Chapter Seventeen

Jane followed Robert through the back door and into the kitchen. He strode on, oblivious to the shocked servants staring after him. This would cause talk and speculation in the servants’ hall when they ate breakfast, Jane thought as she raced to keep up with him. She could hear them now: “Mr. Robert was out with that Mrs. Frobisher, and not a chaperone in sight! And before breakfast!”

Perhaps Jane could convince her maid of the innocent nature of the morning, and the maid could make sure everyone else knew the truth. Although whether they would believe it was beyond her control.

They went through the door into the main part of the house. Once in the hallway, Robert stopped. He still looked gray, his features haggard, but there was more energy about him now and he didn’t look as if he would be sick again.

“I need to go to my father,” he said. “I can meet you in the breakfast room shortly.” Jane nodded. A dish of tea would be welcome, although she knew she would not eat anything before Robert returned. Having seen how sick he had been this morning, she was far too anxious for his less robust father to have any appetite.

There was nobody in the breakfast room. Jane made her way over the thick Chinese rug to the sideboard, intending to pour herself a dish of tea. Through the open door, she heard Robert’s boot heels sound against the black and white tiles of the hallway.

“William,” he addressed the footman. “Is my father out of bed yet?”

The footman’s voice was respectful. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“Thank you. I’ll go up and see him…”

“You will do no such thing!” The countess’ tone brooked no argument. Jane stiffened and instinctively took a step back from the sideboard, feeling as if she shouldn’t be touching anything there. She looked to the door and saw the footman hurry past, clearly unwilling to be party to this new conversation. If conversation was what it could be called, Jane thought, and she grimaced as the countess let Robert know her opinion.

“You have not been here these last few months, but I have. While you’ve been running about the country on a fool’s errand, I have been here taking care of my husband’s health, and I won’t…”

“It was not a fool’s errand.”

“I beg to differ. In your mad dash to play the hero, all you have succeeded in doing is bringing that boy here, where he can’t possibly be of any use and merely upsets your father.”

Jane stiffened, her back straightening, adding inches to her height. The hairs at the nape of her neck stood to attention and her hands balled into fists. Lady Barwell was going to apologize for that. She took a step forward, then stopped as she heard Robert, his voice low and even, and cold enough to freeze the sea in summer.

“That ‘boy’ is a full-grown man and almost as old as you. He is also heir to your husband’s title and will one day be head of this family. You might wish to remember that.”

“Don’t you dare threaten me, Robert Carrow! You don’t want him here any more than I do, and for far less altruistic reasons.”

“If I didn’t want him, I would not have searched for him.”

That, Jane thought, was true. Lady Barwell’s argument made no sense. And what could possibly be altruistic about rejecting poor Ben?

“You searched for him because you said you would. Had you not done so, the value of your word would have been called into question. I’ll wager you never expected to find him, though. Now you have, and he has usurped your position…”

“I have never coveted the title, or anything else, and I resent the inference that I have. I hope it all belongs to my father for years to come.”

“As do I.” Lady Barwell’s voice cracked, and suddenly Jane felt sorry for her. She’d been cold and aloof, less than welcoming to Ben and Jane’s family, but it seemed she really did love her husband.

“I care for my husband very much, sir,” the countess continued, echoing Jane’s thoughts, “which is why I am appalled at the cavalier way in which you undermine him.”

Undermine him? Jane frowned. Whatever could the countess mean? The love and concern Robert had for his father was plain to anyone with sight, and obvious in the lengths he’d gone to in order to find Ben and bring him home.

“You think bringing that boy—man—into the family will aid your father? You are much mistaken. All you have done is create more trouble for him.”

“I don’t follow your logic, madam.” Robert’s tone boded ill for the countess. Jane licked her lips, nervously, glad it was not she who faced him at this moment.

