Page 85 of Refining the Debutante
The doctor’s short blond mustache drooped in unison with the man’s eyes. “His liver, amongst other things. Not to worry. He has been gravely ill before and always pulls through. Today has been especially hard, though, as he is convinced he is going to die. I do not think he is up for conversation, but you may sit with him for a time. I will return in a few minutes, and then I must insist he rest.”
Ethan stepped past the doctor and moved slowly toward the bed. Lord Aldington’s eyes were open, and his gaze followed Ethan as he drew closer. This man was ill indeed—his eyes held a hollow emptiness.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Lord Aldington, I am Mr. Roderick, son of Lord Gibson of Stonebrook. I have come from London to speak to you.”
“Why?” Lord Aldington turned his head and stared at the ceiling.
“I have recently engaged myself to your niece, Miss Bartley.”
Lord Aldington’s smile came out as more of a grimace. “Miranda?”
Ethan had not expected to hear the longing in this man’s voice. Lord Aldington had neglected Miranda, but it seemed the memory of her brought him comfort. “Yes, Miranda.”
“She mentioned your family name.” Lord Aldington squeezed his eyes shut.
“I knew her before she came here, and she stayed with our family until she found employment as a companion.”
Lord Aldington chuckled. “She is a hard one to forget, isn’t she? What do you want from me? My permission?”
“I have come for one purpose: to seek assistance in paying Mr. Bartley’s debts.”
Lord Aldington gave a sharp laugh, followed by a groan of pain. “Never.”
“I will not be able to marry Miss Bartley until her father is released. It is no secret you and your brother are not on good terms, so I have done my best to see to his care while he is in prison.”
“Foolish man.” Lord Aldington shook his head. “Why would you waste your money on my brother?”
Ethan clenched his fists. “I do it not for him but for his daughter. Unfortunately, it is the most I can do. Until I inherit, I lack ready funds to pay off his debts.” He paused, knowing his explanation was getting him nowhere. It would not help to scream at the man, but he was beyond frustrated with the whole thing. “Your niece suffered greatly while in this home. Do you truly have so little care for her happiness?”
Lord Aldington said nothing. Ethan put his hands on his hips and glanced around. Next to the bed was a small bedside table. On top were several open letters stacked in a careless pile. With little shame, Ethan bent his head to read the one on top.
It was from Miranda.
He snatched up the letters. They were all from Miranda.
“That’s not your business,” Lord Aldington snapped. He was too weak to move or do anything about it, so Ethan held firm to the papers.
“Despite everything you subjected her to, she still cared enough to send these.” Ethan glared at the sickly man. “Have a heart. You’re likely to die at any moment. Let one person in this world remember you fondly.”
Lord Aldington lay there as if in a trance—as if Ethan were not in the room at all.
Exasperation overruled his sympathy, but Ethan knew he needed to stay calm. “Miss Bartley deserves her family.”
The words took effect, but not in the way Ethan expected. Lord Aldington’s face screwed up, and he moaned. He clutched his stomach and rocked back and forth.
Ethan leaned over the bed. “Shall I call the doctor back?” He was tempted to tell Lord Aldington that his sickness was brought on by his hatred, but the pain looked too intense to jest about.
Lord Aldington turned his head an inch or two until his eyes were once again upon Ethan. “You are right. About everything. How I treated her. How she deserves more. But I shall die soon... alone... and there is nothing to be done about it.” His weak voice was close to a whisper and his breathing labored.
Despite what the doctor said, Ethan believed Lord Aldington did not have much time left. He felt as if the man were slipping away in front of his eyes. “You can still fix things, man. You don’t have to be alone.”
Lord Aldington stared at him for a while, as if deciding whether or not he believed him. Then he lifted his bandaged arm and gestured behind Ethan. Ethan turned his head back to the bedside table. Several medicinal vials littered the surface, along with a glass of water, but he didn’t know which one the sick man wanted.
“The drawer,” Lord Aldington said.
There was no drawer. Ethan almost told him as much, but then he stooped down to analyze the wood. He placed his hands on the front panel around the top of the small table and gently pulled. It was a drawer.
Inside was a single handkerchief folded in a neat square. It covered something. Ethan gently lifted the silk to reveal a small painting of a woman.
