The hackney cab drove for almost thirty minutes before it hit a series of potholes, almost pitching Charlotte forward into the lap of the soldier—Private Thomas James—before it pulled to a stop in some unknown part of London. She alighted from the carriage and was immediately accosted by the smell of rotting refuse and urine. The footpath wasn’t paved. Instead, long wooden boards sat atop the mud. The grey clouds overhead had begun to release their encumbrance, the odd fat raindrop plonking onto the makeshift footpath.
The buildings were narrow and black with soot, as though they’d never been washed. Children ran with dogs across the street, mindless of the muck getting between their bare toes. Behind her, a bucketful of water splashed onto the verge.
“This way, my lady.” Private James took off toward one of the grimy buildings, not checking to see if she followed.
As she stood on the doorstep, her heart thundered, and she found herself wishing that she had something more substantial than a roll of pennies that she might use as a weapon. She was tempted to run, but the gold ring with its Wildeforde crest was warm in her hand. If William was truly in danger, she needed to help him.
They climbed up a set of dark, narrow stairs. The young soldier pushed open a door on the right of the landing without bothering to knock. Charlotte hesitated in the doorway. The room was cramped and gloomy. There was one window, but the layers of grime hindered the light from getting through.
There was a table, two chairs, and a bed around which several men stood. On the edge of the mattress was a doctor’s satchel.
“Captain Stirling’s sister is here,” Private James said as he quickly made his way to where the others stood. One man stepped backward and she could see a figure lying beneath a white sheet.
William.
She rushed to him, pushing aside another bedraggled soldier and leaning in close. “Brother.”
She put her hands on his cheeks and kissed his forehead. His skin was hot beneath her lips.
“Will,” she whispered, her throat tightening painfully.
His eyes opened. They were cloudy and dazed, but they sharpened a fraction when he saw her. “Charlie.” His voice rasped, barely making a sound as he called her name. He ran his tongue over his lips, which were dry and cracked and an unhealthy shade of white.
“Water,” she demanded, keeping her sentences short to avoid her anger spilling over. The doctor pushed a glass into her hand. “Sit up, sweetheart.” She stroked her brother’s hair. Private James leaned over the other side of the bed, slipping a hand behind William’s back. Next to her, the other soldier did as well. Together, they levered William into a sitting position.
She held the glass in front of his lips and tipped it slowly. He drank greedily and then coughed, slumping against the headboard.
Charlotte rounded on the physician. “He’s parched. Why haven’t you been forcing him to drink?”
The physician wiped his spectacles with a handkerchief. “He’s barely been conscious since I arrived, my lady.”
Hot tears stung her eyes. It was untenable that William, brother to a duke, had been allowed to suffer in such a manner. “How long has he been like this?”
Private James spoke, taking a small step back from her as he did. “He was injured two months ago, but the wounds were healing well until last fortnight. The fever started off the coast of Portugal.”
“We should have stayed on the ship,” the unknown officer hissed. “We should never have ventured ashore.”
“How was the captain to know he’d fall in the muck?”
“His injured leg might have been a clue.”
“Enough,” she said. “Show me the injuries.” She steeled herself before looking down at William, who struggled to keep his eyes open. The boy pulled back the sheet, exposing William’s arm, chest, and thighs. A wide bandage, stained from seeping blood, wrapped around Will’s midsection; another wrapped around his right thigh and yet another around his right forearm.
Charlotte had never seen anything like it. The worst injury she’d seen was William’s sprained ankle and scraped hands that time he fell from a tree trying to break into Edward’s study.
Ned. He needed to be here.
“Fetch my brother. The duke needs to know that Will is home, that he’s hurt.”
Before anyone could act on her instruction, Will grabbed her hand with a ferocity she was surprised he could muster in his current state. “No,” he croaked. “You cannot tell him.”
“Will, you cannot be serious.” She reached into her reticule for a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. His dark curls glistened with moisture. “He will want to see you.”
Will’s fingers gripped hard enough for her to wince. “I do not want to see him. I hate him, Charlie. I will never forgive him for what he’s done to me.”
For the millionth time, Charlotte cursed Edward’s idiocy. He’d been out of his mind with fear the night that Fiona had been arrested for treason, but it was no excuse for disowning his brother and packing him off to the army. Will might never forgive the duke, and if that was the case, it would be what Edward deserved.
It left her in somewhat of a quandary, though. Despite his action, Edward loved his brother. He would never forgive her if her silence prevented him from apologizing to William before he died.
A lump formed in her throat. Will couldn’t die.
She turned to the doctor. “What’s his prognosis?” she asked, trying to keep her tone measured.
The doctor pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Captain Stirling will survive his wounds, although he may never walk normally. My primary concern is the fever. It has taken hold of his body. Bloodletting may work, but there are no guarantees.”
“And if he were to die of this fever? How long would that…” She swallowed. “…take?”
“A day. Perhaps two.”
She drew in a ragged breath as she turned her attention back to Will, who’d succumbed to unconsciousness once again. His whole body flinched, over and over. Perhaps his fever dreams had taken him back to the fighting.
She raised his damp, cold fingers to her lips and pressed a kiss to them, trying to bring his mind away from whatever was causing him such a fitful rest and back to her.
She would give him the night to improve. If the fever hadn’t broken by morning, she’d send for Edward.
Private James used his one good arm to drag a stool across the room for her to sit on, running his fingers through his carrot-colored curls as she sat at her brother’s side, where she could hold his hand yet still reach to stroke his hair.
“You’ve missed a lot, brother,” she murmured. “So much has happened since you left.” His fitful shudders eased at the sound of her voice, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She looked up at the soldiers in the room. “Fetch some notepaper. I’ll need to send word to my maid to make my excuses if I’m going to be here all night.”
Facing her brother and stroking his hair, she launched into a summary of all the titillating things that had happened over the past four seasons, keeping up a stream of conversation that dipped and paused like music—a melodious lullaby for a grown man who had always loved a scandal.
As dawn broke, so did his fever. His breathing softened, and for the first time that night, his eyelids stopped their frantic flickering.