Lady Barwell was either unaware of the anger rising inside her stepson or she didn’t care. “Don’t be obtuse, Robert,” she said, in a voice that have could have cut glass. “Not only have you brought another family member to confuse your father when, Lord knows, he is confused enough already—forgetting us, losing recognition, and unable to make sense of our presence—but you’ve done so with a son who is, to say the least, deficient.”

Jane’s cheeks heated and her eyes burned, and she swallowed hard to push down her anger at Lady Barwell’s callous words. Callous, and untrue. She wanted to storm out of the breakfast room and tell the lady so, to her head. She saw herself, hands on hips and head high, boring holes through the countess with her furious stare, daring her to say such a thing again. Ben was not deficient and nobody had the right to call him that. Ben was different, but he was not deficient.

It was all Jane could do to rein in her temper and stay where she was. She wasn’t supposed to be privy to this conversation, and it would be wrong of her to show herself now. Of course, Robert knew she was here, and he was probably aware she could hear them, but the countess didn’t and, if she discovered Jane, it might make things worse.

On that thought, Jane stepped back, away from the sight line of anyone passing the doorway, and forced herself to stay quiet.

“Deficient, madam?” asked Robert. “There is nothing deficient about my brother.”

“Of course there is! He’s a—child in a man’s body.”

Robert laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “Would that we could all be thus. The world would be simpler, and far happier.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it? Even the Bible recommends it. ‘Verily, I say unto you, except you become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.’”

“For goodness’ sake! That does not mean what you think it means.”

“Enlighten me. What does it mean?”

Jane listened, intently. She couldn’t think of an alternative meaning for the verse, either.

“We are not talking about the Kingdom of Heaven! We are talking of an earldom here on earth. One your father frets over, worrying about its future, what will become of it after his… He worries about it. Now you bring him an heir who, by nobody’s fumes of fancy, could ever be capable of taking the reins.”

That much, Jane conceded, was true. Ben did not have it in him to do the tasks required of an earl. He would need help, a kind of regent, when he took the title.

“I will be here, at his side,” said Robert, his tone suggesting that should be obvious.

“I sincerely hope you will,” answered Lady Barwell. “It will not, however, save your father from his anxieties. The worry will undermine his health and undo all my hard work.”

“Your hard work?” asked Robert. He sounded incredulous.

“Ministering to him. Nursing him when he took a turn for the worse.”

“Mopped his fevered brow, did you?”

The countess cleared her throat. “More than once,” she said, primly. “While you were gone, I looked after him, and this I can tell you. He will not be receiving visitors today.” Her words sounded as if she thought they should be final. Which probably meant she would now make her way into the breakfast room, find Jane, and know she’d overheard.

The French windows were open to the terrace. Jane moved to them, intending to hide out there until the lady had gone.

“I am hardly a visitor, Jessica,” argued Robert as Jane reached the windows.

The countess’ footsteps stopped. “Do you not care for his wellbeing?” Her voice had gone up a notch. “He is unwell and needs his rest.”

Jane reached the doorway into the garden. The breeze coming through it billowed the curtains and riffled her hair.

“You are not good for your father’s health,” Lady Barwell continued. “One evening in your company and he has taken a significant turn for the worse. I know not…”

Jane did not discover what Lady Barwell knew not, because she stepped out onto the terrace and moved away before anyone saw her lurking there.

The early morning sun was warm on her face, and its brightness enhanced the colors of the flowers growing in pots and planters around the edges of the flagstone terrace. Windows gleamed. Across the park the morning mist had burned away, leaving the grass an emerald green. The lake shone silver on the horizon, the island with its summerhouse a dark silhouette at its heart.

Farther along the terrace, Jane slipped through another open window, into the library. This room was darker than the breakfast room, the window drapes heavier, and the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books on three walls swallowed much of the light that did find its way in. The furniture was dark too—a walnut table, dark leather armchairs, a tantalus in one corner. The room had a masculine feel, and Jane suspected this was very much the earl’s sanctuary, somewhere his wife never ventured.

That made her think again about what she had just heard. Do you not have a care for his wellbeing?

