Page 92 of Again, Scoundrel

“Jenkins must tend to you first.”

“Alistair!”

She was too tired to hide her irritation.

“How can you be concerned with my appearance at a time like this?”

Alistair reached across the table and grasped her hand. “I am not, I assure you. As I said, I like you in those breeches.”

He gave her the same smile he’d shot her in the tavern where they’d stopped to rest. It was completely inappropriate given the current circumstances, but it made fire flash through her belly, nonetheless.

“But unfortunately, my father will not stand for anything other than the highest level of propriety.”

She felt his hand clench around hers.

“Believe me, the next few hours will be markedly easier if you are not wearing breeches, no matter how much I enjoy them. I’ll consult with him on the surgeon’s report while you are dressing, which should be of help to you. And then you can examine my brother.”

“I don’t want to wait,” she said, acquiescing against all her instincts. “But I will.”

This was his family; she’d let him lead.

Violet allowed her body to be stuffed into a chemise, corset, skirt, bodice, and apron. She rushed through dressing as quickly as possible, impatient to be done with it.

“There,” the maid said, pinning up the last of Violet’s unruly hair into the barest minimum of an acceptable coiffure. “That will do.”

Violet was out of the room and making her way to Darius’s sickbed before the words were entirely out of the woman’s mouth. Once she got to his bedchamber door though, she paused to settle her mind.

Her thoughts were returning again and again to James, her beloved twin, but she could not afford a break in her focus now. Darius needed her full attention.

She cautiously opened the door to his bedchamber and made her way inside, where she found two harrowing scenes. The first was her patient lying in his sickbed.

Darius’s skin was sallow and pale, with undertones so blue it was as if he had been emptied of blood. His cheekbones cut sharp angles into his skin, highlighting the hollows of his face beneath them, and his collarbones protruded from his chest, too angular and bony for his large frame. They were so prominent she could see the ridges of them beneath the linen sheets strewn over his body, which made the bedding look more like a death shroud than linens.

The second sight she took in was Alistair himself, seated in a chair beside Darius’s bed and grasping his hand. The look of anguish on his face cut right through her as easily as a scalpel might.

“Alistair,” Violet whispered. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“I won’t leave him.”

“You must. You don’t know what’s causing this fever. It may spread.”

“I spoke with the Marquess,” Alistair said, his eyes never leaving his brother. “The surgeon has come and gone already. There’s nothing we can do now. We’re too late, Violet. It’s time for the vicar.”

“No. Please, Alistair. Please trust me to try and help him.”

“Violet, don’t. It’s too late. I won’t hope otherwise. It would be too—”

“Alistair,” she said gently, not letting him finish that sentence. “I’ll give you no false hope. But let me see him. What can it hurt after I’ve come all this way?”

He remained silent, but she could see a softening in his shoulders that told her she was making progress.

“I’ll just tend his fever,” she went on, when she saw a slight nod of his head. “At the very least, it will be soothing to him. There is no reason not to try.”

She was pushing her advantage, she knew. But she needed to get Alistair out of the room so she could begin her work. Even from her distance she could see that Darius’s skin was clammy and pale against Alistair’s healthier coloring. He may very well need the vicar if she didn’t begin treatment as soon as possible.

“I’ll stay by his side, Violet,” Alistair said. “But you can tend to him.”

“No.” She was gentle but firm. “You can’t be here. There’s a chance it’s diphtheria.”