The castle, on the other hand, was splendid. Handsome and built with every modern comfort, it overlooked fine views in every direction. Radford had caught himself more than once imagining Lady Clara’s reaction. He thought she’d be amused, but would probably like it. Yet he felt sure she’d like the ancient pile in Worcestershire better, for its character.
He was making a miserable job of not thinking about her, even though he had more than enough to occupy even his overlarge brain.
With the other relatives out of the way, he tackled Bernard.
He found His Grace in the library—by no means reading a book—but sprawled on a sofa near the fire. A glass and a decanter stood close at hand. A wine-stained sporting magazine lay at his feet.
There being more of Bernard than there used to be, he needed most of the sofa for sprawling space. When Radford joined him, he looked up blearily.
“Do you want me to inherit?” Radford said.
Even if preambles had been in his style, he’d waste them on Bernard.
The duke blinked. “That’s little Raven, isn’t it? Dear, dear little cuz. If I wasn’t overcome with grief I’d throw you off the premises. Whyn’t they do it, then? Or did I forget to tell ’em?”
“You sent for me, you idiot,” Radford said. “You dismissed your agent and your land steward.”
“They bothered me.”
With estate business: his responsibilities, in other words.
Bernard was a brainless bully. Radford did not love him. But he detached himself from his dislike because the dukedom was more than the one man. It comprised great estates in divers parts of Great Britain and all the people whose livelihoods depended on those properties. The vast majority of these people were far from wealthy and worked hard for the little they had.
To His Grace of Malvern they did not exist. On the other hand, his own comfort concerned him very much. When Radford got him to understand that failing to manage the ducal responsibilities would result in every sort of botheration, including reduced income, Bernard told him, “Then you’d better take care of it.”
Radford decided he might as well do so. The libel suit was unlikely to reach a courtroom for another month at least, if it ever did. Working for his cousin would keep his mind engaged in the meantime. Radford would have less time and mental space for wandering into unproductive musings and what-ifs and debates about whether to write to Lady Clara.
“I realize you’re a pleasanter person—relatively speaking—when you drink,” he told his cousin. “Ergo, for the sake of those who must live with you, I will not tell you to stop altogether. But unless you’re eager for me to inherit, I recommend you reduce the quantity of intoxicants by at least one half.”
He stepped closer and studied the duke’s eyes. They weren’t grey, like Radford’s, but hazel. The whites were not white, either. It was hard to be certain, even in daylight, because his eyes were always bloodshot, but Radford detected a yellow tinge.
“Your physician believes an excess of yellow bile presents an immediate danger to your health,” he went on. “I must, on the evidence, agree with him, although, on the whole, I find medical persons to be backward, superstitious, and given to worship at the altar of antiquated theory, even in clear and unmistakable contradiction to clinical experience.”
“Want to say it again in English?” Bernard said. “You always was so talkative. Big words, too. And Latin and Greek. How I stay awake when you talk is a mystery to me. And sit down, curse you. You’re giving me a neck ache.”
Radford drew up a chair and sat where he could face his cousin straight on. “If you don’t become more temperate in your habits you’ll die young. Before that, though, you’ll become impotent. Meaning—”
“I know what that means.” Bernard laughed. “Sad, soggy cock. That your trouble, little Raven? That what makes you such a pain in the arse?”
“It’s your cock we’re talking about, you numskull,” Radford said. “Now here’s the thing. You want to remarry, right? Want to try again for little boys?”
“Live ones,” Bernard growled. He blinked hard, and his face crumpled into quivering folds. “She . . . Two girls only, and they didn’t last long. She lost the others before she could birth ’em. Then she was sick. Well, how was I to know? Silly cow. Don’t know why I miss her.”
“Because she was better than you deserved, which I am sure will always be the case. Listen to me, Cousin. We both know that many parents would sell their nubile daughters to a duke wanting an heir, no matter if he was covered with warts and boils and succumbing to syphilitic dementia.”
