Mark sniffed, although one side of his nose remained blocked. “Why”—he stopped, swallowing something heavy and thick the brandy had not been able to clear out—“why should I have to explain—”
“Because I’m the bloody duke, that’s why!” Matthew’s tone softened but only slightly. “You did not look this bad when you took a load of grapeshot in your back—”
“I was farther away.”
“And you are my brother, you arse.”
Indeed. Mark finally folded the paper and laid it on an accent table next to his chair, where a significant amount of brandy waited in a bowled goblet. He nodded at the wingback opposite his. “Sit.”
“Mark—”
Mark took a sip of the brandy, which burned the cuts on his lip and inside his mouth. He grimaced. “Trust me. You will want to sit.”
Matthew did. “Mark—”
“Stella bedded Shropshire.”
The three words rocked Matthew back into his chair, a rough bark of startled disgust bursting from him. “She must be mad! Why would she?”
Mark shrugged one shoulder, then stilled as every muscle in his chest, and at least two ribs, protested. “I am not sure. Perhaps she thought I was tiring of her...” His words faded as he stared into the brandy.
“Were you?”
He took another sip, managing to avoid the wince this time. “Perhaps. But I thought I disguised it well. I would never have completely abandoned her.”
“Because of the girl.”
Mark nodded. “Yes. The girl. Olivia. Her name is Olivia.”
“But now you have.”
“Yes. Stella. But not Olivia.” Another sip. This time with the wince. “Matthew”—he looked at his brother over the rim of the glass—“she bedded Shropshire.”
Matthew stared at the fire, his eyes half-lidded. “How long?”
“The past two or three weeks. She could not be certain.”
His brother faced him again. “No. I meant you.”
“Ah. I was with her Monday last, which would have been the first time after she took Shropshire. Then Friday night. Saturday morning. So it will be at least another two to three weeks before the first sore would appear.”
“If you have it.”
“Yes. If I have it.”
“Will you take the mercury?”
“Or a bullet.”
Matthew paled. “Mark, you cannot—”
“Oh, yes, I can.” Mark set the brandy aside. “What I cannot do is tolerateallof it. The night horrors, the constant pain, the madness the disease can bring on—”
“Not for a long—”
“It does not matter!” Mark pushed out of the chair, pain twisting every joint and fiber of his body, raging through him like a ravening fire. He groaned, then leaned against the mantel, staring into the flames, fighting for control.
Matthew joined him. “What happened last night? After.”
