A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,49
appetite this morning.”
“Very good sir.” He tottered off down the steps, in charity with whatever world he inhabited.
“I see the boot was salvageable,” Nathaniel said, setting the basket down beside the estate office’s sofa.
“Oh, quite,” Lady Althea replied, rummaging in the basket. “I’ll take that basin of ice water, and I daresay Robbie could use a cup of hot tea and perhaps some victuals.”
Robbie never ate or drank after a seizure until his mind was clear. He reclined on the chaise, both boots off, feet bare.
“Robbie?”
“A spot of tea wouldn’t go amiss, neither would a blanket.”
“Take my shawl.” Lady Althea passed a wad of blue merino wool to Nathaniel. “It’s warmer than it looks.”
Nathaniel draped the soft wool about his brother’s shoulders, catching a whiff of roses as he did. “Do you need anything else?”
“A pillow and some blankets,” Lady Althea said, dragging a hassock closer to the sofa. “Somebody ought to have a go at those boots too, once they’ve dried.”
Robbie was enjoying himself thoroughly, doubtless delighted to see Nathaniel scurrying about like a new under-footman.
Nathaniel was not enjoying himself at all. He took up Robbie’s damp boots. “You find this amusing,” he said, aiming a scowl at his brother. “If you’d fallen another three feet closer to the river, we could be laying out your corpse.”
The humor in Robbie’s gaze faded. “I knew enough not to get that close to the water.”
Lady Althea unrolled a length of white linen and dipped it into the ice water. “Gentlemen, you have both had a fright, but the situation is resolving itself well enough. Anybody can turn an ankle. Rothhaven, the tea if you please, and I wouldn’t mind a cup myself.”
“Yes, Rothhaven, please do bring a cup for the lady.”
Robbie was twitting him, as any sibling might poke fun at another. Not five minutes past, Rothhaven had heard Robbie laugh—out loud—for the first time in years. In any other circumstances, this display of humor would have been cause for rejoicing.
But there was Lady Althea Wentworth, giving orders and making herself quite at home in Nathaniel’s estate office, while a half-daft footman tottered about with imaginary racks of toast.
“Shall I bring some sustenance with the tea?” Nathaniel asked.
“I could use a bite to eat,” Lady Althea said. “And please have the housekeeper brew up a full pot of willow bark tisane too.”
“We haven’t enough for a full pot,” Nathaniel said. “We’re out of feverfew as well.”
Lady Althea scooted closer to the sofa and took Robbie’s foot in her lap. His ankle was properly swollen and already turning various painful colors.
“Then make a tisane of basil, boil a good fistful of the dried leaves in a quart of water for at least five minutes. Then simmer until you’ve reduced the water by half. Toss in some ginger and a dash of honey, plus a squeeze of lemon juice if you have it. Prepare enough for a serving every few hours. I’ll send to Lynley Vale for the willow bark, but the basil will do to ward off fever for now.”
She opened a tin and the scent of scythed meadows and blooming mint wafted across the office. Nathaniel stood in the doorway, trying to put a name on the emotions rioting through him.
Gratitude, of course, that Robbie was mostly hale and whole.
Dread, because Nathaniel could never become Robbie’s jailer, but wandering down to the river again had proven unsafe and must not continue.
Resentment, because the whole deception was spinning beyond what was manageable.
And profound relief, because somebody competent was taking matters in hand at Rothhaven Hall, solving problems, and dealing with an unforeseen difficulty, and for once—for bloody damned once—that somebody was not Nathaniel.
He closed the door behind himself and went to fetch the tea.
Who are you?
Althea could not ask her patient that question. Whoever Robbie was, he was clearly dear to Rothhaven, vulnerable in some way, and dependent on the duke. He was too old to be Rothhaven’s son, though the resemblance between the men was strong.
She finished wrapping Robbie’s foot, an ordeal he bore with stoic passivity. “There,” she said, rising and placing a pillow on the hassock. “You should keep that foot up. Another application of salve and a cold wrap before bedtime ought to see the swelling reduced by tomorrow.”
“You know what you’re about,” he said, wiggling his toes. “The bandage is snug but not tight. The salves are helping, and the pain is already subsiding. How does a duke’s sister know her way around an injury?”