When Beauty Tamed the Beast

  “I suspect there will be a newish duchess soon,” Sébastien said, rather cheerfully. “He had his arm around her. Very cozy.”

  “Wait! That means he sent Linnet home without an escort,” Piers said, fury surging through his veins. “He sent her all the way to London without an escort.”

  Sébastien frowned at him. “Other than a crew of footmen, maids and grooms. Three carriages’ worth in all. For God’s sake, Piers, you threw her out. Put her out of your mind. She’ll be perfectly safe. Remember, your mother traveled here all the way from Andalusia.”

  Linnet was fifty times more at risk than his mother. But Piers bit back the words before he could voice them.

  Kibbles appeared, halfway up the stairs. “One of the new patients is in a bad way. The village doctor treated him with leeches.”

  “Get a grip on yourself,” Sébastien said, his voice growling with fatigue. “Linnet is gone. Put her behind you.”

  “Go to bed,” Piers snarled back, waving his cousin off. Then he turned to Kibbles. “I thought we got the news out about proper care.”

  “His wife says they heard about isolating the sick, but nothing about treatment.”

  “What village was it?”

  “Llanddowll.”

  “We’ve already taken three patients from there. Send Neythen over on horseback. He seems to be good at this sort of thing and he’s a local boy. Tell him to talk some sense into the doctor. And if that doesn’t work, knock the man on the head and bring him over here. We’ll put him downstairs in the dungeon.”

  Kibbles shook his head. “Neythen is down. A mild case, I think. He’s in the west wing. My guess is that Prufrock would be hard-pressed to spare someone.”

  “They’ll have to get along on their own, then,” Piers said tiredly. “Take me to the patient.”

  “Mr. Connah is very hot, with a feeble pulse,” Kibbles said, standing by the patient’s bed a moment later.

  “Throat?”

  “Dark-colored ulcers. And,” Kibbles turned the patient’s arm over, “the peeling is so violent that he has lost his fingernails.”

  Piers looked down at the patient. His eyes were closed, and his breath rattled in his chest. “How many days has he been ill?” he asked his wife.

  “This is the sixth day,” she said. She was standing by the bed, twisting her hands. “It came on sudden-like, so we put him in a room by himself, just as the minister said, and I sent the children away.”

  “You probably saved their lives,” Piers said.

  “And my husband? My Barris, what of him?”

  He had found that it was best to be direct. “I don’t think he will survive. There’s a chance, of course. Your husband looks like a strong man, and we will fight for him. Tomorrow will tell.”

  Her hand clenched on the bedpost. “If I’d brought him here right when he got the fever, would he have lived? Tell me that.”

  “No,” Piers said flatly, meeting her eyes. “The course of the disease is the course of the disease. We can’t say who will live and who will die.”

  “It weren’t because of those leeches? I didn’t want the leeches, but the doctor insisted. He’s come all the way from the next village, so it seemed as if we were wasting his time if I didn’t let him. He put them right on the throat, the part that hurt, to get the poisoned blood out, he said.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done that might have made a difference. Only God knows when it’s a man’s time to die.”

  “God,” she repeated with a little gasp. “That’s right. Barris went to church every Sunday he did, and always something for them poorer off as well. Iffen he dies . . .”

  Piers waited until she collected herself.

  “Iffen he dies, he had a good life. He loved the children. Me. He said it to me, as soon as we knew he was sick. We had twelve years together.”

  “A great deal of happiness in those twelve years?” Piers asked.

  “Hardship too, but yes, yes,” she said, tears falling onto her hands. “He is a good man, Barris is a good man.”

  “Then you have much to be proud of,” Piers said. “And so do your children.”

  In the corridor he said wearily, “Tell the orderly to keep giving him water, as much as possible. Enlist his wife’s help. We need to cool him down; try wet cloths. I don’t think the malt foam is doing a damn thing but stinking up the rooms, so drop that.”

