Mrs. Norris nodded her head and walked in stride with Cordelia as they marched back to the house, holding out her arm for her to lean on.
“Lia!” Rhys shouted, jogging to catch up with them. “I am sorry to hear of the duke, but might we continue our conversation?”
Cordelia huffed, spinning around to face him. “Rhys, I have a ball to plan and a sick host. I’ll send for you as soon as I have a free moment.”
Rhys’s jaw clenched as he took in her words, but he nodded, placing his hat back on his head. “As you wish, Lady Cordelia.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
From the society of papers of one Lady Prudence DeLessops. 15 May 1825
The anticipation for the Hollyhead ball in the next few weeks has been dampened by rumors that our Blacksmith Duke has taken ill. Could it be that he’s been scared off by the prospect of locking horns with the recently returned Earl of H.? This author has been informed that a certain Lady C.N. has not left the duke’s bedside since hearing of his illness. Perhaps she will have better luck nursing this peer back to health before the Hollyhead curse takes another Rothesay duke from this world.
Might I add that this continued, allegedlyunchaperoned, time together has sent Lady B. into a flurry? Worse still, the Earl of H.’s return to England has been received rather blandly by society. Perhaps she was counting her matrimonial eggs before they’ve hatched. Besides, duke trumps earl on the marriage mart any day.
The latest news is that a Mrs. A.N. has been dispatched to Hollyhead to look after her son. If the reports hold true, she is also enamored of Lady C.N.’s (allegedly) spotless reputation. Perhaps we should worry less about the earl and duke and more for two pushy mamas, both of whom have set their sights on Hollyhead House…
Justin had survived the worst of it. That was what the doctor said at least. Cordelia was leaning her head against one of the windows in the library, hoping the cool glass against her skin would ease her headache. The doctor had just left, happy to report that the duke’s fever had broken and with any luck he would be on the mend.
Upon hearing the news, Cordelia had made her way to the library and closed the door, fighting back tears. She’d been running on a few hours’ sleep, between her, Mrs. Norris, and Portia changing bed linens, administering broth, and sponging the duke’s forehead. After her father’s illness earlier this year, the women were practiced at the art of caregiving.
Cordelia wiped a tear that had slipped down her cheek.
She couldn’t save her father, but at least there would not be another frantic search for a long-lost duke. At the moment, the lineage was holding. Cordelia’s palms were sweaty; she wiped them on her bodice.
“Lady Cordelia?”
Mrs. Norris’s voice was hoarse. She’d been giving orders to the servants nonstop. The preparations for the ball were still going ahead. No one on the outside could know how serious their predicament was.
“Yes,” Cordelia said, pushing off the glass.
“Mrs. Nichols and Mr. Peverill are arriving imminently. Their coach is coming up the drive.”
Cordelia nodded. As the eldest sister, it would be her duty to welcome Justin’s mother. Digging into herself to find the last reserves of her strength, she walked to the foyer. As she arrived, she saw a footman had ushered Mr. Peverill and a woman into Hollyhead’s main entrance.
“Is he all right?” Peverill asked, brows knit together in a worried look. There was no time for proper introductions.
“His fever broke last night,” she replied. “He’s turned a corner. The doctor is confident.”
“Where is he?” Peverill questioned, already halfway up the stairs. The lady he was accompanied by must have been Justin’s adoptive mother. She did not spare Cordelia a glance as she trailed him.
“The duke’s suites, to your right,” Cordelia said, bringing up the rear. She was too exhausted to provide any further explanations. Peverill tried a few doors before he found the correct one.
“Oh, God,” the woman said, taking in her son’s appearance.
Justin was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in a soft rhythm. His skin had a sallow color, but nothing near the yellow, waxen complexion he had taken on when the illness first arrived. Earlier Cordelia had sponged his dark waves, which gave the illusion that he’d been sweating. She tried to explain, but the woman was speaking to Justin in hushed tones.
“We left as soon as we got word,” Peverill said, looking over his shoulder at Cordelia.
“Of course,” she replied, stifling a yawn.
“What’s all this about?” Portia had arrived to relieve Cordelia of her duties. “This is a sick room, not a drawing room. There are far too many people.”
“What happened?” Peverill asked, nodding at the sling Portia nestled her right arm in. It might have been the utter exhaustion, but Cordelia could have sworn she saw Peverill perk up with Portia’s arrival.
“Gentlemen do not ask ladies about their skeletal integrity,” Portia replied, raising an eyebrow.
“You forget, Lady Portia, that I am not a gentleman. Just exceedingly wealthy,” Peverill replied, smiling.
