“A little better today, thank you, Redfern. Has Lord Debnam gone away?”
Redfern hesitated, an eye on the maid, who had paused to listen. “Go to Mrs. Brandt, Beverley. She will have other chores in mind for you.”
Once the maid had gathered up her box of cleaning materials and hurried out, Redfern turned to Laura. “His lordship suffered one of his attacks and took to his bed. They usually last a day or two.”
“Oh, no. I am sorry.” Shocked, Laura stared at the butler. “What form do they take?” she asked, deeply concerned for Brendan.
“Milord doesn’t say, but his head aches and I believe his sight is affected.”
“That sounds most unpleasant.”
“Indeed, Miss Peyton. But his lordship is stoic.”
Troubled, Laura left him and went outside for a walk. She breathed in air scented with summer greenery and flowers. The sun warmed her shoulders as she donned her bonnet, but she barely noticed as her thoughts remained on Debnam and his malady. Serious enough to strike a vigorous man down and send him to his bed for two days. Was he suffering still? She wished she could see him. Or perhaps help in some way. Penny had told her Debnam’s father had suffered from spells. Was it the same complaint? Could it be a megrim? Her mother had suffered from them. She’d found some relief with a hot bag applied to her neck and a dose of feverfew.
Was this another reason Debnam might believe he took after his father? If only she could send word to him, suggest the heated poultice, but she couldn’t. He would not appreciate her prying. He was a proud man, and, as Redfern had said, bore his affliction without fuss. What made her heart sore was how terribly alone he seemed. She knew only too well how that felt, with so few options available to her.
She returned to Robert, finding him awake, instructing a housemaid from his bed, who packed his few things in a portmanteau.
“It’s a little early for that,” Laura said. “I am hopeful you can get up tomorrow. We could go for a stroll together. The weather is glorious.”
“We are leaving tomorrow. You must see to your luggage, Laura.”
Alarmed, she worried he exhausted himself. But it was useless to argue with him. “Very well.” She left him and went to her bedchamber. Would she see Debnam again before they departed? She hated to leave like this, without the chance to speak to him. He would be relieved to see the back of Robert, who was hardly an ideal guest. As for her, well, there really was nothing left to say.
While the afternoon stretched slowly toward dusk, Laura, frustrated and feeling helpless about a future which never lay in her hands, left her bedchamber and returned to the gallery to search for Debnam’s ancestor, the fourth earl, whom Lord Gaylord had said had suffered from madness. She found his portrait easily. He stood out among the sober-faced portraits of his ancestors, with his broad smile and head of wild, curly, black hair. Portrayed in the dress of the times, he wore knee-length breeches, boots, and a cape. His stance, with a hand on his hip and that wide grin, made it appear as if he laughed at something—the painter, society, or life? Had he been a madman, as Gaylord had suggested? More of an adventurer, perhaps. But what had made him turn his back on his family to become a lawless criminal? His eyes, of an indeterminate color which might have been gray, seemed full of lively intelligence. Intrigued, she wished she could learn more about him. But she could hardly ask Debnam. Where might she find the family history? The library? If only she had more time.
On the way back upstairs, she first entered the library for a book on the family history which might mention the earl in question. She found one and carried it upstairs. When she entered Robert’s bedchamber, she crossed to his bed, where he appeared to be deeply asleep, his face flushed. She touched his shoulder. “Robert.”
He didn’t respond. His skin burned hot when she touched his forehead, his breathing labored.
Laura gasped and ran to pull the bell. A footman answered promptly.
“Lord Netterfield has taken a bad turn,” she said. “Please ask Redfern to send for the doctor.”
*
Brendan opened hiseyes. A gray light flooded the chamber, the curtains closed tight. He remembered taking the opiate, something he always tried to resist because he hated how it robbed him of his senses. How long had he been unconscious? He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands, fuzzy with the effects of the drug. When his eyes cleared, he rose and rang for a footman.
“What time is it, Frederick?” he asked when the young footman entered carrying a tray.
“Past eleven o’clock, milord.”
“In the morning?” Brendan took the coffee and drank the rich brew down. He winced as the footman pulled the curtain cord. “Leave the curtains.” The light still hurt his eyes.
“Have I been here since yesterday?”
Frederick’s smile faltered. “The day before, milord.”
“Aah. I’ll bathe, then. Bring hot water.”
A half hour later, Brendan rapidly improved. He lay back in the hip bath, his head resting on a towel, thinking about Laura. He wondered how she and her brother fared. His absence would have surprised her, no doubt. Would Redfern have told her the reason behind it? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
He quickly finished bathing and dressed, then went to knock on the baron’s bedchamber door.
Laura opened it. There were dark circles beneath her lovely eyes, but she looked relieved to see him. “Robert has developed a high fever.”
Brendan crossed to the bed. Her brother tossed restlessly, his face and neck flushed. “The doctor has been to see him?”
