Dukes Prefer Blondes (16 page)

Ice coated his gut.

Jail fever. Typhus.

But it couldn't be. He, more than anybody else, would have recognized typhus symptoms in Toby Coppy. Who else in that putrid place had she been in contact with?

But what had she breathed or touched?

“I must leave at once,” he told Sanborne. He hurried out of the muniments room, found the butler, and ordered a post chaise and his bags packed.

He found Bernard where he'd left him.

“I must return to London,” Radford said. “It's urgent.”

“No, you don't,” Bernard said. “You need to be here. Urgently. On account I'm grieving and my mind's disordered.”

“This is more important than you,” Radford said.

“You said you'd take care of everything, you little turd!”

“I will, but not now.”

“You can't go! You can't leave everything and bolt just because—­”

“Bernard, I don't have time for this,” Radford said. “I've ordered a post chaise. Pull yourself together, will you? I'm needed much more urgently in London than I am here.”

Bernard peered owlishly at him. “My dear little Raven's in a taking. Not your venerable pa, is it?”

“Not yet,” Radford said tightly.

“A woman, then,” Bernard said, grinning. “Why, Raven's got a sweetheart, what do you know?”

“Cousin, you've had enough drink for this week,” Radford said. “You need a bath. You're thirty years old. Grow up!”

Bernard refilled his glass. “Well, then, if you're going to be a bleeding little nagging nursie about it, go on. Go to London. And be damned. But take the traveling chariot. And take Harris as postilion. You'll get there faster.” He emptied the glass and started to fill another, but the decanter was empty. “And you!” he shouted at the footman standing by the door. “Get me something to drink!”

Radford went out.

S
topping only to change horses and let Harris take refreshment, Radford reached Kensington by Friday afternoon. Lady Exton's porter eyed him up and down, his expression dubious. Radford's other self wanted to knock him down. He was finding it more difficult than usual to thrust that self away and observe the situation coolly.

The fact was, he looked disreputable. He was unshaven and rumpled. He'd stopped briefly at his parents' house to wash his face. He hadn't changed his clothes. No servant wishing to keep his place would let a man in Radford's state in to see anybody without express permission.

As it was, he only contrived to get into the house by saying he'd come straight from the Duke of Malvern. His other self winced at using his cousin's title to open doors even while that overemotional being stormed about in a frenzy of impatience to see Clara. Radford ignored him as best he could.

The porter sent for a footman, who took his time accepting Radford's card and walked out of the vestibule in the most provokingly unhurried manner.

Radford exerted enough self-­control not to knock the man down and walk over him. Instead, he told himself to calm down, and settled for pacing the small antechamber he was taken to. If the footman came back to say Lady Exton was not at home,
then
Radford would knock him down.

After an interminable wait, the footman returned and showed Radford into a drawing room. Lady Exton's pallor and state of distraction told him the maid hadn't exaggerated.

“I must see Lady Clara at once,” he said.

“Certainly not,” Lady Exton said. “I've sent for Dr. Marler again. He'll set her up in no time.”

“I'll lay you odds he's never seen a case of typhus,” he said.

“Typhus! My grandniece? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“I can make a strong case for the diagnosis, but we haven't a moment to lose,” he said. “Even if your physician has experience of the disease, he's likely to kill her—­with the very kindest intentions and volumes of medical wisdom to prove the rightness of his course. He's bound to bleed her, which even some of the most benighted of his benighted profession know is unwise in these circumstances.”

He wanted to strangle the oaf of a doctor. It was bad enough for Radford to have lost a day, when every minute counted. It was worse knowing that every minute of the lost time left Clara vulnerable to others' ignorance and prejudices.

“And you've medical training, have you, Mr. Radford?”

“I've had typhus and lived,” he said. This had happened in Yorkshire, after he and his father had visited an infamous school there. It was a case not unlike the Grumley pauper farm, one his father had prosecuted. They'd both caught the disease—­from the children or poison in the air. No one knew exactly how it was transmitted, although nearly everybody believed it was contagious.

