“Amery?”
The earl’s voice was a croak, but one that conveyed a spark of pride.
“If you insist on attempting to travel on in your condition,” Amery said, “I will send a note forthwith to His Grace, and
“Ye gods…” Westhaven muttered, peering at his host. “You are serious.”
Amery quirked an eyebrow. “As serious as the chicken pox, complicated by a lung fever, and further compounded by Windham pride and arrogance.”
“Douglas?” A tall woman with dark auburn hair entered the parlor, her pretty features showing curiosity and then concern.
“Guinevere.” The man slid a shameless arm around the lady’s waist. “Look you, on yonder couch, ’tis your former betrothed, come to give us all the chicken pox.”
“Oh, Westhaven.” The woman stepped forward, but Anna had the presence of mind to rise from her seat and step between Lady Amery and the earl.
“My lady.” Anna bobbed a curtsy. “His lordship informed me you have an infant in the house, so had best not be coming too close to the earl.”
“She’s right.” Amery frowned. “I know I’ve had the chicken pox.”
“As have I,” Guinevere said, but she returned to her husband’s side. “And so has Rose. Douglas, you can’t let him travel like this.”
“Using the third person,” the earl rasped from the couch, “when a man is present and conscious, is rude and irritating.”
“But fun,” Amery said, coming to peruse his visitor. He put the back of his hand to the earl’s forehead and knelt to consider him at closer range. Though both men were of an age, the viscount’s gestures were curiously paternal. “You are burning up, which I needn’t tell you. I know you hold physicians in no esteem whatsoever, but will you let me send for Fairly?”
“You will not notify the duke?” Westhaven met his host’s eyes.
“Not yet, if you stay here like a good boy and get better before my Christian charity is outstripped by my honesty,” Amery said, sending his wife a glance.
“Send for Fairly,” the earl replied, “but only him, and not those damned quacks who think they attend His Grace.”
“I would not so insult Fairly,” the viscount said, rising. “Not even to aggravate you.”
While the viscount wrested permission to summon the doctor from the earl, Lady Amery conferred with the footman then turned to Anna.
“I’m sorry,” Lady Amery said, smiling. “You have me at a loss, Miss…?”
“Mrs. Seaton,” Anna replied, curtsying again. “Mrs. Anna Seaton. I keep house for his lordship in Town and accompanied him to Willow Bend, a property three miles east of here, which he thinks to purchase.”
“Pretty place,” Amery murmured, “but first things first.”
“The back bedroom will serve as a sick room and is being made up now,” Guinevere said. “You and the earl could both probably use hot baths and some sustenance, and I’m sure we can find you something dry to change into, as you and I appear to be of a height.”
“Come, Westhaven.” The viscount tugged the earl to his feet. “We’ll ply you with foul potions and mutter incantations by your bedside until you are recovered for the sake of your sanity. You should probably see Rose now, or she will just sneak into your room when you are feeling even worse and read her stories to you.”
It should have made him shudder, Westhaven thought as Amery tugged and carried and insulted him up to the bedroom. To be here with the man who had stopped his wedding to Gwen, and to be so ill and virtually helpless before him and Gwen. It should have been among his worst nightmares.
But as Douglas got him out of his wet clothes and shoved him into a steaming, scented bath, then fussed him into swilling some god-awful tea, Westhaven realized that what he felt was safe.
“He’ll want to notify his brother,” Anna said, sipping her hot tea with profound gratitude.
“We’ll send him a message with the one going to Fairly,” Gwen replied, handing Anna a plate with a hot buttered scone on it.
“Send it in code.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gwen set down her cup and waited for an explanation.
“It’s the duke,” Anna said. “His Grace has spies everywhere, and if you leave a note to the effect that Westhaven is seriously ill, where somebody can read it, the duke will be on your doorstep, wreaking havoc and giving orders in no time.”
“He most assuredly will not.” Douglas spoke from the door of the parlor, and there was something like amusement in his expression. “This is one household where His Grace’s mischief gets him nowhere. May I have a spot of tea, my love?” He lowered his long frame beside his wife, draping an arm across the back of the couch.
“How is Westhaven?” Gwen asked, fixing her husband a cup of tea.
“Sleeping, but uncomfortable. I thought you must be mistaken, Mrs. Seaton, as he has no evidence of chicken pox on his face, but your diagnosis is borne out by inspection of the rest of him.”
“I had a rather severe case as a child,” Anna said. “I’m available for nursing duty.”
“I can assist,” the viscount said, “and I will do so gleefully. But you, my love, should likely avoid the sickroom.”
“I will,” Gwen said, “for the sake of the baby, and because having you see him in distress is likely enough penance even for Westhaven. He doesn’t need me gloating, too.”
Anna sipped her tea, watching the smiles and glances and casual touches passing between these two.
“Westhaven said it was a miserable betrothal.”
“For all three of us,” Gwen said. “But quickly ended. You did the right thing, bringing him here. He is family, and we don’t really hold the betrothal against him, any more than we delight in his illness.”
“His sickness is serious,” Anna said, “in adults, anyway. And he is… fretful about illness generally. I honestly would not let the doctors near him if it’s avoidable.”
“The man is too proud by half,” Douglas remarked, topping off his own tea cup. His wife watched, amused, but said nothing.
“It isn’t pride, my lord,” Anna said. “He is afraid.”
“Afraid.” Douglas pursed him lips thoughtfully. “Because of his brother Victor?”
“Not precisely.” Anna tried to organize her thoughts—her feelings—into coherent order. “He is the spare, and dying would be a dereliction of his duty. For all he does not enjoy his obligations, he would not visit them on Lord Valentine, nor the grief on his remaining family. Then, too, he has seen more incompetent doctoring than most, both with his brother, and early this spring, with His Grace.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Douglas said, flicking another glance at his wife. “Guinevere?”
“Send for David,” Gwen said. “He’ll know how to handle the earl and how to treat the chicken pox, too.”
“We speak of the Viscount Fairly,” Douglas explained. “A family connection of Gwen’s, and friend of mine. He is a skilled physician, and we trust him, as, apparently, does Westhaven.”
“He does,” Anna said. “And in Fairly’s absence, he would tolerate the attendance of…”—she struggled to recall the names—“Pugh, Hamilton, and there was a third name, but it escapes me.”
“Fairly will know,” Douglas assured her. “But how is it, Mrs. Seaton, you and the earl come to be on our doorstep at this hour? Surely Westhaven was not fool enough to venture from Town in this downpour?”
Gwen abruptly looked fascinated with her tea cup, while Anna felt like a butterfly, pinned to a specimen board by the viscount’s steady blue eyes.
“We traveled out to Willow Bend yesterday,” Anna said, knowing this man would not tolerate untruths. “And then the rain caught us unawares. I convinced the earl to come here this morning only when he realized he had fallen ill.”
“Nonsense,” Amery replied, crossing his legs at the knee. It should have been a fussy gesture on a man. On him it was… elegant. “Westhaven, being a man of sense and discretion, had you on our doorstep well before dark last evening, didn’t he, Guinevere?”