Jane pursed her lips, angry on Robert’s behalf. It was plain to see he cared for his father deeply and would do nothing to put him in danger. Quite apart from that, Robert would not hurt anybody deliberately. He was not that kind of man. He was kind and caring—had he not risked his life to save Lucy? He’d shown patience and understanding to Ben, too. Indeed, it was because he cared that he’d sought Ben in the first place. How could Lady Barwell think otherwise?

Cynical thoughts invaded. Lady Barwell was a shrewd woman who knew exactly how to get her way. She’d done it to Jane last night, planting doubts about Robert’s character. Now, she worked her dark magic on Robert. The woman knew he would not risk his father’s health, and she used that in an effort to bar him from his father’s company.

Why would she do that? Completely isolating her husband from those he loved seemed extreme. Not even the most anxious of devoted wives would go so far, surely?

Something was wrong, Jane could feel it, but she didn’t know what it was. Yesterday, the countess had appeared aloof, cold, and even uncaring. Today she was so concerned that she declared her husband’s own son a threat to him. She could have been two different women.

Then there was Robert’s illness this morning. True, he hadn’t shown the confusion the earl exhibited, but physically, perhaps the two men shared symptoms. Was it possible the only thing wrong with the earl was that he’d been drinking tainted brandy? Mayhap, over a prolonged period, bad spirits could cloud a person’s mind as well as unsettling their stomach. After all, good spirits could do so, if one imbibed too much. Jane was no expert, but it made sense to her. If getting rid of the tainted brandy restored Robert’s father to health…

She must find Robert and tell him her suspicions, and… No. No, she couldn’t do that. Robert loved his father, and it would pain him deeply to be given hope that was then snatched away again if Jane were wrong. Jane would not cause him that sort of pain. She cared far too much for him to do that.

It would be better to discover all she could about Lord Barwell’s illness first. Then, when she was certain of her facts, she could tell Robert and he could put it right. And if it turned out the earl’s condition was not caused by whatever had made Robert sick, well, he would not be hurt by her conjecture.

But how was Jane to discover the facts? She wrung her hands together and paced the long room. The only sure way would be to visit the earl and learn what she could at his sickbed.

No! She could do no such thing! It would be highly improper to visit a man in his bedchamber, even if he was supposedly at death’s doorstep.

But how else could she discover the truth?

“I need to know,” she whispered. “I’m supposed to be a widow. It’s not so bad for a widow to enter a man’s chamber.” Even to herself, she did not sound convincing.

An image came to her, of Robert wearing a black armband and an expression of such grief, it broke her heart. She reached out to him, and he turned dull eyes to her, saying, You could have saved him, in accusation.

Jane’s heart pounded. She couldn’t bear to see him in such anguish. She couldn’t live with the idea that she might have prevented it and instead had done nothing.

She would go to the earl now. She would discover what she needed to know, and if she was correct, things could be put right. She could make Robert happy, and Ben, and Lady Barwell too. The woman would be glad to have her husband healthy once more.

Besides, if she was careful and quick, who would know? She could be in and out before anyone was any the wiser.

On that thought, she opened the library door, checked the corridor was clear, then sneaked off in search of the earl’s private rooms.

The corridor in the family wing of the house was lined with portraits of their ancestors. Here and there, Jane saw a resemblance to Robert—the curve of a smile, the creases of contentedness around dark eyes. Under other circumstances she might have dallied, studied the faces in the way she could not study him, endeavoring to somehow learn his secrets from his ancestors. Today, she had more important things to do.

Her feet sank into the deep pile carpet that made her steps noiseless. It added to the hushed eeriness of the place, and she shivered. If it weren’t for Robert, her need to help him find the truth, Jane would have turned tail and fled.

At the door she thought led to the master bedroom, it took three attempts to raise her hand and knock. Her heart was in her throat, and her stomach did a funny flip-flop, like a landed fish on a riverbank. A voice in her head whispered, Run.

What if the earl was not fit for callers? What if he was only half dressed? Taking a bath? What if…?

