Calypso Magic

Chapter 8

If fortune turns against you, even jelly breaks your tooth.

PERSIAN PROVERB

"Your face," Lyon said, glaring down at her, "is as red as a poppy. What was that ass saying to you?"

"Good evening, my lord. Which ass? The one over there or the one now speaking to me?"

"Push me, Diana, and you will feel my hand on your bottom again, I swear it."

"Push you, my lord? I am merely trying to make my way to Aunt Lucia. What is it you want?"

"I want you to stay away from that fool, Plummer, and his wet mouth. My God, why did you let him kiss your wrist? The inside of your wrist?"

Because I knew you were watching and I wanted to enrage you.

"His mouth isn't at all wet."

Lyon briefly saw red. "As for your gown, you are in danger of falling out of it. I can't imagine that Lucia would let you out of the house looking like that."

His eyes were on her bosom and Diana drew herself even straighter, even though it hurt to do so. She ached all over. Oddly, there were two of Lyon standing in front of her, each blurred. She blinked rapidly, clearing her vision, but now aware of a growing pain over her left ear. She shivered. What the devil was wrong with her? She'd never been ill a day in her life, save for that brief fever she'd had as a child. She remembered now the awful chills and how heavy she had felt, how helpless.

"So much of you is on display," Lyonel continued, warming to his subject, "you will surely take a cold."

"Will you keep me here in the middle of the dance floor, my lord? Displaying myself?"

"Damn you," he said, grasped her wrist, the one that Plummer had kissed, and led her in a waltz.

Diana admitted now that she was ill. She was feeling very hot now, but she knew that soon she would feel so cold her teeth would chatter. Her head hurt, her throat felt scratchy. And her body felt so very heavy, just as it had felt when she'd had that fever as a child.

Lyon looked down into her glittering, overbright eyes and was suspicious. "You do know that you cannot knee me in the middle of a waltz," he said.

"No, I shan't do that." She must find Lucia and leave before she disgraced herself.

He whirled her about at that moment, and Diana felt the room spin. It didn't right itself and she fell against Lyon. "What the devil is the matter with you? Are you trying to start the tongues wagging again?"

She heard his voice as if from a great distance. "Lyon," she said, "please, I don't feel well."

For the first time in her life, Diana fainted.

Lyon stood in the middle of the ballroom floor, holding her against his chest, his face a picture of chagrin. Oh, God.

He hauled her into his arms, all too aware of the surprise and growing consternation surrounding them. He saw Julian St. Clair and called to him. "Tell Lucia that Diana is ill. Have her carriage fetched immediately."

Lady Marchpane was aghast and titillated that such a dramatic event took place in her ballroom. She fluttered about Lord Saint Leven, offering no assistance, just disjointed comments on Miss Savarol's pallor.

"Lady Cranston and I will see to her," he said over his shoulder. He was acutely aware of her limp body in his arms, of the poppy-red cheeks that now he realized meant a fever, not coquettish behavior. God, it was his fault. All of it. He was frightened and could feel himself shaking.

"She told me she fell into a stream," Lucia said. "Dear God, I thought she was all right. She was so excited about the ball, so insistent that we come. Quickly, Lyon, let's get her home."

Lyon didn't release her once in Lucia's carriage. He held her close, instructing Lucia to throw the carriage blanket over her. He tucked it firmly around her.

Diana moaned and he froze, his eyes meeting Lucia's.

"I should never have let her talk me into this ball," Lucia said. She swore like a trooper but Lyonel wasn't even tempted to laugh. "It was that fall into a stream. How did it happen, Lyonel?"

"She is burning up," said Lyon, his hand pressing against her cheek.

"It is my fault," said Lucia, her face parchment pale in the dim carriage light.

"No," Lyonel said, "none of it is your fault. Who is your doctor, Lucia? We will send Jamison for him immediately."

Diana burrowed into the warmth, but she couldn't stop the awful cold. It was deep inside her, and it hurt so badly. She realized she was being carried, but she couldn't make herself react. She heard voices, one of them Lyon's, and he sounded so very curt, like a general giving orders to his soldiers.

More voices. Was that Didier? No, he never raised his voice, never did anything that would reflect poorly on his dignity.

Hands were on her, pulling off her clothes, and she fought them, instinctively. Soothing voices. Lucia? Grumber?

She forced herself outward and stared up into the face of a strange man. He looked like the painting of a bird she had seen once, so thin, his neck ridiculously long. She said aloud, very clearly, "You are a stork?"

Dr. McComber laughed and patted her cheek. "No, miss, I'm just a fellow who is going to try to make you feel better. Now, you just hold still."

"I hurt," she said, and knew that her voice sounded like a confused child's.

"Yes, I imagine that you do. Tell me exactly where you hurt."

But she couldn't seem to speak a complete thought, just words. The stork nodded, as if satisfied.

"Lyon," she whispered.

"You want another animal with the stork?"

"Lyonel," she repeated.

Dr. McComber turned in question to Lucia.

"I'll get him," she said. She found him striding up and down the corridor, his head lowered, his hands thrust in his breeches' pockets.

"Diana wants you."

"Is she all right, Lucia? What does McComber say?"

"I don't know as yet."

