping point perhaps, but not broken.”

“Of course I will. It may be a nonsense, but convention is the last thing the poor woman or her brother should have to worry about at the moment. I shall sit here unmoving until the actual attendant arrives, and I shall Respectable Matron the very hell out of anyone who doubts it after. Can someone send for my book?”

***

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IT WAS A LONG DAY. The promised woman arrived, freeing Sherry, and proved to be exactly the bosky, gin-smelling sort of character that Philip had predicted. David relegated her to a corner. Frisby slept through it all, emerging from his room around three, and was persuaded to borrow a hack, ride home, and talk his maid or housekeeper into attending on Miss Frisby during the day. Sherry’s tolerance was limited, the exercise would do him good, and David wanted him out from under his feet. The boy was a fretter.

Philip spent several hours going through account books and crop yield reports and tried not to feel that he was shirking something important. Frisby took over from David in the sickroom around seven, which meant that the possibility of inviting him to join them for dinner once again did not arise.

“You’ll do it at some point,” Corvin said. “I know you. Conventionality will creep up on you when you least expect it.”

“It’s about the last thing on Frisby’s mind, I should think,” Sheridan said. “She’s awfully sick and her leg is the most horrible colour. Are you sure it wouldn’t be better to let the bad blood out, David?”

“Shall we not start that hare now,” Philip suggested firmly. He was having second thoughts himself. It had been absurd to put his tuppence-worth into Frisby’s deliberations. He’d done it because the poor fellow had looked desperate for some sort of certainty, but now he was having trouble not thinking of the consequences if the woman died on them with the most standard treatment left undone. Amanda Frisby was a damned nuisance and Guy Frisby was worse, and Philip wanted the whole business off his hands.

David went to bed early, getting some sleep in case he was needed during the night. The rest of them played whist, keeping the noise down, and retired around midnight. Corvin let the others go first, then came up and sank down beside Philip’s chair. “Hoi, you. Look at me.”

Philip did. It wasn’t a hardship. He’d known that face from childhood, seen his friend grow from boyish roundness through angularity and ghastly spots into his adult good looks. Corvin had reddish-brown hair, when he would have far preferred a suitably Gothic black, but at least he could boast steep brows, a striking pair of dark brown eyes, and a general appearance of handsome untrustworthiness. He was the very model of a heartless rake, to people who didn’t understand. “Very well. What am I looking at?”

“One who loves you. You’re taking this all rather seriously, Phil.”

“It’s the blasted Frisbys. You must see the problem.”

“I see their problem. I’m wondering why it’s yours.”

“Because their mother died,” Philip said. “Because James persuaded a married woman to abandon her children and reputation, and then drove off a cliff with her. James’s stupidity enriched me and deprived them of everything.”

“True, but I don’t recall he consulted you about it.”

“It’s as though the name I bear is a blight on their family. A Rookwood trespasses against them and they lose a parent—two if you count their father, drinking himself to death. They set foot on Rookwood land and calamity strikes. I feel like a curse, V.”

Corvin put a hand on his, without comment, and Philip interlaced their fingers. “I’m being absurd. You needn’t say so.”

“You are, rather. Might I observe that if there were a family curse it wouldn’t really be your business anyway?”

Philip used his free hand to bat at Corvin’s head. “Rot you. Why aren’t you in bed with John?”

“Twice in a row? Please. John wouldn’t, and I couldn’t.”

That was a flippancy, though John undeniably tended to be rough with Corvin: Philip had watched and winced often enough. He wondered if he might like to watch tonight and decided not. He wasn’t in the vein, for that or anything else, and in any case it seemed a little bit indulgent with a possibly dying woman in the house.

He let out a sigh. “If you’re seeking entertainment, look elsewhere.”

“Dear boy, I would, but David’s disinclined, the Street-Salcombes are devoted, and nobody in his right mind would step between George and his devil’s fiddler. If you want company of any sort I am entirely available.” He batted his eyelashes, for all the world as though it were a proposition instead of Corvin-parlay for Are you really all right? Do you need to be held?

“I’m very well,” Philip said, answering the spoken and unspoken questions at once. “Go to bed. We’ll get out of here tomorrow and go for a ride or some such. I can’t tolerate this deathb—this sickbed atmosphere.”

“Indeed not.” Corvin brushed Philip’s fingers with his lips. “Goodnight, my dear.”

Philip stayed a few minutes longer, thinking about things of no worth, and took up a candle to retire. As the night before, he slipped along the corridor to the Blue Drawing-room first. David had said that fevers worsened at night and had cursed their failure to find a nurse willing to attend the Hall. Philip took a mordant pleasure in the reputation he and Corvin had built for themselves, which confirmed all his beliefs about human nature, but it had its drawbacks.

The sickroom door was open again: David always insisted on fresh air for patients. Philip could hear a low, fretful sound, which he supposed was Amanda Frisby, and a soft voice.

“No, don’t, Mandy-may. Your leg’s splinted, that’s why you can’t turn over. I know it’s horrible. I know the cloth is cold and I’m sure it hurts but please try not to move. You’ve an awfully good doctor and he’s promised you’ll get well soon, and Mrs. Harbottle will be here tomorrow to look after you. Maybe she might make her chicken broth? If you can drink anything but this wretched willowbark. Oh God.”

A brief silence.

“Anyway I was telling you about the house. You’ll be so cross you missed it all. Serves you right. Everyone’s being so kind and generous and helpful. Dr. Bewdley came to see you and he—he sends his good wishes, but we’ve agreed Dr. Martelo will be in charge. He’s awfully kind. He’s a Jew, did I say? I don’t think he’s what I would have imagined, but then I’m not sure what I would have imagined, so I suppose he wouldn’t be. And he’s Portuguese, though he’s lived here for years. He’s travelled to any number of places, you know; you have to get better, so you can talk to him. And he’s got a lot to say about medicine, but you needn’t worry about that now. No, no, Manda, don’t move, please. Please. If you thrash about you’ll hurt your leg, and if you do that— Oh dear God,” Frisby whispered. “Please get better. Please. I can’t do without you and you’ve got so much more to do, and I know it’s been—not marvellous for you but we’ve been happy enough, haven’t we? And we can do more. I’ll be braver, I swear, and you’ll put all the nonsense behind you. You’re so brave and so marvellous and so clever, and you aren’t going to let a stupid broken leg stop you, are you? Oh God, Christ, anyone, someone help us. Let her get better. Please.”

Philip’s candle had only been a stub. It guttered now, and went out in a soft sigh, and he stood in the darkness, listening to a sick woman moaning, while her brother wept because he loved her.