A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,66

be removing his coat in the presence of a lady after dark?

“Fever?” Lady Althea asked.

“Yes. Cough, aches. The ankle appears to be improving, but lung fever is setting in.”

“No, it is not,” she countered, stepping back. “Not this soon. A spring cold, influenza, a bit of both, but there hasn’t been time for full-blown lung fever to develop.”

The younger fellow showed no intention of taking himself off, as any polite guest might have done. His eyes were a vivid blue, a noticing sort of blue that put Nathaniel in mind of Althea.

“Lord Stephen Wentworth, I presume?” Nathaniel asked.

“At your service.” He bowed, balancing his weight on his cane. “You are Lynley Vale’s nearest neighbor, the duke of curdled milk and colicky infants, I gather?”

“Rothhaven, at your service, and now is not the time for tedious attempts at humor.”

His lordship’s brows rose—brows very like Lady Althea’s. “Thea, you’d best go with him. His Grace might take to demanding sacrificial maidens or the village’s most handsome youths if his whims are not immediately indulged. I, of course, would be compelled by inherent nobility to offer myself as the first casualty in that event. You know how dukes can be.”

Althea drew Nathaniel by the arm into the house and closed the door. “I know how brothers can be. The patient turned an ankle and as a result spent several hours half-immersed in my stream. He’s an otherwise fit man of about thirty years.”

“But he’s taken chill,” Lord Stephen said, gazing off into the middle distance. “Whiskey with honey and lemon for the cough, willow bark tea for the aches. Avoid laudanum, because he might have taken a knock on the head when he slipped.”

A duke’s heir would not normally study medicine, but his lordship sounded quite confident of his advice. “Are you a physician?” Nathaniel asked.

“I am an invalid,” Lord Stephen replied, gesturing with his cane toward his left leg. “Did you know that invalid and in-valid look the same on paper? They can look the same in life as well, so I learned all that I could pertaining to the preservation of human health. I’m more knowledgeable regarding bones and injuries than I am about illness, but I’ve picked up a few things.”

“What do you suggest for fever?” Lady Althea asked.

“The willow bark tea will help with that, but cool sponge baths—cool, not too cold—will also help. Not ice water, and not surgical spirits, for they will remove too much heat from the body too quickly and propel the patient into the cycle of fever followed by chills. Don’t forget to bathe especially the face, neck, feet, and hands. If the congestion gets bad, make a towel sauna over a bowl of boiling water into which you crush a handful of peppermint leaves.”

“I’d forgotten the towel saunas,” Althea said, reaching for a cloak.

“While I have nightmares about them,” his lordship replied airily. “I’ll have a bundle of supplies sent over to Rothhaven in the next hour.”

“We’ll take them with us now,” Nathaniel said. “If you please.”

“Give me five minutes.” Althea strode off in the direction of the steps, pausing before descending. “Don’t kill each other.”

Nathaniel was thus left in the company of a man new to his acquaintance, a novel and curiously welcome experience. He’d not met a strange gentleman in years, and Lord Stephen was looking at him with an interest that suggested his lordship was equally intrigued.

“I notice your lordship isn’t warning me to treat your sister with utmost care.”

Lord Stephen propped himself against the sideboard. To appearances he was lounging, but he kept hold of his cane and took weight off his left leg.

“If you need such a warning regarding proper behavior toward a female, Althea will see that you receive it and in a manner that could jeopardize your titular succession. That could be a problem for a man far from the services of a physician and without an extant heir.” He smiled, much as a fox likely smiled at a dim-witted hen.

“Warn me anyway,” Nathaniel snapped. “She is your sister and I am unknown to you. Assuming that her efforts alone will check my untoward impulses is less than sibling loyalty demands.”

His lordship straightened without quite taking his weight from the sideboard. “Very well.” His brows knit as he studied the handle of his walking stick. “Make my sister cry and I will kill you, slowly and painfully. How’s that?”

The warning was that of a boy, but the light in his lordship’s eyes belonged to a man—a