Nightingale. Part 6

"Sorry, Miss," Figg sounded genuinely apologetic. "I didn't realize the lad had company. This here," he gestured toward the huge bay, "is the master's favorite mare. It's her time."

Looking uncertain, he caught Vindicator's harness and tugged him through a walkway between one paddock and the other. Tossing his head, Vindicator broke free and raised his nose, calling to the mare who turned her back to him. Figg propped a foot on the fence and watched the ritual as the pair snorted and sniffed and nipped at one another.

Turning her head so as not to observe the play too closely, Jessica walked closer to Mr. Figg. He continued watching the horses.

"Problem is; Meg here can't throw a filly. His Grace 'ould like to have a big old brood mare out of old Vindicator there. Meg's had three foals in three years, all of 'em boys."

He pointed to another paddock. "That one there's the last, the roan. Frederick's his name. Big like his folks. See. Feisty. A wonderful spirited boy. Devlin was here for the birthin' of all three. Not one of 'em black like their pa. Maybe this time we'll get us a big black filly."

Jessica drifted to Frederick's paddock, wondering that the stableman, Figg, referred to the duke by his Christian name. The colt romped to the fence and stuck his nose over.

"h.e.l.lo, Freddie." She scratched his nose. Figg obviously had been around a while. He might be a good source of information, if she were there long enough to ask.

After checking to see Devlin continued asleep, Jessica returned to her room, stripped off Martha's fine clothes, down to the borrowed s.h.i.+ft, stretched out on the ma.s.sive bed, and fell into a deep sleep. She dreamed of green fields swarming with rollicking, spindle-legged foals with soft black noses, kicking their heels against stable doors, making an awful din.

She bolted upright with Sophie shaking her awake.

"Miss, Miss!" The young maid sounded frantic. "I been knocking. Wake up. It's the master, Miss. I think he's dyin'. Mr. Patterson sent me to fetch you. Said I was to bring you quick. You must come now. At once."

Blinking against the afternoon light that invaded when Sophie threw open the draperies, Jessica felt disoriented. Her mind focused as she slipped her arms into the light dressing gown Sophie produced and held for her. The serving girl caught the sash ends and secured the robe's sides while she tugged Jessica, barefooted, through the door and into the hallway.

"Oh, please hurry, Miss," Sophie urged, pus.h.i.+ng with a hand at Jessica's back.

Servants rushed in the same direction, sweeping toward the wing where the family slept. Caught up in a tide of humanity, Jessica coursed straight to the duke's bedchamber.

Sophie tapped lightly at the door which was flung open to Henry's grim countenance.

"He is restless with the fever again, Miss," Henry said, pulling Jessica's arm to propel her into the room, then closing the door abruptly in the faces of Sophie and other servants gathering.

"It broke a while ago, but now he is chilling, shaking with the palsy. He's calling for you. Let 'im know yer here. The doctor says the duke is strong but he has to keep calm. It's not good for him to thresh about like he's doin'."

Henry seemed to choke and cleared his throat with little coughs. Jessica gave him a hard look. The duke's personal valet didn't meet her gaze. When he did, the whites of his eyes were streaked with red, the lids puffy. He made several attempts before he spoke. Even then, his voice was husky. "He might be dyin', Miss."

Jessica grabbed the man's elbows, catching him totally unawares. "He is not dying!" She gritted her teeth and shook the spare, rather dignified little gentleman's gentleman. "Do not say that again, or I swear I shall flog you myself." She had never seen anyone flogged, but it had a good, brutal sound to it. "Do you hear me?"

Henry's eyes rounded and the man squared his shoulders, staring at her. "Most a.s.suredly," he gasped. To her astonishment, a twitch which might have been a smile tweaked his thin lips before he regained control. "Don't waste vigor on me, Miss." He gestured toward the bed. "He's the one needs threatenin'."

She turned toward the duke.

Dying, indeed. Her stomach contracted. Did Henry think they were dealing with some lack wit from Welter? His Grace the Duke dying? This large, virile, haughty specimen? An outrageous, unconscionable notion.

Setting her jaw, fisting her hands, and scowling Jessica took long strides to Devlin Miracle's bedside.

Seeing him there beneath a mound of coverings, pale and s.h.i.+vering, Jessica pursed her lips and swelled to her full height before she said, rather too loudly, "You sent for me, Your Grace?"

One eye was hidden beneath fresh bandages. His free eyelid fluttered and opened, but no recognition registered on his face. A moment later, his hand snaked from beneath the covers. "Nightingale?" His voice was a rasp.

