But the change in his care seemed to be working. The soreness in his shoulder eased, and the last of the laudanum foglifted. He had dozed, not deeply enough to dream, but in short bouts that found him resting more easily. The pain had returned, sometimes in waves if he moved too suddenly, but the willow bark tea made it reasonably bearable. He had suffered infinitely worse, he reminded himself, on the battlefield.
The violent dreams were, after all, reflections of a past he had survived, not imagined.
His family had also visited in pairs and groups, such as he did not usually see except on occasion at a holiday—or a funeral.
Matthew stayed nearby, of course, but his older brother frequently arrived with one of their four youngest brothers in tow. Peter, James, Theophilus, and Timothy had returned home from school for the summer and had been occupying themselves with their friends and their horses.
Luke, the next in line after Mark, remained on the continent with Wellington, even as their sister Daphne stayed ensconced with their aunt somewhere in Greece. Paul, the fourth of Phyllida’s surviving oldest sons, had taken over their country estate following their father’s death. Now he, too, had returned to the city, ostensibly to confer with Matthew about the estate.
Mark had his doubts about that last explanation. Paul had been a capable manager for some time, but his desire for a wife stood out from his and Matthew’s reluctance. Mark did wish his brother luck in finding a young woman of thetonwilling to abandon life in London for a permanent residence in the country. But Paul had hope—an admirable quality Mark did not share. And had not for some time.
At one that afternoon, Matthew and Paul had just left his bedchamber when a kitchen maid arrived bearing a tray with a salty broth, more willow bark tea, a cup of coffee, and a baked custard that tasted lemony enough to make his nose wrinkle. She stayed to stoke the fire in the bedchamber’s grate, then curtsied and made her exit. Mark set aside the tea and lay backagainst the pillows. His mind drifted over his conversation with his mother about Olivia, still wondering if he remembered it correctly or if it had been part of a laudanum fog.
He had explained who Olivia was, and the duchess took with an unexpected grace the news that her second son had produced a by-blow on an actress. She merely expressed her surprise that he had not done so earlier and asked his plans for the girl. She agreed that Olivia was best left where she was for now. Then Phyllida patted him on the hand and left.
Possibly, facing the idea that her son might have killed his lover made any other scandalous news pale by comparison.
Although he doubted it. Mark suspected a return battle lay in store when his health improved. For now, Phyllida had executed a strategic retreat. For all his insolence toward her, his mother sometimes terrified Mark. Her ability to maneuver through and manipulate members of thetonhad given her more strategic skills than a battle-hardened general.
“Are you still awake?” Matthew’s voice came through a slight opening at the door.
Mark reached for the coffee. “I am.”
His brother entered with two folded sheets of paper in one hand. He crossed the room, stopping to stare down at the tray on the bedside table. “That looks disgusting.”
“The doctor thinks I should avoid anything heavy or solid for a day or two.” He nodded at the papers. “Mail?”
Matthew gave a slight grin. “I have a meeting Saturday with a potential bride. Your suggestion turned out to be more beneficial than I expected.”
“Excellent. Anyone I know?” Mark had connected Matthew with Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, owner of a gambling hell called the Lyon’s Den and a woman known for matchmaking among theton, which would allow Matthew to avoid all the complications of doing a season of balls and soirees when he wanted to rejoinWellington so desperately. A wedding with a suitable bride would allow him to settle his affairs here and return to France.
“No. But I will tell you more after the meeting.” He gestured at the other note. “Smith wants to meet with us later this afternoon. Would you be up for it?”
“I am slightly more coherent than last night. But you might want to make sure I’m awake. Apparently, six months of not sleeping leaves one prone to abrupt naps.”
Matthew sombered. “You should do something about it.”
“I am considering investing in a boxing salon—”
“Mark—”
“Open all night. No one notices if you have not slept or have drunk a bit too much or scream too loudly—”
“You cannot—” His brother shook his head, glancing away.
“Matthew.”
At Mark’s solemn tone, Matthew stilled, studying him again.
Mark smoothed the covers beside his leg. “I am doing all I can. All I know to do.” They fell silent, watching each other a moment. Finally Mark nodded. “The doctor is returning as well. Have Smith come at four. I would like to have an early supper, if possible. Or perhaps just tea. Real tea. Surely the doctor cannot object to a bit of clotted cream.”
The doctor, who arrived at three, did not object and was cheered by Mark’s returning appetite, although he advised continued caution about food and simple things—like moving. But Mark insisted on dressing before the Bow Street Runner arrived, and his valet, Howe, helped him to get out of bed and appear reasonably presentable, including a waistcoat and cravat—an intriguing process given the sling for his arm. Another cup of coffee provided a bit of fortification, and he settled into a chair before the fire just as the door opened and Matthew ushered the runner into his bedchamber.
Jeremy Smith’s eyes widened as he entered, his hat-mussed hair adding to a slightly crazed look in his eyes. He stared around at the aspect of the room, pausing on each feature, as if memorizing the furniture.
Mark fought a sense of amusement. Laughing was definitely not recommended. “Is something amiss, Mr. Smith?”
The man swallowed hard and focused on Mark. “Forgive me, Lord Mark. I have never been in a gentleman’s bedchamber before.”