  “Why did you say that to her?” Kibbles asked. “About whether she could have done it differently? We haven’t lost a single patient who got here early enough. We should tell people, so they know that scarlatina can be beaten back.” For all his exhaustion, there was pride in his voice.

  “She has to live with herself,” Piers said, turning to go. “And she has to live with his memory. That’s enough for one woman.”

  “And why did you say that about God?” Kibbles said, trotting after him. “I’ve never heard you say anything like that.”

  “Observe, you idiot,” Piers snapped. “I’m always telling you that. She was wearing a cross at her neck.”

  “The other two new patients aren’t so badly off. I think you should go to bed as well.”

  “I just sent the marquis to bed.”

  “Penders and I had a good five hours’ sleep,” Kibbles said. “And we know what we’re seeing now. We can manage. Go to bed.”

  “You’re the best of the lot,” Piers said, eyeing him. “You listen.”

  “So, trust me. Go to bed.”

  “I’ll just look in on Neythen,” Piers said. “Anyone else in the household down?”

  “Not since the two maids a few days ago,” Kibbles said. “I think the hand washing is having an effect.”

  Neythen was sleeping, so Piers didn’t enter the room. He could see from the door that the footman had a mild case; his face and arms looked uniformly red, which suggested a fairly quick recovery.

  Then he made his way to bed, swaying a little from pure exhaustion as he went down the corridor, leaning on his cane as if it were a third leg.

  His man had been there at some point; his sheets were turned down and a cold supper waiting. He stopped only to pull off his boots before he fell between the sheets.

  The dream was waiting for him, as it had been every night since she left.

  Linnet was laughing as she pulled her chemise off, just as she had that last morning together. She stood on the rock overlooking the pool, her eyes shining, her beautiful, curvy figure lit by the sunshine so that she looked positively angelic.

  He waved at her as he came down the path, planning to throw off his clothes and join her . . .

  And then he saw, down in the pool, the glint of teeth.

  There was danger in the water.

  Something had got into his pool, and it was waiting for her, hungry and destructive.

  He tried to shout, but she didn’t hear him, and then he started running down the path toward her, except he couldn’t run. Pain flared in his leg, but he kept running, violently throwing his cane forward and thrusting himself off the ground, desperately trying to reach her.

  Linnet waved back at him—and then leaped into the water with that kind of ferocious joy she had, the fearlessness that propelled her into icy water the very first day, before she even knew how to float.

  He woke shaking, heart pounding, face sweaty. For five minutes he couldn’t even think, just lay there staring at the ceiling, telling himself over and over that Linnet was on her way to London. She was safe. She was perfectly safe. His father’s servants were inestimable, trustworthy in every way. He should know how good the duke was at hiring staff. He would trust Prufrock with his life.

  The dream is merely the result of the epidemic, he told himself. Imagination running amok because of the condition in the castle. Because of the scarlatina. Because he was an ass.

  And yet even as his heart calmed, something was nagging at him . . . something he couldn’t quite remember, something about Linnet. It couldn’t have been said to him.
No one had mentioned Linnet’s name since she left. It was as if she had never existed.

  Even Sébastien had forgotten her, it seemed.

  Only he thought of her, every five minutes or so. He’d be bending over a patient and instead of sloughing skin, he’d see her delicate hand. One morning Nurse Matilda called his name, and he whipped about, thinking it was she.

  Mistaking Nurse Matilda’s voice for Linnet’s was just short of a sign of impending insanity.

  What was it? What should he remember? Whatever it was, it stayed just out of reach, tormentingly elusive. Something about dancing . . . which was madness. He had never danced in his life.

  Finally he turned over and went back to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was agony to rest on her back, so Linnet rolled to her side, but that was just as bad. She rolled back, and found herself tangled in blankets. They had put blankets on her, so many blankets.

  “Water,” she muttered, hearing a voice.

  She peered up, seeing a stout figure wavering far above her. He bent down and picked up her wrist. She watched her elevated arm with a kind of fascinated horror. Her skin . . . what was happening to her skin was alarming. Disgusting.

