Had he followed in one of the servants? Lord Damon, perhaps?
Barstow’s lips had pressed together so tightly his mouth disappeared. He refused to answer or say more.
“I’ll probably die soon,” Roxboro whispered. Taking Sophia’s hand, her palm to his cheek. “Don’t be sad, Nell.”
Today, Roxboro imagined he was at the Sheepshead with his favorite barmaid, Nell. Sophia was so exhausted, so terrified he would perish if the fever didn’t break, she didn’t even mind. “I won’t allow it.”
“Sweet Nell. But we both know I’m destined for tragedy, as is every Viceroy. One need look no further than my parents.” The green of his eyes, now dull with illness, tried to focus on her face. “Or my grandsire. We Dukes of Roxboro don’t live long.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she squeezed his fingers.
“My grandfather was hit on the head with a bag of grain while inspecting the new mill. Can you imagine? The blow didn’t kill him, but his temple hitting the stone wall of the mill did the trick. Uncle Damon says it was…quite terrible.”
“Lord Damon…witnessed his father’s death?”
“He did.” Roxboro nodded somberly. “Not a thing could be done. Just like my father.”
Sophia placed her hand on his cheek. He was…a little cooler.
“Murdered as he left Parliament.” Roxboro sounded tired. “By my mother’s lover. Cotswold. Marianne boasted of it to Damon. But my scheming mother didn’t get to be a merry widow. She died that nighttoo.” He took a shaking draw of air. “I killed her, you see. When I was born.”
There was so much pain in his casual recitation. Years of it.
“You are not to blame, Your Grace.” Sophia took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “You were an infant.”
“Fragile and scheming. That’s what my uncle says of Marianne.” Roxboro’s head lolled to the side. “That’s why I prefer women like you, Nell. Sturdier and far less deceitful.” A deep mournful sigh came from him. “I am the product of my parents’ hatred for each other.” His eyes started to close. “I must apologize, but I’m excessively weary. You’ll have to do most of the work, I’m afraid.” He pointed to his lower body. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” Gently, Sophia released his fingers and smoothed the sheets, listening to the soft hum he made at her touch.
“Don’t leave me—Sophie,” came a broken whisper.
Her hands halted. Roxboro’s eyes were still closed. A tiny snore came from him. Asleep. Her own exhaustion had her hearing things. He hadn’t recognized her once during his entire illness, which was rather true to form. Nor had he ever called her Sophie.
She came abruptly to her feet.
Roxboro had said many things in his delirium, all of it interspersed with frequent requests for scotch or brandy. He’d begged for gin, just yesterday, instructing her he didn’t even need a glass. But he’d never given a careless, yet deeply profound description of his life. Nor exposed how pained his soul.
Don’t leave me, Sophie.
The urge to protect Roxboro from…what she wasn’t entirely sure, had only grown stronger since he was brought bleeding and broken into The Pillory. That might be why Sophia had written to no one of his condition, especially not Damon Viceroy. All she could see in her mind’s eye was Damon, waving for Roxboro’s glass of scotch to stay filled. And she hadn’t spent days nursing Roxboro only to have his uncle arrive and feed his nephew endless amounts of spirits.
“I won’t leave you, Roxboro,” she whispered fiercely. “I promise.”
Another snore erupted from him. She leaned over to touch his forehead with a small sound of relief, fingers trembling. Definitely cooler. Calm. The thrashing about had stopped. His breathing was deep and even.
The fever had finally broken.
Sophia looked down at her skirts, unsurprised to see them covered in broth stains and lord knew what else. She turned her head to the window, watching as a bird alit on a tree just outside, blinking back the wetness gathering behind her eyes.
Roxboro would survive. He would not die. Sophia could make things right.
“Your Grace,” Barstow said softly from the door.
“The fever has broken,” she said, wiping at the dampness on her cheeks. “Send word to Dr. Reading to have him examine the duke. And…once Dr. Reading deems the duke improving, I’ll write to Lord Damon.”
Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. She couldn’t put doing so off much longer.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler carefully came forward, offering Sophia his arm, and made a tsking sound when she stumbled. Now that Roxboro would survive, the strain of the last few days rose up to drown her. She was more tired than she’d ever been in her life.
