Duke of Knight by Elizabeth Johns

Author:Elizabeth Johns
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2020-03-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

ROWLEY WAS BEYOND weary when he arrived in London. He had only stopped to change horses and grab quick meals. The wind had been in his face for most of the way, intermixed with sleeting rain. It felt like a foreboding of things to come. His mood was sour and he needed to sleep for at least a day, but he knew he must be strong for the family, now more than ever. A groom ran out to take his horse, and Quincy opened the door for him. He climbed the steps to the grand, grey stone house his grandfather had had built over fifty years before. The house was not shrouded in black, at least, he noted.

“Welcome, Your Grace. There is a fire in the study. Shall I send for some tea or food?”

“Something warm would be very welcome, Quincy.” He walked into the study and began to thaw his hands before the fire. When the butler returned with a steaming bowl of stew and some fresh bread, he asked how his brother did.

“What can you tell me about Lord Heath?

The butler hesitated for a long time.

“I wish to hear it all. Do not keep anything from me.”

“Yes, Your Grace. There was a duel, as you know. Lord Heath deloped into the air, but his opponent did no such gentlemanly thing. He hit him in the shoulder. Who knows where his aim was? He claims he meant to wing him only.”

“And how is he?”

The butler hesitated again and then spoke. “He is burning with fever, Your Grace. Lord Edmund has not left his side and the doctor has been here as much as he can.”

Rowley sighed. When would Heath ever learn? He may not have the chance. He dismissed Quincy and made his way up to the chambers when he had finished eating.

Edmund was by Heath’s side, sleeping in a chair. If Rowley thought he was weary, his brother looked haggard with his hair disheveled and his open shirt wrinkled. The room reeked of the sick bed. If he’d had any question of how ill his brother was, there was no mistaking it now. The always vital Heath was unrecognizable. His skin was pale and clammy, and he shook with fever as he gasped for ragged breaths. Wet cloths were on his forehead and his neck; his arm and chest were wrapped in bandages that were soaked through with some putrid substance. Rowley had to fight back a wave of nausea at the smell.

Guilt overwhelmed him, as it always did when something went wrong with one of his siblings. He had been the parental figure for them all since their parents had died, but Heath had been old enough that he had never allowed Rowley to advise or correct him. Heath had suffered most when they lost their parents. Rowley did not know what else he could have done. He had not coddled him—how could he? Heath had his own income from their mother’s legacy and he did as he pleased.

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