Page 45 of A Scandalous Proposal

Feverish. Unconscious. 'Twas torture to be confined to this room when all she wished was to fly to Evan's bedside. Emily forced herself to calm. “Several things you should do at once, beginning with—''

"Visitors?" The angry voice from the entry interrupted her reply. "How dare anyone intrude now? And what possessed you to admit them?"

The words echoed in the marble hallway as Miss Marlowe, her blue eyes flashing fire, limped into the room. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you must leave—"

She spied Emily and stopped short. "Lady Auriana?" With an astounded look she turned to Lady Cheverley.

Once more twisting the tortured handkerchief, Lady Cheverley glanced uneasily from Miss Marlowe to Emily and back. “Lady Auriana learned about Evan from Mr. Blakesly, and having nursed her husband through similar injuries, thought to...to offer us the benefit of her experience."

Miss Marlowe's wondering gaze came to settle on Emily. "How...kind of you, Lady Auriana."

"I…I was a frequent visitor to her shop, often in Evan's company, and she knew how...distraught I must be," Lady Cheverley continued. "Was that not so?" She looked back at Emily, appeal in her eyes.

Miss Marlowe's clear gaze fastened on Emily. What the girl must be thinking, Emily couldn't imagine, but at this moment 'twas unimportant. "Indeed, ma'am. And you as well, Miss Marlowe. I was about to advise Lady Cheverley on a procedure of treatment that worked well for both my husband and my brother-in-law."

The blue eyes never flickered. "Please proceed."

For the next several moments Emily rattled off recommendations for poultices to draw out fever and recipes for healing infusions and willow-bark tea. Both women listened attentively.

At last she paused for breath. Lady Cheverley came and took her hand. "Thank you, my dear. I'll jot down the recipes immediately. You'll remind me if I forget anything, won't you, Andrea?"

“Of course. But how rag-mannered we are in our distress. Will you not sit and take some refreshment, Lady Auriana?" Miss Marlowe asked.

Emily could not help pacing, her hands plucking at her skirts, her eyes continually darting to the door. She could almost crawl out of her skin, so anxious was she to go to him, see for herself the extent of his injuries and begin to administer the medicines that had healed Rob and Andrew and several others.

Not Andrew that last time.

She shut her mind to the thought, trying instead to come up with some acceptable excuse for demanding to be shown to the sickroom of a man to whom she had not a single link of blood or connection that would render such a request reasonable. And dredging up none.

She realized Miss Marlowe still awaited an answer. "Excuse me! No—no, I mustn't stay. You'll be wishing to get back to Ev—Lord Cheverley."

Lady Cheverley smiled wanly. "As soon as I have some willow-bark tea to spoon into him. I shall go to the kitchen straightaway. Thank you again, Lady Auriana. I shall never forget your kindness."

It was a clear dismissal. Emily could manufacture neither a reason to prolong her visit nor a plausible pretext to get near Evan. "You're welcome," she said, tears suddenly threatening. She turned to leave.

His mother followed her out. "Lady Auriana?"

Emily turned to look over her shoulder. "Ma'am?"

In the pallor of her face, fine lines webbed the corners of Lady Cheverley's eyes. For the first time since Emily had known her, Evan's mama looked her age. "I'm sorry," the woman whispered.

If she replied at all she would weep. Emily nodded and walked reluctantly to the entry.

To her surprise, Miss Marlowe ushered her out, apparently intending to walk her to her carriage. She halted upon seeing the empty street.

"Did you not bring a conveyance?"

"No. I took a hackney."

Instead of summoning a footman to find a vehicle, Miss Marlowe turned back to Emily.

"Please, Lady Auriana, I know 'tis most irregular of me to ask, but—would you go to him? Please! I watched Richard die, and I can't—I don't want—" Her voice broke.

For an instant Emily wasn't sure she had heard aright. "I'll come," she answered.

Choking back a sob, Miss Marlowe caught her hand and kissed it. "Thank you. Wait here—I'll return in a moment."

Her mind fraught with fear, Emily waited with barely suppressed impatience for the girl's return. Later, when she was calmer—when she had tended Evan and assured herself he would recover—she would come up with some explanation to plaster over this naked need to see him. Fortunately, Miss Marlowe seemed too upset herself to notice.

