A Dog in a Doublet (The Regency Romance Mysteries Book 2) by Emma V. Leech

Author:Emma V. Leech [Leech, Emma V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

A fox - a sharp, cunning fellow

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

To Harry’s everlasting relief, Wilfred and the rest of Satan’s spawn were delayed. He didn’t know why and didn’t care, either, seeing as he was sick as a horse himself.

Through the haze of the worst hangover in living memory, and enlivened by a rather enthusiastic fever, Harry was told he had influenza. That much he gathered from Beryl’s scolding. No doubt a result of sitting in the mud and the rain and drinking himself insensible. He’d done stupider things in his time, but was hard-pressed to think of them right at that moment.

Further than that, things got rather fuzzy as he drifted in and out of sleep, and he wondered if dying might be a damn sight easier than enduring all the fuss and turmoil that would be awaiting him when he was well again.

Despite feeling like death warmed over, he wasn’t unaware of how Beryl fussed over him. Whatever anger she’d had initially over him being named Alistair’s heir, she seemed to have put it behind her, and was now as attentive as a mother hen.

He’d been more than a little surprised to discover that she’d put him in Alistair’s bedroom. Despite his initial misgivings, he found he liked being here. Alistair’s things were still all around, and it felt familiar and strangely safe.

Harry was so sick that he didn’t protest in the slightest at having his brow mopped. He even submitted with good grace to being fed chicken broth and enduring the revolting mixtures Beryl poured down his throat under instructions from Dr Quack, who really was every bit as irritating as Alistair had said he was. But then the ridiculous fellow tried to bleed him, and Harry felt so thoroughly queasy and revolted at the idea that he refused to allow it, becoming quite agitated as the man insisted. Dr Quack, in turn, became increasingly adamant that he must do as he was told, viscount or no, and Harry had never been more grateful in his life to Beryl as she faced the pinch-faced fool down and all but threw him out of the room.

“Thank you,” he whispered, exhausted by the fuss as Beryl bustled back to straighten his covers.

“Never mind thanking me,” she retorted, though her voice was too soft to be at all reproving. “Just you get yourself well again. We’ve got those dreadful creatures arriving in a couple of days, and you need to be strong again. For all our sakes.”

“Satan’s spawn,” he whispered, trying to smile.

Beryl snorted. “That’s as may be, my lord. But creatures of that ilk prey on weakness, you mark my words.” She sighed, then, and smiled at him. “So be a good lad and get some rest now, eh?” she added, stroking his hair in an affectionate manner that made Harry feel sleepy.

“Right you are, then,” he murmured and closed his eyes.

***

Harry was about as robust and steady as a new born lamb the day Wilfred and his family arrived, but he was damned if anyone should guess it.

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