  “Of course we could take her to the castle,” came a voice from somewhere . . . somewhere by her feet. “But I have to admit that Mr. Sordido didn’t think the expense and time was justified. After all, we’ve no idea who she is. I’m caring for her at my own expense, doctor. My own expense.”

  “The castle,” she tried to croak. But they didn’t seem to hear her. Her throat hurt so, and her tongue didn’t fit in her mouth any longer. “Water,” she tried again.

  The man holding her wrist put it down again and straightened up. “She wouldn’t survive the journey, Mrs. Sordido,” he said. “I’m afraid this disease is too strong. Her eyes are open, but she’s clearly not compos mentis. Looking into the other world already, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “She seems a little less hot, though.”

  “I’ve found that the fever comes and goes. I might write a treatise on it when this is all done. I’m thinking of it.”

  “Oh, yes, you should, doctor. It would be a great help to others, I’m sure.”

  “A Treatise on Febrile Diseases,” he said. “Perhaps with a subtitle that ran something like Including the Intermitting, Remitting and Continued Fevers and the Profluvia. I shall report that we’ve had modest success with application of leeches to the poisoned areas, as well as use of rhubarb as a laxative.”

  Mrs. Sordido gave a little gasp that seemed to indicate approval.

  “Have we heard anything from the duke?” the doctor inquired. “It was a duke who owned that carriage, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what we think from the blazon on the carriage. It will take some time for our man to reach London and bring back news. It’s a plumb shame about the coachman.”

  “Buried, is he?”

  “Never woke up, not after that first night. Just raving, thinking he was in London. We buried him straight off. Mr. Sordido didn’t see any point in waiting.”

  “This woman can’t be a lady,” the doctor said thoughtfully. “She’s traveling without a maid, or luggage of any sort, and just look at that chemise she’s wearing. I expect she’s a maid in the duke’s household, or a servant of some sort. You’re very kind to look after her so, Mrs. Sordido. There’s many an innkeeper who wouldn’t bother.”

  “She’s in no one’s way. This old chicken coop was just sitting about,” Mrs. Sordido said modestly. “I send the scullery maid morning and evening to offer water, just as you said.”

  “It’s not as if she could complain of the smell from the chickens,” the doctor said. “It’s a rank disease.”

  “Terrible swollen, isn’t she?” Mrs. Sordido said. “And what’s that running from her ear, doctor?”

  The doctor’s face loomed closer to Linnet. “Fetid liquid,” he said, straightening up. “There’s nothing that can be done here, Mrs. Sordido. You can assure yourself that you’ve done your Christian duty by these poor travelers.”

  “Do come out into the fresh air, doctor,” Mrs. Sordido said, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor as she walked toward the door. She stirred up little swirls of dirt that floated before Linnet’s eyes like fairy dust.

  The doctor straightened and turned to leave as well. “I’ve no doubt but that the duke will reward you for your care.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Sordido isn’t happy with having her here. Nor with me coming in the coop with you, I have to tell you, doctor. But I told him that I would have you visit her one more time, because I don’t want her death on my conscience.”

  “You did right, you certainly did,” the doctor said heartily. “Phew, it is rank in here, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Linnet said, struggling so that she almost sat up. “No, please!”

  She saw dimly that Mrs. Sordido had paused at the door. “What’s happening to her now, doctor?”

  “Seizure, I expect,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Come along, madam. We’ve tried all that’s humanly possible, and now we should just consign her soul to God. In fact, you might want to alert the minister.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t bring the minister out just for a . . .” Her voice died away.

  Trembling, Linnet brought her hand to her face. It wavered before her eyes. How long had she been here? It felt like weeks . . . months.

  Slowly, slowly, she moved her hand to the glass next to her pallet, and managed to bring it to her lips. It flowed into her mouth, cool and lovely. But a moment later she realized that she had forgotten to swallow, and now her neck was wet.

  She tried again, and the water sloshed against her nose. A tear trickled down her cheek.