She kept her tone carefully modulated, adding just a hint of hauteur. "Yes, Your Grace. Is there something you require?"

"Am I .... ?" He frowned and turned his face from her.

"No, Your Grace, you are not dying, although I am sure you probably would prefer it, at the moment. Your fever has broken and you are chilling. In a while, that will pa.s.s and the fever will probably reoccur and peak again. It may go on that way for several hours, but you are strong. You will survive."

"I want you here."

"I am here."

"In here." Feebly he tried to lay the covers back.

"I am not a pet, Your Grace, to curl up in your bed to warm your feet."

His teeth chattered. "Please. Come to me as you did before. Put your warm little bottom against my belly and banish this infernal chill."

Jessica watched his muscular arm tremble and fail at the sustained effort to hold the cover open. A glimpse indicated he might be naked beneath the sheets, a shadow his only apparel.

Movement at one side of the room drew her attention to an older man packing vials and instruments into a dark case that sat on a table nearby. Until that moment, she had not been aware of anyone else in the room, yet, as she looked about, she also saw Lady Anne sitting stiffly in a rocking chair in a darkened corner wringing a handkerchief between her hands. The older woman did not look at Jessica and the girl speculated that the dowager d.u.c.h.ess was probably praying.

"If you can, you need to do as he asks," the man whispered.

"Who are you to direct me?"

"I am Dr. Brussel, the duke's physician."

"Was it you who started that ridiculous rumor?"

"I asked Henry to send for you. Devlin had asked for you. Henry's anxiety was contagious. I a.s.sumed he would enlist a maid to carry my message."

"So Sophia a.s.sumed .... ?"

Dr. Brussel stepped closer. "Devlin is ill, my dear, but as you so aptly said; he is a strong man who will, no doubt, overcome this scourge."

Jessica relaxed slightly. "Truthfully, sir, must I do as he asks?"

Brussel looked toward the bed. "If you can see your way to it, yes."

She gave the dowager another furtive glance, which apparently prompted the doctor to add, "His mother will remain here in the room. No one will suggest anything untoward about your being within the chamber, and they need not know of the other."

"Am I to a.s.sume a position here as family pet?"

"Have you been better treated anywhere, even in your father's house?"

Jessica considered his question for a blink before she answered with equal honesty. "I have not."

She gave the man a haughty sniff, rewarding his attempt at levity. She thought of Devlin's regard for Sweetness, another animal in his care, and then looked again to the bed. If he had looked weak or helpless, she might have agreed. Devlin's uncovered eye was closed, but he wore a somewhat supercilious smile that she found suspicious, although his occasional tremors appeared genuine enough.

"I will sit at the foot of the bed to warm his feet," she conceded finally, distrusting Devlin's expression.

Dr. Brussel finished loading vials of pills and powders and tapped the latch closed on his case. "That is most generous of you, Miss." He offered something in his hand to Jessica. "I'm leaving this." He placed a vial on the bedside table. Devlin is to drink two spoons of this every four hours. Will you make sure he takes the dosage and at the proper times?"

"Yes."

"His fever may come and go through the night, but I expect significant improvement by morning."

Jessica felt relief claw its way up from the pit of her stomach. The duke was going to be all right, and that was not just her uneducated, defiant declaration. It was a medical opinion from the doctor himself.

She indulged the urge to hug the somber physician and kiss his cheek.

The older man smiled and his eyes twinkled. "You a.s.sured me first, Jessica Blair. Now give the man whatever comfort you can and let me know if he's not better by morning. I don't expect to hear from you." Grinning as if he had a private joke, the doctor left, catching elbows and turning servants away from the door. "The duke is going to be fine. Just fine. He needs a good night's rest." Brussel pulled the bedchamber door closed behind him.

Jessica eased onto the foot of the bed where she remained stiffly upright for a time. Eventually, she lay on her side, cus.h.i.+oned her head on an elbow and curled around the duke's feet.

A sound startled her and she roused to see Lady Anne teeter forward in her chair, then jerk awake and right herself to keep from toppling to the floor. Jessica rose and tiptoed to the older woman.

"You need real sleep, Your Grace. It will not do to have two n.o.bles ill in the same house. Go on to your bed now. I will see to the duke. I will summon you if we need a.s.sistance."

Lady Anne looked relieved for a moment, and then cast a worried glance toward the man sleeping soundly in the bed.