Panic rushed through her. She could hardly catch her breath. Her head swam. She needed to leave, to escape and hope she encountered nobody on the way back. She took a step backward, then stopped as the door swished open, revealing an impeccably dressed man with a gaunt face and silver hair.

“May I help you, miss?” His voice was crisp, his face expressionless.

A moment passed. Jane’s tongue froze, refusing to allow speech to come. Not that her brain let the words form anyway. The man looked down the length of his nose in disdain which, she reflected, was not easy considering he was shorter than she was.

The absurdity of that thought made her want to giggle. She fought the urge to do so, and the effort brought her senses rushing back. She cleared her throat and said, “I am Mrs. Frobisher. I heard Lord Barwell was unwell. I came to pay my respects and to ask if there is anything I might do to help him?” Her voice sounded clear and calm and confident, which was both a surprise and a relief.

The man’s eyebrows shot up, pushing his forehead in wrinkles toward his hairline. Jane bit her lip. Why had she thought, even for an instant, that this idea would fly?

“Mrs. Frobisher?” The man let the name settle for a moment before he continued, “The lady who helped Mr. Robert after his accident.”

“Yes, my mother and I—”

“You have nursing skills, I assume?”

“Well, I…”

“Forgive me,” he said and inclined his head in a sparse bow. “Of course you do, or you would not have been entrusted with Mr. Robert’s care. I am not usually so obtuse. Please enter.” He stood aside and held the door so Jane could move into the room. She had no choice now but to oblige.

The room was not the earl’s bedchamber but his dressing room. It was small, no more than ten feet by ten feet, and contained two armoires, a chest of drawers on which was carefully arranged a gentleman’s grooming kit, the mother-of-pearl handles gleaming a soft pink-white in the light from the half-shuttered window. A bathtub stood against the wall, squeezed between one of the armoires and a large packing case, and a cheval mirror was angled in one corner. A table and chair filled another corner, and on the table were pots and bottles of lotions which, Jane guessed, were a gentleman’s equivalent of a lady’s creams and perfumes.

This was wrong. She should not be here. She turned to make her apologies and froze, because the man looked at her as if she was the answer to all his troubles, a ministering angel who would restore Lord Barwell to health with a wave of her hand. Jane swallowed, hard.

“I am Timmins,” he said. “His lordship’s valet. I’m charged with his care, but I can’t seem to…” He took a deep breath and steadied his voice, which had trembled slightly. “It doesn’t matter what I do, do you see? What remedies I try. Nothing works. I am at my wits end, to tell the truth. And,” he leaned toward Jane and lowered his voice as if imparting a confidence, “the way Lady Barwell looks at me, I’m sure she blames me. She thinks I am responsible for making my lord ill. But I am not!” Indignance mixed with anxiety on his face, and Jane knew she could not leave.

“She cannot think any such thing.” She rested her hand on the man’s arm, reassuring him. “Anyone can see you have done your very best for him.”

The valet’s bottom lip quivered, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. He patted Jane’s hand on his arm, then moved away, his back to her, and spent several seconds straightening the already perfectly laid out grooming set. Jane waited for him to fully compose himself.

“Thank you,” he whispered, at last. “You cannot know how much those words mean. And, having heard how splendidly you restored Mr. Robert to health, I am overcome with gratitude at your presence here.”

Terror shot through Jane, so strong it almost knocked her off balance. The two cases could not be more different. Robert had been forced to bed with broken bones and painful bruises, and he was young and strong and did most of the healing himself. The earl, on the other hand, might well have been drinking brandy that poisoned him, especially if his illness was in any way like Robert’s had been this morning, The sight of him in the woods had shocked Jane: his skin had been so gray, his lips garishly red, and his eyes hollow, surrounded by rings of bruised purple. There had been a cold sheen to his forehead, and the hair around his face had been damp and flat.

