“Mr. Wicket?” Charlie said. “Perhaps you could lend a hand?”
That kicked off a lot of grunting and complaining.
“He’s like a sack of bricks.”
“Even heavier. It’s like trying to move the Rock of Gibraltar,” Mr. Wicket said.
Winsome supposed it was no easy task to move Lord Manderbey. He was a very tall and vital sort of man.
“I am sorry to say,” Mr. Wicket said, “the nightclothes simply cannot be done.”
Then Winsome heard rapid footsteps on the stairs and the duke’s voice. “This way, Phillips. He’s just in there.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” the physician answered.
Winsome laid her glass of sack on the side table and leaned closer to the wall. She must know what the physician would say of Lord Manderbey’s condition.
“Good God,” Phillips said, “what have you done to him?”
“Nothing, Sir,” Charlie said.
“Where are his clothes?”
“On the floor, just this moment,” Mr. Wicket said.
“We’ve tried to get him into nightclothes,” Thomas said, “but we’re having a time of it.”
“I’ll say,” Phillips said.
“We don’t think it can be done,” Mr. Wicket said.
“Never mind that. We’ve got to get him up and walking—it’s the only way through from an overdosing of laudanum. He’s got to stay awake and keep moving.”
