Page 70 of The Duchess Trap
Mrs. Simms, her spine rigid, dropped into a stiff curtsy. “This way, Your Grace. Her Grace is with the boy.”
He gave a curt nod and turned slightly toward the man behind him, who was also hustling forward to get out of the rain.
“Go,” he told the physician while eyeing the small black valise he clutched in one hand. “See to the child.”
The doctor bowed quickly and hurried down the corridor, his medical case clutched tight. Duncan followed, his stride longer, heavier, the air thick with the scent of rain and fear.
The smell of sickness hit him like a wall: vinegar, sweat, and something faintly metallic beneath it all.
Duncan gagged as he lowered his head and stared at the droplets of rain that rolled down his coat sleeve.
I should not have waited so long.
By the time he returned from paying a visit to Catherine’s father, the day had almost slipped away from him entirely.
When he read the first note from his wife, informing him of her whereabouts, he did not think much of the matter. He’d told himself she would be fine, that his interference would not be necessary.
But when the second message reached him,the Duchess has not returned; the boy is dying—he was already halfway to the door.
Now, standing in the narrow passage outside the infirmary, the rain still in his hair and the storm at his back, Duncan felt something he’d not let himself feel in years. Fear.
The door opened, and he saw Catherine standing there.
Her gown was damp, her hair loose, her face pale beneath the flickering light.
But it was her eyes that undid him. Wide, hollow, shimmering with exhaustion and something close to despair.
“Duncan.”
He did not trust himself to speak. So, he only inclined his head. She nodded in return, as if anything more might shatter what little steadiness she had left.
“Your Grace,” said the physician from behind her, his voice calm and steady, “the child is in there.”
Duncan stepped past Catherine into the small room. The air was thick and heavy, the candlelight trembling on the boy’s fevered skin. Henry’s breathing was shallow, his lips cracked and dry.
One glance told Duncan what the physician would confirm.
He had seen that kind of heat before, the kind that took quickly and rarely gave back. His mother had succumbed to such an ailment long ago—so long ago—yet the memory stuck with him.
“Speak plainly,” Duncan said, turning toward the doctor.
The man bowed his head. “It’s fever, Your Grace. Aggressive. The best we can do is keep him cool, keep him drinking brothand water when possible, and pray he lasts till morning. If he does, there’s a chance. If not…”
He didn’t finish.
Catherine made a faint sound beside him, barely audible—a small, broken breath that cut him to the core. When he turned, she was staring at the boy, her hands trembling so violently that the cloth she held slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
“He’s just a child,” she whispered. “He doesn’t deserve this.”
Duncan’s jaw flexed. He looked toward the physician. “Leave us. All of you.”
Mrs. Simms hesitated. “Your Grace?—”
“Out,” Duncan said, quietly but with the kind of finality that brooked no argument.
They left without another word, the door closing softly behind them, and silence settled over the room.
Catherine knelt beside the bed again, reaching for the fallen cloth with shaking fingers. “We must keep him cool. The doctor said?—”