Yet, even sick, he’d been powerful, his shoulders broad, although stooped, the muscles in his thighs flexing against his close-fitting breeches when he fought to keep his legs from buckling. He wore no cravat, and Jane had struggled to take her gaze from the V of skin at his throat, and the smattering of dark hair on his chest above the neckline of his shirt. She wondered, not for the first time, what he looked like beneath that shirt. Was he as strong as he looked, or was it an illusion, his shoulders narrower and his chest a little sunken without the aid of clothes? Somehow, she thought not.

Which was not something that should occupy her mind, even for an instant. Her cheeks heated at her wantonness, and her scalp prickled. She thanked the Lord that Timmins could not read her thoughts.

The valet clearly thought his praise had caused her blush, because he assured her she should not be discomfited: praise should be served where it was deserved. Jane cleared her throat and changed the subject.

“I am not completely au fait with Lord Barwell’s illness,” she said, briskly. “What exactly are his symptoms?”

“Well.” The valet clasped his hands tightly in front of his waist. “He has…” He winced. “You will, I am sure, pardon me for discussing such things with a lady like yourself…” Jane inclined her head and he continued. “He has had a great purging of his stomach. Many times. And to such a degree I am surprised he can still eat. I would not be brave enough to do so, knowing what it was going to do to me, but my lord is made of sterner stuff.”

“A purging?” Jane frowned. “By which you mean…?” She felt her blush rise again as she waved her hand up and down trying to indicate the detail of her question. She wished Mama was here, for Mama never seemed to have trouble discussing such things. Jane supposed it came through a combination of the practicalities of motherhood and intimate knowledge of a husband.

“Through both ends,” the valet said, and his face burned bright crimson. “He needs his gazunder more times than I care to think about, but…”

“Gazunder?” Jane was not familiar with the word. She wondered if it was a medicine Timmins had administered.

The question threw Timmins off guard. “Gazunder,” he repeated. “You know, ma’am. The chamberpot. We call it a gazunder, because it “goes under” the bed, do you see? He needs it a lot. But he also casts up his accounts, if you’ll excuse me for saying something so vulgar.”

“A lot?” Jane pictured Robert doing the same thing this morning.

“A lot,” confirmed Timmins. “Then there are the attacks. Shivering uncontrollably, sweating profusely, if you’ll pardon me for saying. He’s tired and weak, and who can wonder at it?” He grimaced then, as if his next words left a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m not sure if the other attacks are anything to do with it, some people do seem to suffer as they grow older, although Lord Barwell was not as old as most when they started, and all I can say is, before his illness, he never showed any sign, so they may be part of it after all. Or perhaps they were brought on by the distress of his illness, or they were going to happen anyway.”

“Other attacks?”

Timmins bowed his head over his clasped hands as if praying. He nodded as if he’d come to a decision, then took a deep breath. “My lord’s mind is not as sharp as it once was, do you see? That is to say, it is, when he is lucid. Unfortunately, he seems not always to be lucid. He…forgets things. Such as, who I am, who Lady Barwell is. It is most distressing.”

“I can imagine. And this forgetfulness began at the same time as his other problems?”

“About three weeks later.”

Jane had heard enough. The earl’s physical complaints were so like Robert’s this morning, it could not be a coincidence. Which meant bringing relief could be as simple as…

“Get rid of the brandy.”

Jane didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until Timmins protested. “I couldn’t do that, Mrs. Frobisher. The earl enjoys his brandy each evening.”

“I don’t mean all brandy,” Jane qualified, and Timmins looked relieved, then perplexed.

“What did you mean?”

“The brandy in the dining room,” she said. “In the library and his study, too.”

Timmins raised his eyebrows. “All of it?”

“Yes.” She chewed her lip, thoughtful. “Where did the brandy come from?”

The valet looked as if that was the most stupid question he had ever been asked. “The casks in the cellar.”

“Would you be able to give him brandy that did not come from his cellar?”

“I hardly think…”

The valet stopped mid-sentence when a voice from the corridor said, “Do as she says.”