Page 117 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“No. No. No. No. No.” That single-word litany rang out, over and over, in his mother’s shrill cries.
There came a clamoring and the rush of footfalls. As one, he and Helia looked, just as a breathless Mrs. Trowbridge rounded the corner. “M-my lord,” she rasped, her cheeks wan, her eyes stricken. “His Grace, the duke ... is dead,” she whispered.
Eight hours later
Wingrave stood in wait outside the duke’s grand suites; his back braced against the wall and his arms folded at his chest, he stared unmovedly at the adjacent door.
All the while, his mother, the duchess, sat on an upholstered armchair which had been stationed outside her husband’s rooms and wept quietly into her kerchief—just as she’d done since she and Wingrave had taken up position here.
Devoid of disdain and filled more with pity, Wingrave glanced at his mother’s bent head.
How ... odd. How strange. It was illogical in every way. His mother ... actually cared about the duke. Maybe even loved him.
A time before, Wingrave would have felt disdain for her having any sense of devotion to the man who’d been her—and their entire family’s—oppressor.
As it so happened, now he found himself pitying her.
At last, the door opened.
They looked over as Dr. Hall, the same family physician who’d failed to heal Wingrave’s brother, exited with the same leather bag he’d carried from a different set of rooms many years earlier.
The duchess jumped up.
Dr. Hall looked solely at Wingrave. “My lord, may we speak?”
The message and meaning were clear; the doctor didn’t intend to include the duchess in the discussion about her husband.
Wingrave inclined his head.
He and Dr. Hall walked several paces, putting some distance between themselves and the duchess.
The minute they stopped, Dr. Hall set his bag down, removed his spectacles, folded them, and tucked them in the front of his pocket.
“I fear it is grim,” the doctor began.
“He’s not dead, then?”
“He is not.” Hall’s features grew strained. “However, I am sad to report, the duke will not make the recovery you hope for.”
All the while they spoke, the duchess strained her neck in an attempt to hear the exchange.
Hell would freeze before Wingrave’s own wife ever allowed herself to be denied information from anyone. No doubt she’d have shut herself away in the rooms and guided the incompetent physician’s every action, before ultimately taking them over herself.
“Given His Grace’s collapse,” Dr. Hall was saying, “and his lack of reflexes, inability to speak, and ... vacant expression, I can safely—butsadly—conclude he suffered some internal hemorrhagic rupture. I am so very sad to say.”
The old bastard had driven himself to an apoplexy. He hadn’t died, but knowing his sire as he did, Wingrave could safely conclude death would be a preferable state to bedbound and without any brain function.
Odd, he found himself capable of some pity for the mercenary duke, after all.
“Thank you,” Wingrave said.
“If there are any services I may provide—”
“None. You are done here. Your tenure as the Blofield family physician ends this day.”
Dr. Hall’s jaw slackened. “M-my l-lord?” he stammered.
“That will be all.”