His father had fallen ill first, and Radford had taken care of him because they trusted nobody else. Luckily they'd studied the ailment in preparation for the trip. The numerous treatises, reports, and lectures offered contradictory theories and treatments. But one or two contained elements he'd deemed more logical than the others, as well as presenting, along with the usual anecdotal evidence, helpful statistics. He'd adopted and adapted the treatments he believed least likely to kill the patient.

“We haven't time to argue, my lady,” he said. “Every minute counts.” The odds were, he'd arrived too late as it was. Catching the disease in the first stage was crucial. “Tell me where she is and save me the trouble of finding her.”

“You may be a famous fellow in the criminal courts, Mr. Radford, but you are not a physician,” she said. “You will stay away from my grandniece. For all I know, this is your doing,” she added in a lower voice. “She was with you last week, and she hasn't been right since.”

It was his fault Clara was in danger of dying. He knew it. But listening to accusations, like berating himself, only wasted time.

He marched out into the staircase hall and shouted, “Davis!”

Two large footmen marched into the staircase hall.

“You're not Davis,” he said. “Davis! Where the devil are you?”

The maid appeared at the top of the stairs. “You took your time,” she said.

He started for the stairs. A footman lunged at him.

“You, Tom!” the maid cried. “You leave the gentleman be or I'll mend your manners, see if I don't.”

Tom retreated.

“Davis!” Lady Exton's voice, behind him. The voice of authority, before which servants quailed, or at least pretended to, if they knew what was good for them.

Davis, the faithful bulldog, stood her ground. “My lady, I sent for this gentleman on her ladyship's account, and I expect him to do what needs to be done. With respect, my lady, your doctor didn't know the ailment when it stared him in the face, and I only hope he hasn't signed her ladyship's death warrant.”

Lady Exton gasped.

The lady's maid beckoned to Radford. “What are you waiting for? You had better help my lady, or I shall help you to the hereafter well ahead of schedule,
sir
.”

“Davis, I shall write to Lord Warford about your behavior,” Lady Exton said.

“Yes, my lady, I expect you will. Mr. Radford, why do you dawdle?”

He ran up the stairs.

T
here was noise outside the room, horrible noise that made Clara's head throb. But it had been throbbing forever. And the headache had spread to her arms and legs and it was in her stomach, too.

She felt a cool hand on her forehead.

Not Davis's hand.

Oh, no, not the doctor again so soon . . . He'd said he'd cut her, and she doubted she had the strength to fight him now. She felt so cold . . .

Shivering, she opened her eyes.

“How dare you fall ill,” he said. His voice was low and rough.

Not the doctor.

She tried to focus but it hurt her head. The room was too bright. There was a blinding glare about his head. The voice, though. She knew this voice. She was dreaming, then.

“You'd better get well,” he said. “Davis will murder me if you don't, and then she'll hang. You don't want your faithful maid to hang, my lady, and certainly not on account of a trifling fever.”

“Raven,” she whispered. Yes, she was dreaming. She closed her eyes.

D
r. Marler arrived a short time thereafter. Since Lady Exton lacked the confidence to keep him out of the sickroom, Radford had to deal with him.

He tried reason, but he might as well have talked to a brick. The doctor objected to being questioned—­“interrogated,” as he put it—­by a
lawyer
.

But Radford had dealt with recalcitrant judges and criminals. He badgered the witness until the witness began to shout. Radford reminded him this was a sickroom. The doctor stormed out. Radford followed him out into the corridor, still questioning: How many cases of typhus had he treated? Was it a common malady among the upper orders? Was the doctor familiar with Richard Millar's clinical lectures on the subject?

“How dare you imply that her ladyship suffers from that vile disease?” Marler raged. “Millar wrote of an epidemic in
Glasgow
. It is a disease of the lower orders. Jail fever. The
Irish
.”

