“It’s Lord Henry Willenshire, sir. You’ve had a turn in Mr. Spencer’s office. We’re taking you to the doctor’s now,” Henry said, leaning over him. “Can you stand?”
“I think so, if you support me. No need for a doctor, though. A little rest will be just the ticket. If I can sleep…”
“I’m afraid not,” Henry said firmly. “Doctor it is.”
Charles sagged a little. He looked as though he would dearly love to argue, but simply didn’t have the energy. He allowed Henry to gently nudge him to his feet, and heavily leaning on the younger man, Charles made his slow and painful way downstairs.
“Send a message ahead to Doctor Jonathan Ashby,” Henry instructed the nervous-looking clerk at the door. “Tell him that Lord Henry Willenshire is bringing in Mr. Charles Fairfax, and that the man is very ill. Make haste, sir!”
The clerk jumped to attention, scurrying to obey without even glancing at his employer for approval.
“Oh, Mr. Spencer?” Henry called over his shoulder in a parting shot before the carriage door closed. “Those numbers are final.”
The coachman picked up immediately on Henry’s panic, and the coach bounced and lurched through the streets at high speed, taking corners on what felt like two wheels.
Charles lay still and white on the seat, almost as if he were dead already.
Don’t think that,Henry thought wildly, and applied himself to keeping the man awake and alert.
“Can’t drop off now, Charles,” he said cheerily. “Not now we’re about to get a deal more money out of Mr. Spencer.”
Charles seemed to be trying to say something but was too weak to make the words come out.
“I have no water, if that’s what you’re asking for,” Henry said quietly. “Although I’m sure there will be something at Doctor Ashby’s.”
Charles groaned.
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes,” the older man managed thickly, “but it doesn’t matter. I don’t wish Eleanor to know about this.”
Henry blinked. “I understand that the news will be upsetting, but you must see that she ought to know. It’s only fair.”
“No, no. Shemustn’tknow. You must promise me, Lord Henry.”
Henry sighed. “I can’t, Mr. Fairfax. Look, enough of promises and all this secrecy. We’re almost there, judging by the pace the carriage driver has gotten us up to. Everything will be fine, I promise you.”
“You can’t promise that.”
Henry hesitated, a twinge of guilt echoing through his chest.
“No,” he confessed, voice low. “I can’t.”
The carriage screeched to a halt outside a fine, white-washed London townhouse, with a brass plaque proclaiming it the residence of Doctor Jonathan Ashby.
Doctor Ashby himself came running when the carriage halted, grim-faced and serious, with a pair of orderlies attending him.
Gently but firmly, they carried Charles out of the carriage. The last of his strength seemed to have failed him, and he hung as limp as a doll from their arms. Henry felt a cold pang of fear shoot down his spine. Whatever was wrong with Charles Fairfax, it was serious.
As Charles passed Jonathan into the house, he shot out a weak hand and closed it around his wrist.
“He’s going to tell Eleanor,” he whispered.
Jonathan sighed. “Ah. I’ll manage it, Charles, don’t you worry. I’ll keep Louisa away until you’re ready to receive visitors. I’ll put you in your usual room.”
Then Charles was carried away up the steps, and Jonathan paused behind to greet Henry.
“It’s Lord Henry Willenshire, I assume,” he said, holding out a hand.
