“Liar,” she mumbled to herself. But his protectiveness made her smile.
Chapter Thirteen
“Mrs. Greer! Anne!Where the devil are you?” Matthew charged down the hallway, immediately forgetting his promise to Fortuity that he wouldn’t bellow. “Where the bloody hell has everyone got to?”
“Your lordship—here! I am here.” Anne popped out of the servants’ stairwell with several of Fortuity’s gowns in her arms. “Is aught amiss?”
“Yes, aught is amiss. My wife is gravely ill. Fetch Mrs. Greer immediately so the two of you can bring her some ease.”
“Oh my goodness. Yes, my lord. Immediately.” Anne dipped a hurried curtsy, then took off running with the clothing still clutched to her chest.
Matthew debated whether to return to Fortuity or hunt down Thebson and send for every physician in London. As he stood at the top of the stairs, trying to make up his mind, Eleanor emerged from her rooms.
“Whatever could be wrong, cousin?” she asked, with a little too much interest for his liking.
He glared at her. “I am in no mood, Eleanor. Either return to your rooms or go elsewhere. I have neither the time nor the patience for you today.”
“As you wish, my lord.” After an indulgent tip of her head and a graceful curtsy, she floated down the staircase and disappeared toward the parlor.
He scowled after her long after she was no longer in view, noting she had neither appeared shocked nor displeased at his directness. The chit was up to something, again. He would wager his best bottle of brandy on it. Perhaps she was the one behind the humiliating entry in the tattle sheet. That would make more sense than Olandra selling it to the publication and bringing embarrassment to herself. Also, rather than avidly pursuing the most eligible gentlemen at every soiree, Eleanor had situated herself amongst the cackling hens known for their cruelty and penchant for tormenting the weakest members of theton.It had been well over a fortnight since his cousin’s arrival, and she was no closer to courting a husband than the day she showed up on their doorstep. He would speak to Thebson and Mrs. Greer about Eleanor’s mingling with those of the household. He had warned them once she was not to be trusted. With this most recent debacle, it bore repeating.
He turned to rejoin Fortuity when a rapid thudding from the staircase made him look back.About bloody time.Mrs. Greer, Anne, and the maid, Mary Louise, hurried toward him.
Huffing and puffing from the exertion, Mrs. Greer clutched her chest, trying to catch her breath while she spoke. “Her ladyship? Ill?”
“A terrible pounding in her head, and she fears she is about to cast up her accounts.” He herded them down the hallway toward the master suite. “She is on the bed. On top of the counterpane. There was no time to strip it back. I covered her with my coat to keep her warm. Pray, tell me you can help her.”
The housekeeper gave him an understanding dip of her plump chin. “It sounds like one of her terrible megrims. They often struck her when I helped tend to her mother.” She narrowed her eyes, pinning him with an accusing squint. “They usually come on when she has been overset with worries longer than she can tolerate. Much like a covered pot boilingover because the fire burns too hotly.” Before he could defend himself, she turned to Mary Louise and handed her a key from the ring pinned to the starched white apron lashed around her ample waist. “Fetch up a kettle of hot water, a sturdy cup and spoon, and the three bottles from the highest shelf in my apothecary. And do not fail to lock the door back upon your exit.”
“Yes, Mrs. Greer.” The maid took off at a hard run.
The housekeeper nodded at Anne. “You fetch her softest night rail, and the lavender and peppermint oils I gave you for her toiletries in the dressing room.”
Anne skittered away as quickly as the other maid.
Mrs. Greer turned back to Matthew and shooed him off as if he were a trespassing goose. “Go away, my lord. She needs darkness, quiet, and nothing to remind her of the trying day she has endured.” The matron’s face reddened with a fierce scowl. “Are you aware of that hideous publication? That is what caused our dear lady’s illness.”
“I am aware of it, and I fear you are correct about it making her poorly.” Although, if he were to be honest, he felt sure he had a hand in Fortuity’s misery as well. He could have been a damn sight more understanding with her at breakfast.
“Daren’t you worry about her, my lord,” Mrs. Greer said over her shoulder. “She will be fine soon enough.”
“Swear to it, Mrs. Greer. I cannot bear the thought of losing her.” And he meant that more than he had ever meant anything before. He couldn’t tolerate the possibility of life without Fortuity.
Pausing with her hand on the door latch, the housekeeper smiled back at him. “She will be fine, my lord. Mark my words.” She disappeared into the room, quietly muttering to herself as she was wont to do.
“I need a drink,” he told the cats winding in and out around his ankles. He loped down the stairs and was greeted at the bottom by Ignatius. The dog plopped down on his square behind, cast a glance at the parlor door, and growled.
“Too true, old man.” Matthew didn’t trust himself with another unpleasant confrontation with Eleanor, not in his current frame of mind. “Come, Ignatius. We shall take refuge in our lady’s sanctuary.”
The faithful dog followed him into Fortuity’s office and jumped onto the low cushioned bench in front of the corner window that Fortuity had placed there specifically for him and the cats. Matthew went straight to the amply stocked cabinet of spirits he had ordered installed in the office in case he and his lady love decided to lock the door and make good use of the settee once again.
After pouring himself a glass of port, he went to the other window and eyed the view of Chesterfield Street but didn’t see a bit of it. All he saw was his beloved wife: pale, her forehead peppered in a cold sweat, gulping air and holding it to keep from being ill. Damn and blast this sorry mess of rumors and gossip and the misery they caused her.
A soft knock on the door interrupted his inner turmoil. “Yes?” he said without pulling his gaze from the sunny day outside.
“A parcel has arrived, my lord,” Thebson said from the doorway.
“A parcel?” Matthew still didn’t turn from the window. He preferred to sulk in solitude with the softly snorting dog and his drink. “And the sender is?”
