Blessedly he felt unconsciousness hovering at the edges of his mind, blurring the pain at the fringes, dulling it to something more manageable. He managed to summon just enough awareness to grit out a terse command to Westwood: “Tellno one.”
Then darkness came crowding in, and he knew no more.
Chapter Six
It had taken the combined strength of Mr. Bradshaw and Lord Westwood to heft Leighton up the stairs and onto his bed. Leighton’s valet, Culpepper, had undertaken the arduous process of making his master more comfortable, and Claire—she had fretted along with Mrs. Cartwright and Westwood, who had not yet left the residence.
“We have to summon a doctor,” Claire said, surprising herself with the depth of her concern.
Mrs. Cartwright shook her head. “No; his lordship would not countenance such a thing,” she said.
“He said to tell no one,” Westwood said, his voice reflective. “Why would Leighton say a fool thing like that? I’d certainly want at doctor if I had collapsed in such a fashion.”
Claire nodded her agreement, wringing her hands until her knuckles had gone white. “Mrs. Cartwright, this is a highly unusual occurrence. For his lordship’s health, wemustconsult a doctor.” It wasn’t that shecaredfor him, she assured herself. His betrayal and the years that had passed had smothered whatever feeling for him that she had, in her girlhood, retained. Until she had taken up this position, she had thought of him rarely, preferring to let her thwarted hopes lay dying in the ashes of her past. It was simply that her continuing position as housekeeper depended upon his continued good health. That was all. Truly.
Mrs. Cartwright gave her a faintly chiding glance. “I will admit that such an episode has not visited his lordship in quite some time,” she said, “but hehascome through them before without issue.” She turned to Westwood and asked, “My lord, the circumstances of his lordship’s, er…ailment?”
Westwood scratched at the back of his neck, his brows drawn down in consternation. “I haven’t the faintest,” he said. “We were speaking in the library. He took a bite of gingerbread, and then went white as a sheet. A moment later he’d collapsed.”
Thegingerbreadhad precipitated his lordship’s collapse? Claire wrung her hands until her knuckles popped. She’d thought it had been a generous gesture on her part, adding in that tiny squeeze of lemon juice as Alice had mixed the batter. He’d always liked it that way, likedhergingerbread best.
“Has Leighton got some sort of illness?” Westwood asked, genuine concern in his voice.
“No,” Mrs. Cartwright said briskly, insistently, her voice sharp and severe. “His lordship is well enough. He simply suffers the occasional migraine—a remnant of an incident some years ago. I would ask that you respect his lordship’s wishes, my lord, and not speak of this unfortunate incident. He values his privacy.”
“Of course,” said Westwood, but his eyes were troubled. “Would it be too much to ask for you to send a note round?”
“For what purpose, my lord?” Mrs. Cartwright asked.
“To let me know how he’s faring,” Westwood said. “Somehow, Leighton doesn’t strike me as a man with a surfeit of friends.”
Something in Mrs. Cartwright’s face softened. “No,” she said. “I fear not.”
“Well,someoneought to care,” Westwood replied. The corner of his mouth hitched in a wry grin. “Unfortunately for him, it looks like it’s going to have to be me.”
∞∞∞
Claire had loved Gabriel for years, even after he had broken her young heart—for a time, at least. And to some extent, she had even understood his defection. Perhaps he had loved her, too, in a way, during those few short months. But she ought to have known even then, as he no doubt had known, that a man in his position could never have done more than dally with a woman of hers. For a few months she had lived in a sweet dream, and if she had been able to see further than the tip of her nose, she might have avoided the nightmare that had followed. She might have seen the promise of marriage as the fiction it had been, an illusion that could never be made real, and extricated herself from their love affair heart-whole. She might have saved herself a good deal of anguish and embarrassment.
But even in the depths of her pain and fury, in her humiliated despair, during the absoluteworstmoments of her life, Claire had never wished Gabriel dead. She might have, in darker moments, wished him pox-ridden or maimed—but neverdead.
And that was how he looked just now. Dead. Or near enough to it that the difference was inconsequential. His face was so pale as to be nearly translucent, and his breaths were shallow. Beneath the sheet that had been drawn over him, his chest moved only fractionally, as if each inhale were a struggle. She thought of the lung ailment that Mrs. Cartwright had said he’d suffered in his youth and wondered if it, too, would make a resurgence. But, no—that would come with wheezing, with frantic gasps for air, fitful struggles against a body that betrayed itself.
Still, the rest of the staff was content to let him lie here in his bed, entirely alone, as if there were nothing at all unusual or abnormal about the situation that had come to pass.
Perhaps it was simply her own guilt that had kept her at his bedside. If ithadbeen the gingerbread that had caused this reaction, ifshehad sent him careening into unconsciousness, into this infirmity that seemed just this side of death, then it seemed the least that she could do to keep watch over him, as no one else seemed inclined to do.
Somehow it had just seemedwrongto let him be alone. For all she knew—and despite the staff’s assurances—he could well and truly have died if left on his own. And as the staff was content to let him alone until he called for them, it could have been hours,dayseven, before he was discovered.
Out of habit she reached out and placed her palm on his forehead, feeling for any signs of fever, but though a fine mist of perspiration had broken out on his skin, he felt cool enough.
She jerked her hand back when the door opened, and a thin sliver of light from the corridor outside cut across the darkness of the room. Mrs. Cartwright slipped into the room, her steps muffled by the thick carpet beneath her feet, and her skirts swished as she crossed to where Claire sat silently by the side of the bed.
“Any change?” Mrs. Cartwright inquired.
Claire shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not for hours.”
Mrs. Cartwright sighed. “I suppose it’s just as well,” she said. “He’ll need the rest, he will. These attacks, when they come, take a good deal out of him.” A pause followed, heavy and tense. “You’ll forgive me, I’m certain, but…you added something to the gingerbread.” It wasn’t a particularly suspicious statement, as if Mrs. Cartwright had already decided that even if Clairehadpoisoned the gingerbread, it would have been an accidental act.
