Page 16

Robyn did not voice the question, for he knew the unpleasant answer.

Amputation.

Perhaps…death.

At the horrific thought, his stomach roiled again.

Steady on, Robyn Wade Gillson Fitzlloyd.

Don’t tally your winnings before the dice have left your palm.

He forced his focus back to Doctor Tinsdale.

“What can we do?” He met the doctor’s concerned gaze.

“I’ve applied a honey and garlic poultice to battle the infection. There is a jar of the poultice in her chamber. I want it, and the bandages changed every four hours. The old bandages and poultice cloths should be burned. Whoever changes the bandages must painstakingly wash their hands with soap, rinse thoroughly in clean water, and dry using a fresh towel. Every time. No exceptions.”

He pressed his lips together. “Insist Miss Thackerly take nourishment, even if she isn’t hungry. Especially the tonics I prescribed.”

Easier said than done.

The good doctor had not experienced Georgine’s obstinate side.

It didn’t escape Robyn that she usually reserved that bit of her character for Robyn alone.

“She needs her strength to fight the fever and infection.” The doctor removed his spectacles and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

What was it Robyn’s mother used to say?

Starve a cold, feed a fever?

Neither of which made particular sense to him.

“Her sister is supposed to arrive tomorrow, and her friends have asked to visit her more than once.” He cupped his nape again, trying to rub away the rocks that had gathered there from worry and tension.

So far, only Robyn, Matilda, and a maid had been permitted into the invalid’s bedchamber.

“Her sister’s presence might be helpful for an hour or two a day, if she isn’t a chatterbox or flibbertigibbet. And only if she is in good health.” The doctor cocked his head and then shook it. “But no other visitors. Miss Thackerly cannot be exposed to illness, and she needs to rest, not entertain. She also needs to be monitored around the clock for the next couple of days. If she worsens, fetch me at once.”

That meant Robyn wasn’t sleeping tonight, but then, he hadn’t slept well since that godawful day in the garden. A recurring nightmare of Georgine being shot and dying woke him every night.

“Understood.” Robyn gestured down the corridor. “Shall I see you out?”

“No.” Doctor Tinsdale shook his head, the merest hint of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “I know the way.”

He ought to.

He’d been here often enough, having been the Fitzlloyd family doctor for decades.

After the doctor retreated down the passageway, his footsteps fading into the house’s stillness, Robyn slipped into Georgine’s chamber. A fire burned low in the hearth, and a turned-down Argand lamp stood on the nightstand, its polished brass base gleaming in the soft glow. A tall glass chimney shielded the steady flame, casting warm, golden light across the rose-patterned walls and damask-draped bed.

“Robyn?”

Georgine’s raspy inquiry tore at his heart.

“You should be sleeping, minx.”

Offering a reassuring smile, he crossed to her, propped up on several pillows, including two to support her injured arm.