“It's a contagion, which may float in the atmosphere or adhere to clothing and other articles,” Radford said. “One who visits, for charitable purposes, for example, a schoolroom or crowded and poorly ventilated living quarters may be exposed. If you have not had this disease, sir, I urge you—­for your patients' sakes—­to turn this case over to a colleague who has survived it. In the meantime, as one who has survived it, I'm in no danger.”

The doctor argued on, but the possibility of contracting a low disease—­one common among the
Irish
, no less—­was working in his mind, Radford could tell, and by degrees the medical man began to climb down from his high ropes.

Very well, Marler said. He would seek out a colleague, one of the gentlemen who attended at a hospital. In the meantime, he would leave his orders for her ladyship's maid. He would expect them to be followed to the letter.

He left in a state of spleen very likely to overset the crucial balance of humors in which he put his faith. It would not have consoled him to know that those who found themselves in disagreement with Raven Radford tended to experience similar symptoms.

“Now who is it you're provoking?” came Lady Clara's voice from the bed. If he hadn't known she was in the bed, he'd have had trouble recognizing her voice, so weak and slurred it was. “Are we in court? Have I killed anybody? But it isn't you, is it? Don't let him cut me, please.”

He went to the bed. Her face was white and drawn.

“Don't let him cut me, please,” she said.

He swallowed. “Don't be silly. Of course I won't let anybody cut you. No leeches, either, unless you annoy me.”

This won him a wan smile. But her voice was weary, and he could see her vitality ebbing.

He turned away from the bed, to Davis, whose face, thankfully, was ruddy with emotion, not pale. If the maid took sick, he wasn't sure what he'd do.

“The other night, when she said she didn't feel well, I worried what it might be,” the maid said. “I sponged her with cool water and vinegar. I know some say not to, but she was hot.”

“You were right,” he said. “We'll have recourse to the method again, you may be sure.”

“I tried to keep her safe,” Davis said. “For fear of vermin I scrubbed her when she came back from your . . . adventure. Sir, she called it an
adventure
.” Tears filled the maid's eyes. “And when I scolded her, and said it was a miracle she wasn't a hostelry for insects, she laughed. She said something about a poem about a louse.”

Robert Burns, he thought. Only Clara would laugh and think of that poem.

He remembered her laugh as she was leaving Westcott's office, when she'd called Radford “Professor.” He remembered the way her smile had brightened the room, as though she brought her own sunlight with her.

“I read where one ought to shave their heads,” the maid was saying, “but I couldn't bring myself to it, sir. My beautiful girl.” Her face worked.

“There was no need,” he said. “I've no doubt you scrubbed away every last foreign article. Whatever made her ill got into her before you could eradicate it.”

“I've looked after her since she was nine years old,” the maid said. “A rare handful she ever was. You'd better make her well again.”

“I will,” he said.
I hope.
“First thing let's do, let's strip the room. Let's start with everything fresh and clean. I want the windows opened. That means we'll need a blazing fire to keep the room warm while we freshen the air.”

When the fire was built up, he tossed the doctor's instructions into it.

R
adford wasn't sure what he'd have done without the loyal maid. He was perfectly capable of intimidating others and controlling situations. Manipulating a jury was a skill he'd honed. But any battle took time and mental energy, which he couldn't spare at present. The task ahead of him would demand all his resources. He needed to focus on Lady Clara. Only with Davis as his ally was this possible.

The rest of the household staff were afraid of the lady's maid. When she gave an order, no one dared to say “I'm not allowed” or “Mistress wouldn't like it” or seek permission from senior staff members. She quickly enlisted a pair of strong housemaids to open windows, strip the room, and make all as clean as could be.

All personal care of her mistress, however, was hers exclusively, and Radford found himself elbowed aside when she sponged Lady Clara's face and neck or tried to spoon a little nourishment into her. She'd given her a few drops of laudanum at intervals, cautiously. She must have judged her doses to a nicety, because Clara remained somewhat alert and seemed to digest the little she ate.