Jessica guided the dowager from the chair to the door and into the corridor to find Sophie slouched on a bench directly across the way. The girl leaped to her feet and hurried to give a.s.sistance.

Compliant, the dowager shuffled, transferring from Jessica's arms into Sophie's, and allowing herself to be escorted to her quarters, several doors down the hall.

Chapter Five.

"No, no, no, fool." Nan, the officious upstairs maid, rushed to draw the window covering closed, jerking the cords from Jessica's hand. The long velvet draperies snapped shut over the sunlight, casting Devlin's bedchamber back into the pall of night, as well as cutting off the spring breeze that had whispered lightly about the room.

None too well rested, Jessica flushed at the maid's high-handed reprimand. Although little respected among the household staff, Nan had the audacity to call Jessica "fool" and attempt to instruct her on matters pertaining to her patient.

The impudence probably sprang from the household's confusion about Jessica's position. Much discussion had not settled the matter of how they should treat the young woman in ragbag clothing who had brought a peer of the realm home.

Jessica identified with the servants' dilemma, having no idea how she had obtained such a lofty standing, which is why she did not erupt at Nan's impertinence.

Patterson had a different standing, of course. The old retainer had helped rear all three of the Miracle's sons and treated the two survivors with thinly veiled regard when he agreed with their actions and disdain when they earned his disapproval. Patterson was regarded by the family as a venerable older relative, making him of more consequence than a servant.

Neither Patterson nor the dowager were present when Nan arrived and began noisily gathering soiled dishes on a tray, and snapping out fresh towels and linens. Jessica held silent until Nan turned her attention to the bed where Devlin had at last fallen asleep. Antic.i.p.ating, Jessica intercepted the housemaid.

"That will be all, Nan."

The maid squinted as if to challenge the command.

Jessica raised her brows. "I wouldn't." While not threatening in themselves, the words convinced Nan to wait for another time to test this visitor's authority.

As soon as Nan clattered out the door, Jessica marched to the window and threw back the velvet draperies. She started as Devlin's deep baritone boomed in the silent room. "Good for you."

Jessica spun. "What?"

"Don't let them bluff you, Nightingale. Stand your ground. I will back you, even when you are wrong."

She tried to make her voice sound indignant. "Who is going to determine if or when I am wrong?"

As she intended, the arrogance in her question ignited his deep, throaty chuckle. Her giggling laugh mixed with his, lilting toward the rafters.

"I am glad you are feeling better, Your Grace. We - that is, your family and I ... indeed, the entire household, of course - have all been concerned."

"You have been concerned for me, little bird?"

Jessica stealthily stepped to her right. His open, unbandaged eye did not follow. He could not see. Not yet, anyway.

"Certainly, Your Grace. I understand from all of this," she made a sweeping gesture, "that you are an important figure, not only to your family, but to the nation."

"Oh, am I?"

"Well, that's what everyone here seems to think."

"And you, my chirping little bird?"

"I know too little of politics or politicians to have an opinion, Your Grace."

Devlin struggled to prop himself higher on his pillows. Jessica rushed to offer her arm for his use in pulling himself upright while she reached behind to readjust the cus.h.i.+ons.

He wrapped both hands about her arm and adopted a more serious tone. "You are strong, Nightingale, to be as thin as you are."

"Yes I am, Your Grace."

Steadying himself, leaning on her while bracing one hand on the bed, he used the other to finger the bandage wrapped about his head.

"Thank goodness," he said. "I thought I'd lost the ability to open and close my eye. It's only this infernal wrap. Perhaps the covered eye has regained its sight."

Jessica bit her lips together to keep from blurting the truth, certain that he was equally blind in both eyes, at least for the moment.

Jessica saw nothing to worry about yet. A sightless rich man could look forward to a far better life that a blind beggar. Jessica viewed the duke's situation as an inconvenience.

She glanced down on the top of Devlin's thick blond hair and realized he had grown perfectly still, his face pressed against her upper arm while she continued to hold him upright.

"Have you fallen asleep, Your Grace?" she whispered.

He stirred only a little. "You smell of the woods, of fresh air and pine, Nightingale. I was taking advantage of a quiet moment to breathe you. Surely you don't begrudge me the pleasure of your scent."

She s.h.i.+vered. There was something suggestive in the statement and in his manner. "No, Your Grace, of course not." The tenor of his voice puzzled her. Was he grieving, suspicious that the damage to his eyes might be permanent? Or frightened, perhaps?