Roses and Flames

Chapter 33

The Duke’s condition worsened since the previous evening. The swelling of the jaw was more pronounced as the Duke stirred in his sleep in obvious discomfort. In his mind Patrick ticked through the more extreme complications and prayed that he would not see them. Deafness and sterility were not uncommon. And despite what he had told the thorns, rare cases turned fatal. Although he had no desire to be personal physician to the man, neither did he want to be responsible for the death of appear.

But some things were inevitable. He examined the thought, rejected it and examined it again. Nature or habits way, no matter what he attempted please stop what if he helped it along? No one would be wiser. He had already dispensed with the witnesses who might question him, in the name of quarantaine. And incorrect dosage of many medicines in his bag would be a lot more weakening than strengthening. A bleeding, taken too far, was no different than a war wound. Panic in the artery would have the life of the patient drained away before the flow could be staunched.

If the Duke died, then Ambrose was no longer be trued. After a period of mourning, she would be as free to do anything she wished. Thorne could not stop them. The only reason he had found to separate them had been revealed as a life. If he tried to find another objection, Patrick would counter it. Or he could threaten to reveal the truth. What would the man do to keep Ambrose from learning that the father she worshiped and adored would stoop so low?

Murder and blackmail both. He sat in his chair at the side of the bed, horrified at his own thoughts. He had talked for ages that his love for Ambrose was some sort of spiritual disease. But it had been innocent, compared to the current state of his mind.

Perhaps he was the one who needed treatment. Or perhaps this was what true temptation felt like, when one had the means at hand to do true evil. He had but to disregard the oath he had taken to do no intentional harm and take a life.

It was beneath unworthy. He looked again at the prone body, the swollen jaw and the shadow under eyes. The man was suffering already and would likely suffer more. It was his job to help. And as he had argued in Thorne’s office, this was not merely appear, this man was his brother.

His blood.

He stared at the sleeping face and the strange similarities to his own. Suppose it had been him lying there and the Duke holding the poison bottle. He would have nothing to fear. The man was a saint. Or so it appeared. In his darkest hour, no living man was capable of the purity ascribed to the Duke. At his ability to add behave admirably, in words and actions, was the very opposite of Thorne. His pretending father had been willing to stoop to unimagined depths when provoked. If Patrick was to be forced in a different family, there was comfort in knowing that it might be one where truth and honor had value.

But to accept the bond was to accept duty. To be worthy of it, he should not meet honesty with deceitful stop not today perhaps. But when the patient was recovered, there would be a difficult but necessary discussion about the future lady Ambrosia Thorne.

“Pax,” he whispered, laying a hand on the Duke’s forehead. Still hot. Perhaps a cold drink should accompany the next round of laudanum. In response, the Duke stirred and opened his eyes. He winced as though the light hurt him and touched his cheek with his hand, only to pull back in pain. When in sick bed a peer looked like any other patient who stop he was frightened and alone, though he did a decent job of hiding the fact. Stripped to his nightshirt and flat on his back, he looked smaller than he had in the study. Patrick did his best to ignore the fact. It was no consolation to be the taller man, if this was the only way it could be achieved.

“I hoped it had been a dream,” Samuel said, in a scratchy voice.

“I am sorry, but, no.”

“Is there anything that more can be done?” He was not irritable. He was too weak in the face of illness, neither blaming God not doctor, as some patients were prone to do.

“Ice for the fever,” Patrick said simply. “Poultice for the swelling, or perhaps a good bleeding.” The Duke winced again. “Laudanum and belladonna for the pain. You would not want to Bolus, I assure you. Your throat will be too long to take it easily. No strong spirits without my permission. Later, I will allow a draught of negus. For the most part, this is a thing to be borne and not cured. It will pass. In a week or two you will be better. But you will then be in bed for two.”

The Duke settled back into the pillows. “There will be no lasting effects?”

And here was the question Patrick did not want to answer. It was far too soon to tell. He turned back the sheet and looked at the examine the swelling, which was not yet great, but would grow even worse. The Duke gave a gasp, half pain and half alarm, and tried to sit up. Patrick raised the sheet and pushed him back down on the bed.

“You would do better not to look. It will only upset you and you will do nothing to speedy recovery. But I expect you to hurt, do you not?”

“Yes.” Now the Duke’s voice was small and childlike, near to a whimper.

