Julian was half conscious, opening his eyes only long enough for Courtenay to see how glassy they were. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead despite the chill of the evening. Courtenay untied Julian’s cravat and attempted to remove his coat, but it was too closely tailored for Courtenay to manage on his own, so he settled for unbuttoning both coat and waistcoat. He had never touched flesh so alarmingly warm, not even Isabella during her final illness.
“Mr. Medlock has taken ill,” he told Eleanor’s butler after half carrying, half coaxing Julian out of the carriage. Tilbury was regarding him with a degree of suspicion unusual even for him. “He needs a bed. Now!” he added when Tilbury didn’t move immediately.
A footman—the same one who he recalled not wanting to help the opera girl into her cloak—materialized to help carry Medlock up the stairs and through the door. Every time they moved one of Julian’s limbs, he moaned. “Never mind a bed,” Courtenay barked. “I’m taking him to the back parlor.” It was the room he had once told Julian was Eleanor’s cat room. God, that felt like a hundred years ago.
“Call for the doctor,” Courtenay called over his shoulder in his most commanding tones.
“Stop touching me,” Julian moaned as Courtenay and the footman undressed him. “My skin is prickly.”
“Too bad,” Courtenay said. Now, in the well-lit parlor, he could see how badly Julian was. His cheeks were livid with fever, his pupils dilated so much that his gray eyes were entirely black. This was how Isabella had looked in the days before her death. Courtenay gritted his teeth.
“Vinegar,” he said to the footman after they had eased Julian onto the sofa and covered him with a thin sheet. He wracked his brain but couldn’t think of the name for the tea that was good for fevers. “And... goddamn it, I don’t know any of these things in English.” He cursed himself for not knowing.
“I’ll ask the cook,” the footman said on his way out the door. “She’ll know.”
The doctor came while Courtenay was bathing Julian’s head with the vinegar the footman had brought. He nearly collapsed with relief to see the man, but his relief was short-lived when the medical man ordered that the windows Courtenay had opened be closed immediately.
“Nonsense,” Courtenay argued. “Feel him. He’s hot. He needs to cool off.”
“The night air is unwholesome,” the doctor insisted. “Besides, Mr. Medlock is shivering. He needs warmth.”
He was shivering because he had sweat through the sheets. Even Courtenay understood that. He felt a rising sense of panic at what he felt was the doctor’s potential incompetence. If this doctor couldn’t save Julian, then that would be another death on Courtenay’s conscience. He watched the doctor rummage in his bag, finally producing a lancet and a cup from his bag. “In order for the fever to break, he needs to have one of his veins breathed.”
Courtenay wrinkled his brow in confusion. Did the doctor mean bloodletting? Because there was no way Courtenay was letting this doctor put a knife to Julian’s arm.
“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice from the door. It was Eleanor, still wearing her ball gown, with Standish just behind. Courtenay nearly sagged with relief to see her. She would know what to do. She always did. “It was so kind of you to come to us so late, Dr. Abernathy, but I’ll see to things from here. Tilbury will pay your fee on your way out.”
“Thank God you’re here,” Courtenay said.
Eleanor approached the bed and put her hand to her brother’s head. She frowned.
“Is this a recurrence...” Standish’s voice trailed off.
“I can’t be sure. We don’t use Dr. Abernathy for these instances, so he wouldn’t have known.”
Courtenay had no idea what they were talking about. “What instances?”
Eleanor unwrapped her shawl and absently held it out. Standish promptly took it from her. “You did right to cool him down with vinegar. Bloodletting,” she added. “In my own house. I think not.” She spoke with a degree of venom that reminded Courtenay of Julian. A fresh wave of panic swept over him at the idea that he might never hear Julian complain about Courtenay’s cravat or hair or anything else.
“The cook sent this tea up,” Courtenay said, gesturing to a cup on the bedside table. “But I didn’t want to give it to him without knowing if it was right.”
Eleanor sniffed it. “Willow bark. It won’t do any harm but what he needs is the Peruvian bark tincture. I have some in my study in case he has an attack while he’s with me. You can spoon some into his mouth if he’ll take it.”
“An attack?” Courtenay still didn’t understand. “I thought it was influenza.”
“Eleanor,” Standish said. “Why don’t you get changed and have someone send up the tincture? And we may as well send for your brother’s valet. We’ll need help tending to him. How long did his last attack last?”
“I don’t know. He’s always very cagey about it. We’ll ask Briggs when he gets here.”
“Could somebody tell me what is going on here?” Courtenay’s voice came out too high, panicked, all wrong.
“Get changed, Eleanor,” Standish said firmly with a pointed look at his wife which apparently she knew how to interpret. She shut the door quietly behind her on her way out.
“He has malaria,” Standish said calmly. “He fell ill when he was a child, and it comes back from time to time.” Standish must have read something of Courtenay’s shock on his face because he added, “He’s healthy, though.”
“Healthy?” Courtenay gestured at the sofa where Medlock was fitfully turning, his breathing labored. “Evidently not. Why was he at that blasted ball? He oughtn’t to have been out of bed.”
“Had to go.” Julian’s eyes were wide open but vacant. “Otherwise you’d think I stayed away to avoid you.”