Ten minutes later, finger pressed to her lips to warn Emily to silence, Lord Cheverley's intended guided his former mistress through a maze of service rooms up narrow stairs and into a broad, finely appointed hallway.

The stench of fouled bandages assaulted her before they reached the chamber door. Her face paling, Miss Marlowe put a handkerchief to her nose. Her blue eyes over the linen welled with tears.

"God's blessing upon you if you can help him," she whispered as she knocked on the portal.

His valet, Baines, answered. "You mustn't see him now, miss. He's—he's right feverish."

"I've brought an experienced battlefield nurse, Baines. You will let her in and follow her directions."

Emily braced herself for his reaction, prepared to brazen her way through whatever he might reveal. No one and nothing would keep her from Evan now.

Chapter 19

Baines turned toward her and stiffened. Then, before either she or Miss Marlowe could speak, he moved aside.

"Whatever you can do, ma'am, I'd be powerful grateful."

With a nod she swept past him. The sight that greeted her made her want to wail in anguished fury.

Evan lay in his tattered shirt, soiled bandages wound about his right arm and hand, his hair matted with dirt and blood. Even in the dim light she could see the fevered sheen on his face, the dry, parched lips, the twitch as his body fought the contagion raging in it.

"These filthy things must come off—Baines, summon a footman to help you. His head must be bathed, and his arm. Bring me hot water and soap, clean linen for bandages. And send someone to Lord Maxwell for my maid, Francesca. Tell her to bring my medicines. At once!"

A bowl of clear, tepid water stood at the bedside, as if Baines were about to sponge down his master. Emily pulled a chair close, wet a cloth and began gently cleaning blood from the crusted wound over his eye.

She could not tell in the dim light whether the eye was damaged, or just the skin beyond, so swollen and distorted was it. Loosening the matted cloth with water as she worked, she freed the sticky mass of old bandages there and at his puffy, distended arm.

By the time she finished inspecting his wounds and removing all the soiled linen, tears filled her eyes and dripped silently down her cheeks.

Despite the ravages of the knife and lack of care, she was somewhat heartened. His heartbeat was strong, his breathing steady, and her experienced eye said if she could get the wounds cleansed and bring the fever down, his chances for recovery were good.

As she looked up to rinse out the cloth, she saw Miss Marlowe, whose presence she had totally forgotten, still standing by the door, watching.

What her face revealed she could not imagine, being in that moment unable to think of anything beyond the need to reduce his fever.

"A carriage awaits whenever you are ready," Miss Marlowe said softly. “How can I ever thank you?''

Engaged in wringing out the cloth, Emily did not immediately reply. When she glanced up, Miss Marlowe was gone.

Francesca entered soon after with a satchel. "Tea I've brought, and a poultice. Come, he must drink."

Baines helped them raise Evan and dribble liquid into his mouth. Mumbling incoherently, Evan swallowed.

Emily lost track of time as they fell back into a routine they had followed on more than one hellish occasion—Andrew with his side gashed by a saber at Corunna, slashed on the arm by a sword at Talavera; his batman Harrison's leg mangled at Busaco, Rob with his shoulder sliced open almost to the bone after Barrosa.

Soak, wring out, sponge. Put a drawing compress on the puffy hand and arm, a cold one on the injured eye. Soak, wring out, sponge. Lift him to force down more tea or broth. Soak, wring out, sponge. Change the compresses, gently clean out wounds, purify with brandy that, even unconscious, made Evan hiss through his teeth and cry out. Shake in basilicum powder and bandage again. Soak, wring out, sponge.

Once, as she held the cup to his lips, his eyelid flickered open. No spark of recognition dawned in that fever-bright eye, and after a moment he closed it. But when she set down the cup, the fingers of his good hand groped toward hers, seizing them in a surprisingly strong grip. She squeezed back, rubbing his thumb. After a moment, with a little sigh, his hand relaxed and he dozed again.

Finally his skin seemed cooler, his sleep less restless. “You see what to do?'' she asked Baines. “Sponge him to bring the fever down and keep offering liquid. When the physician comes, should he call for leeches or gunpowder or such, fetch me at once."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

Suddenly bone weary, she turned to Francesca. Without a word the maid helped her up. "God's eye, mistress. He's strong. God's eye is upon him now."

Emily was startled to see pearly pink lighting the eastern sky as a flambeau-carrying footman escorted them to their carriage. Before the footman helped her in, she looked back one last time at the town house.

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