Page 93 of Again, Scoundrel

“It’s not. The surgeon told Father. And he’s got lesions on his legs and feet. It’s something else. Something that won’t be cured.”

“Oh.” Violet squelched the look of alarm she was sure had just passed across her face. Lesions were…they were bad. “Leave us now. At once.”

“No.”

“Yes,” countered the coldest, most aristocratic voice that Violet had ever heard, spoken from the hallway behind her. That single word carried with it seven generations of Timsbury power and wealth and brokered no possibility of disagreement.

Violet turned to find the Marquess, Alistair’s father, standing behind her. He looked exactly like his two sons, and his eyes were boring holes into Alistair.

“You brought her here,” the Marquess said to his son. “Have the courage of your conviction and do as she says.”

When Alistair did not immediately move, he added a brisk, “Now.”

“Father,” Alistair started, but the Marquess held up a hand to cut off his son’s words.

“No. Wait downstairs for me while I have a word with Miss Goodwin. See to your mother. She needs you.”

Alistair rose reluctantly, as if he were again a recalcitrant teenager and not a man of twenty and five years. He gave his brother’s hand one last squeeze and made his way out the door.

“Thank you,” Violet said to the Marquess after Alistair had left them.

She did not care for him. She couldn’t after what he’d done to Alistair, but she was grateful, nonetheless.

The man lifted a single eyebrow at her, just as Alistair would have done. “That was not for your benefit, Miss Goodwin. Why are you here?”

“I’m a nurse. I came to be of service.”

“You are the American cousin of Lady Catherine West? The one from the Waverley Ball?”

“I am.”

“Timber, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes,” Violet said, wondering what that might have to do with anything. “My mother’s family is in timber.”

But the Marquess merely nodded, his face unreadable. “The surgeon has already seen my son. The vicar is on his way.”

“Alistair said as much. But I think—”

Here Violet lifted her head and squared her shoulders, more out of habit than anything else. “I believe I may be of help, sir, despite what the surgeon said. I am quite proficient at nursing.”

The Marquess gave her an assessing look, and then a single, curt nod of his head.

“Send word down with the footman for what supplies you’ll need. The vicar arrives tomorrow, at which point, if Darius’s condition has not improved, you will stand aside. I won’t cause my wife any more grief than is necessary.”

He turned to leave, not bothering to wait for Violet’s agreement, but then stopped just shy of exiting the bedchamber.

“It will be Alistair now, you know,” he said, in a softer voice than she’d thought him capable of. “He’s to be protected.” And then the Marquess left.

Chapter

36

Violet sent word with the footman for the materials she would need, including two pots of water, one as near to scalding as possible and one that had been heated and cooled; strong lye soap; Dr. Warburg’s tincture for fevers; as much yarrow as could be found, dried or harvested fresh; St. John’s Wart salve; birch pollen; laudanum; as many freshly laundered scraps of linen as were available; and another cup of coffee.

The last was for Violet, who was more than exhausted. But she had only hours to try and help Darius, and she would start as soon as the supplies were brought up and she could wash her hands.

She made her way over to the heavy draperies blocking all sunlight from the room and pulled them back, exhaling a sigh of relief as the warm sun hit her face. And then she cracked open the window to let in some air. Fresh air was one of the practices she’d learned from the midwives, and she grinned, thinking of how that old surgeon would shudder and complain if he knew.