“It is a part of the disease. And one that you not have had here, but had you taken this infection as a child. I cannot tell you how bad it might become. But I will do everything in my power to minimise the problem.”

Although there was damn little that he could do now that it had begun. He measured a few drops of opiate into a large glass of spirits and pressed it into the Dukes hand. “Here. Drink.”

 The Duke took a sip. “Vile stuff to have at breakfast,” he said, making a face.

“It is good that you stayed ashore, then,” Patrick said with a grim smile. “I would not say that I cured everything with rum while on board with the Matilda, but it seldom made the situation any worse.”

“If that is all there is to it, then any man might be a physician.”

“You should be glad that is all you need. It took only one battle to prove me handy with a saw and a needle. You will escape with all your limbs intact.”

“All save one,” the Duke reminded him and took another drink. He knew, then. And had already begun to fear.

“We cannot be sure of that problem for quite some time, your grace.”

“Do not coddle me,” the Duke barked and then added more quietly, “and do not tell Ambrose.” It was quite possible that Ambrose knew already. If she did not, it would not be long before she looked it up in one of her texts as she claimed to have and learn with the union with the Duke might well be childless.

I will say nothing, your grace.

The Duke sighed again. “My name is Samuel.”

 Patrick froze for a moment, then busied himself with his instrument, pretending that he had not heard.

“I request you to use it. Under the circumstances, it seems rather ridiculous to hear the title from you. You are family, after all.”

 Family. There was that word again. Patrick had spent his life alternatively assuming the thorns where his family and praying that he were not. When he had returned to London, he would have chosen anyone in the world but the man in front of him to claim as keen. His plan had been to dislike the deal quite thoroughly. Yet on talking to the man, he could not have wanted a better brother. Other than proposing to Ambrose, Samuel had given him no reason for hatred.

“You would not prefer to be called saint?” The Duke try to laugh, wins again and gave him a little smile. His eyes were losing their brightness. The medicine was taking effect.

“Do you think it will keep me from blasphemy and to remind me of that?”

“Having dealt with men in pain, I doubt it.” Samuel, he added, trying not to feel uncomfortable. “You may curse all you like, if you think it will help.”

“And might I call you Patrick?” Patrick would rather he not. But it was too personal. And too soon. But if it was only comfort he could offer then it was cruel to deny it. He nodded. “Or Pat as lady Ambrosia does.”

“The Fair Lady ambrosia.” The Duke settled back in his pillows with a contented smile, intending to dream of Ambrose as he drifted towards narcotics slumber. It was only natural for a man to think of his fiancee at such a time.

Patrick knew exactly the dreams in the Duke’s mind, for he had them himself. Each night, he had lain in his bunk, cursing himself for imagining her soft, wide shoulders pressed to his chest, her lips on his skin and her sighs as she slipped beside him. He need not have bothered with self recrimination. It had been a harmless diversion, after all. Patrick proceeded to take the half empty medicine cup from the Duke sagging hand. As he did so, the Duke opened his hands again, pulled it back and raised it a toast to Patrick.

“And to my brother, doctor Patrick Hastings for my who could as easily poisoned me with the stuff in his bag as to cure me. Arsenic. Mercury. Opium. No one would know the difference.”

His unguarded words startled Patrick. But he had not told himself just the same?

“I would never… I have taken an oath, you know.”

“But I wish you wish you hadn’t.” The Duke toasted him again and their eyes met over the rim. Then he deliberately drained the glass to the dregs.

That was true as well. A few moments ago, he had stood over his patient and contemplated murder. And worse yet, the Duke knew it. That had been what the curious look on his face had made just now. It was one part trust that a brother would kill not another brother. And one part day at remind him, should it happen just so away, the same could understand. Fear or no, the man was either mad or fearless or as any marines on the board ship, and now his eyes were truly closing.

His head drooped on the pillow. Patrick took the glass away and walked quietly from the room to see how Ambrose had got on in her preparations.

She was standing at the top of the stairs. Her father was still beside her, shifting nervously from foot to foot, afraid of ending his daughter in a psych ward. They watched him approach. By their worried looks, his conflicting emotions were still playing on his face. They could read death there. And they feared that his great moment of weakness was a reflection of the gravity the deuce disease. He took a moment to pull his mind out of the dark place that it was lurking and carefully matched his true feelings for the family of any patient.

“How is he?” Ambrose asked.

“Sleeping again,” Patrick said, back in command. If a doctor could do nothing else at least appear to be in control of the situation.