Bernard heaved himself forward. But since his great belly wouldn’t let him go far, he failed to appear threatening. Comical was more like it. “I ain’t poxed, you beaky little turd!”
“For your future bride’s sake, I’m glad to hear it,” Radford said. “I’m glad as well to know your education wasn’t entirely wasted, for you seem to understand some big words.”
“If I wasn’t sick with grief, I’d land you a facer.” The duke sank back onto the sofa.
“I only wish to point out that, no matter what ailments you do or do not suffer from, no matter how young and nubile your next bride is, you will not get another child of any kind if you don’t stop guzzling drink and laudanum at your present rate.”
“Didn’t you notice it was a funeral you were at the other day?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence by blaming grief,” Radford said. “You’ve been intemperate since boyhood. Until Her Grace’s funeral, nobody had seen you sober for the last six years.”
Bernard refilled his glass. For a time he regarded Radford over the rim. Then he tipped his head back and emptied it down his throat.
“Ah, witty repartee,” Radford said. He rose. “Well, I’ve said my piece.”
“You ain’t going!”
“No such luck,” Radford said. “For either of us. I’ve an appointment with your new land steward.”
Finding a replacement hadn’t been easy. The last one had left matters in a disarray not wholly his fault, and not all qualified men were like Radford, enchanted at the prospect of untangling a Gordian knot.
“Oh, I’ve got one, have I? As stupid as the last?”
“Yes, but you’re paying him more to compensate,” Radford said. “As well, I’ve rehired your agent, Dursley, because he’s the most competent fellow within fifty miles.”
Bernard blinked at him. He probably didn’t remember who Dursley was.
“Pray don’t trouble your delicate little brain about a thing,” Radford said. “We’ll endeavor to muddle along without you.” He started out of the room, then paused a pace from the threshold. “By the way, as long as I’m doing everything else, does Your Majesty wish me to find a bride for you? Given your present state of health, I recommend you make haste.”
“Ha ha. You wit, you. Why, yes, find me a bride, there’s a good little Raven.”
Radford went out. Someone of strong will and strong stomach, he thought, might whip his fool cousin into shape. He could write to Lady Clara for suggestions . . .
I think you ought to write to me, but I suppose you won’t.
No, he supposed he’d better not. He was sure that would be Mistake Number Eleven.
The message arrived a short time later, while Radford was closeted with Sanborne, the new land steward, in the muniments room.
Although it bore Westcott’s handwriting, Radford would have tossed it aside had it not arrived express. He knew Westcott wouldn’t send a letter express merely to bother him with legal business. Heart racing, he tore it open.
Westcott had folded a second document inside. He’d simply written, “Enclosed letter received today from her ladyship’s maid. Kindly read immediately.” Both messages were dated yesterday.
Davis had written:
Dear Mr. Westcott
,
My lady went to bed unwell and woke early this morning complaining of a dreadful headache. Since then she’s grown feverish and suffers pain in her joints and muscles. Lady Exton’s physician says this is a febrile attack, and he promises to bleed my lady the next time he comes, if she isn’t better. I am sure this is unwise, but Dr. Marler doesn’t know where my lady has been, and he would never listen to the likes of me, even if I could bring myself to tell him. He doctors the nobility, and most of them only imagine they’re sick. He won’t know anything of jail fever, or believe it if I was so bold to say what I think. He’s like most every other doctor, not listening to anybody else. Even if he did believe me, I worry he’ll make it worse. Lady Exton is clever, but she believes the doctor knows everything. And so my poor lady grows more ill by the hour, with no one by who knows how to help her. You may tell Mr. Radford for me that I thank him for the fix we’re in. He promised no harm would come to my dear lady, but here she is, so very ill. If she dies, I promise to make him pay, and I will go cheerfully to the gallows after.
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.
Stopping 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.
There 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.
Dr. 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?