Page 24

“Thank heavens,” he mumbled, the eye sliding closed again. A visible shiver rippled across his chest, and gooseflesh broke out where the air met fevered skin.

Patrick shifted his weight awkwardly near the foot of the bed, clearly uncertain what to do.

Just then, Rose appeared in the doorway with the tray Audrey had requested. Her face was pink from the heat of the kitchen. Audrey directed her to place it on the dressing table. She poured a little water into a small china cup and turned to her valise, finding the stoppered vial of white willow bark. She would need to research a more effective combination later, but this would do for now.

She stirred a spoonful of the bark into the water and carried the bitter mixture to Julius’s bedside. Behind her, Rose and Patrick stood together, both visibly anxious, their hands twisting in aprons and coat fronts.

“Rose, I will need a fresh supply of boiled water every hour,” Audrey said, measuring her voice for calm efficiency. “Perhaps … broth. I would like some broth brought up as well.”

The maid nodded, her expression visibly relieved now that she had a specific task to perform.

Audrey leaned over Julius, cupping the back of his head with steady hands, her palm brushing against sweat-damp curls as she lifted him enough to drink. His eyelids fluttered, fever-bright and glassy.

“I need you to swallow, Julius,” she said gently.

Tilting the cup to his lips, she watched as he obeyed, gulping the bitter brew in two swift swallows.

“’Tis foul,” he muttered, his head falling back onto the linen pillow.

Audrey straightened, glancing toward Patrick, who still lingered by the fireplace, awaiting direction.

“I need to raise him to remove the bandage.”

Without hesitation, the old servant hurried over to assist, gently lifting Julius’s shoulders. The patient gave a low groan of protest, but did not resist.

Audrey unwrapped the linen bandage, peeling it away with slow care, and set it aside. She collected the jar of honey she had brought up from the kitchen, removed the lid, and dipped in the teaspoon. Returning to Julius’s side, she seated herself in the carved armchair Patrick had positioned nearby.

Scooping up a spoonful of the golden salve, she drizzled it over the reddened sutures, watching it catch the light before using the back of the spoon to smooth it evenly across the length of the wound. The scent of it, floral and faintly medicinal, rose in the still air.

Rising, she crossed to the washstand to rinse the sticky residue from her hands, the cold water biting at her fingertips. After drying them quickly on the linen towel, she returned to the bed.

Patrick helped lift Julius again. With careful hands, Audrey positioned a clean strip of cotton over the wound, then reached around his solid torso to secure the new bandage, snug but not constricting.

“No one must be aware we are here,” she murmured.

The servant gave a solemn nod, though he remained where he stood, his gaze lingering on the flushed face of the man in the bed. Julius had always left an impression. His confidence, his charm, his ostentatious character. Patrick’s concern was etched in the way he rubbed the back of his neck, his brow deeply furrowed.

“Is there a robe for me to change into? My things are damp, and I need to get dry.”

A cold breeze from the open windows crept beneath her damp skirts, making her shiver. Audrey still needed to prepare a more advanced fever draught from her father’s notes, but if she did not change soon, she would risk falling ill herself.

Patrick gave a curt nod and crossed to the wardrobe, pulling out a banyan robe and a loose pair of cotton trousers. “I’ll be in the ’all.” He exited, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Audrey stepped behind the dressing screen and began the awkward task of peeling herself out of her sodden gown. The fabric clung stubbornly to her limbs, and the damp buttons tested her patience, but at last, she exhaled in triumph as the dress dropped to the floor in a heavy, wet heap.

She stepped into the trousers, rolled the waistband down twice, and tied them off at the hip. The banyan followed, slipping over her chemise with a whisper of fabric, and she knotted the sash securely around her waist. Its cotton was warm and dry, a blessed relief against her chilled skin.

Gathering her damp garments, she returned to the door, opening it for Patrick.

He took her clothing with a nod and received her instructions to bring up broth and a fresh tray at regular intervals. At her request, he also promised cloths and cold water—essential tools to keep Julius’s temperature down and to ensure he remained hydrated through the night.

Propping the door open to allow the breeze from the open window to circulate, Audrey returned to her valise and began rifling through its contents until her fingers met the familiar spine of her father’s worn copy of Culpeper’s Complete Herbal. The leather binding was soft with age, the edges of the pages feathered and faintly stained from years of use in the field. Margins bore her father’s distinctive, neat hand. Some printed lines were firmly crossed out, replaced with his meticulous corrections, field-tested through experience and observation.

She needed to brew a fever-reducing tea for her patient, but first, she must be precise about the choice of ingredients. Every element must be suited to Julius’s current condition—fever, blood loss, potential infection. No room for error.

Drawing a breath to calm herself, Audrey sank into an upholstered armchair by the window. The breeze chilled her cheeks, still damp from the exertion of her earlier tasks. The chair sat beside a small mahogany table stacked with a few volumes, one of which caught her attention, Aus den Memoiren des Venetianers by J. Casanova. Volume one.

She raised her brows. The memoirs of the infamous Venetian adventurer. Somehow, it seemed rather fitting that this particular title graced Julius’s bedside. She could picture him vaulting from a second-story window in the dead of night, escaping the wrath of some titled matron’s husband. There was a roguish charm to his tailored irreverence. Handsome, certainly, but more than that, incorrigible. And yet, beneath that bright surface, he had chosen to involve himself in a matter of deadly consequence to aid his friends. That paradox lingered with her.