  She could feel heat lurking, coming back. Water, she thought. This time she managed to swallow. But when she put the glass back on the floor, next to her pallet, it rolled on its side, and the rest of the water poured onto the dirt floor.

  No more water. No more water. It beat in her head to the pace of her heartbeat.

  The terrible heat was coming now, drawing her back into that feverish whirlpool where she couldn’t hear or see anything. But still, water . . .

  The pool glimmered in front of her, exquisite blue, cool and refreshing. And there was Piers, his lean, sardonic, lovable face grinning at her.

  For that moment, before the fever called for her again, she concentrated on loving him, the way he made his fierce way through life, in agony but never stopping. The way he smiled. The intelligence in his eyes.

  He never gives up, she thought. Little speckles, black speckles, were gathering before her eyes so that she could hardly see the weather-beaten boards at the bottom of her pallet.

  Then the fever claimed her, and her eyes closed again.

  Chapter Thirty

  The next day

  By mid morning there was no question but that the epidemic was contained. Only three new patients arrived at the castle, and they weren’t in extremis.

  For the first time since the epidemic began, Sébastien and Piers actually paused for luncheon, falling into chairs in the small parlor, where Prufrock served them braised chicken and glasses of wine.

  “This is civilized,” Piers said with a sigh. “Have you brought some of this to my parents, Prufrock?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Prufrock said. “His Grace came out to bring it inside, once I had moved back a safe distance, of course.” He cleared his throat. “He seemed quite happy.”

  “Lucky bastard,” Piers said. “She’s forgiven him.” And somehow, he had too. Life was what it was. It was time to put away his rage at his father and simply get on with it, defective leg and all.

  “Happily ever after,” Sébastien said, taking a deep draught of wine. “Christ, it feels good to be clean again. I didn’t want to get out of that bath.”

  Prufrock offered Piers a plate of tender, young asparagus. “Dr. Bitts is out of bed. He’s still quite weak, but his man
reports that he is asking questions about the patients.”

  “Bitts,” Piers said moodily. “He’s not a bad doctor, especially for a gentleman. Better than Penders. That fool came up with an infusion of roses yesterday for cleansing patients’ tongues. I couldn’t see any harm to it, but no benefit either.”

  “I think gentlemen make the best doctors,” Sébastien said. “Look at the two of us.” He grinned, exhaustion shadowing his eyes, but still triumphant. “We did a hell of a job with the scarlatina outbreak, Piers. And it didn’t even involve cutting off people’s limbs, which is what we’re best at. Or I am, at any rate.”

  “We’re an anomaly,” Piers said, swirling his wine and trying not to think about Linnet. Which was futile, because the only time he didn’t think about her was when he was actively working on a patient. “Most men, like Bitts, at home in the ballroom, aren’t—”

  He stopped.

  Bitts . . . dancing with Linnet, laughing down at her. Bending his neck toward her. Breathing on her. Every night, almost every night. He shoved back from the table so hard that his chair fell over. “Linnet!”

  Sébastien opened his mouth.

  “She danced with Bitts. I’m a bloody, bloody fool. She danced with Bitts the night before he fell ill, and then she left in that carriage by herself.” The blood was gone from his head; he felt dizzy. “Where’s my cane, where’s my perishing cane?”

  It had fallen to the floor. Prufrock rushed to pick it up. Sébastien was standing now too, frowning.

  “Bitts’s symptoms appeared the next day,” Piers said hoarsely. “The next day, Seb! She could be anywhere, sick. She could be—”

  He turned, pushed Prufrock out of his way so roughly that the butler fell back against the sideboard. “I’m going after her.”

  “Wait!” Sébastien shouted. “We have to think this through.”

  “There’s nothing to think through,” Piers said. Panic was pouring through him like quicksilver, burning in his veins. “I’m going after her. Get my coat, you fool,” he snapped at a footman. “Prufrock, a carriage. The fastest we’ve got. The curricle.”