Lyon walked very quickly toward the bed. McComber rose and blinked at him. "How is she?"

There was a small cry from the bed.

Lyon didn't wait for an answer. He eased down gently beside Diana and took her hand. Her eyes were closed, her breathing labored.

"I don't understand," he said. "She cried. Why did she cry?"

"She doesn't know she's crying, my lord. She is unconscious."

"What is wrong with her?"

"I should say that she could move into pneumonia, but we will hope not. Her ladyship informs me that she fell into a stream near Richmond and rode all the way back to London in wet clothes."

Lyonel cursed and McComber stared at him. "What are you doing for her?"

McComber shrugged. "There is nothing much to be done, my lord. Hot cloths on her chest, alcohol rubs to keep down the fever. Laudanum periodically for the pain."

It had to be asked. "Will she survive this?"

"She's a strong girl. She will have excellent nursing. I don't know."

To Lyonel's shock, Lucia, the indominable old tartar, began sobbing.

He enfolded her in his arms, soothing her.

Suddenly, from the bed, "Lyon! No!"

He spun about and rushed back to the bed. She wasn't conscious but she was thrashing about, her hair becoming wildly tangled about her head. "No! Don't you dare! I hate you!"

Lyon grasped her hands in his. She was staring at him, her eyes wide, but she didn't see him. "Diana," he said, leaning close to her face, "listen to me. You will be all right. Do you understand me? You will pull through this. Damn you, you will get well again."

Dr. McComber said in a lowered voice to Lucia, "Is Lord Saint Leven her betrothed?"

Lucia knew Lyonel could hear them. She said clearly, "Not as yet. They are quite close. They much enjoy arguing."

"More like brother and sister," Lyonel said, his voice loud and harsh. He turned back to Diana. "Listen to me, you little twit, you will be all right. I will thrash you but good if you are not."

She laughed, he knew it.

It sounded to Dr. McComber like an odd moan. He stared at the man who had just threatened his patient with a beating. Little twit! Not at all a brotherly remark.

"You look awful."

Lyon started and come awake in an instant. Diana was gazing at him, her eyes clear, her voice a low croak. He grinned at her. "You should see yourself, my girl."

"What are you doing here? Goodness, I am in bed. Surely this is most improper, Lyon."

"Shut up, Diana. You have been very ill, for three days. Your fever broke last night. If you ever scare me like that again, I will—"

"Beat me?"

Mrs. Bailey, the nurse, stood all ears near the fireplace. It was quite too much to have a gentleman camped in the young lady's bedchamber, but to have him sitting on her bed, trading insults! She quickly moved forward. "I shall go fetch Dr. McComber for Miss Savarol."

"You do that," said Lyon, not looking at her.

"Damned interfering besom," he added under his breath.

"What is a besom?"

"Well, actually it means a broom, you know, an old one made of twigs tied together. I meant it as a witch."

"You need to shave."

"You need to do other things, but not shave at least."

She smiled. If her nose didn't lie, she much needed to bathe. "Have you stayed here?"

"Yes, every bloody hour." It had been horrendous, particularly the second night, when he was certain she would die, her breathing was so labored, her fever so very high. "How do you feel, honestly?"

Diana was silent a moment, querying her body. "It hurts just a bit to breathe. I ache and my voice sounds odd. Other than that, I am ready to waltz with you."

"Let's wait for a week, all right?"

"Well, how is my patient?"

"Who are you?"

"I am your doctor, Miss Savarol. Name of McComber. Now, my lord, if I could get you to move aside, just a bit, I would like to examine my patient."

Lyon moved, just a bit. Diana held to his hand as if it were a lifeline.

He watched the doctor's hand move beneath her nightgown to her chest. Odd how that angered him. It shouldn't, for God's sake. I am becoming a half-wit, he thought, and shook his head at himself.

As for Diana, she was too shocked to move. Lyon quickly said, "It's all right. Just hold still. Dr. McComber will be through in just a moment."

Dr. McComber leaned his head against her breast and listened. "Clear," he said, smiling. "At last. You had me worried, young lady. You are very strong and didn't go into pneumonia as I had feared. But you must rest." He shot a look toward Lord Saint Leven. "You will see to it, my lord?"

"Certainly," said Lyon. He realized at that moment that he was committed. To what? He drew his hand away from Diana's and stepped away. "If she is all right now, I shall take myself off. You will do as the doctor tells you, Diana."

With those words, he left the bedchamber, not looking back.

"I don't believe I understand," said Dr. McComber, frowning at Lord Saint Leven's retreating back.

"He feels guilty," said Diana. "That is all. Just guilty."

"Why should he feel guilt?"

He thrashed me and I kicked him in the groin and I tried to escape on the mare and when I couldn't I fell into the stream.

"He was with me when I got wet."

"Not his fault, I don't suppose."

"Certainly not."

Dr. McComber rose. "You will sleep now, Miss Savarol. Have you any more pain?"

Diana shook her head, suddenly exhausted.

The following day Lucia sent a message through Jamison to Lyonel's town house. There was no reply.

Lucia was angry. Damn and blast the stupid boy! Diana was being stubborn, recalcitrant, insulting to Mrs. Bailey, and altogether a miserable patient.

"Take her to the country, my lady," Dr. McComber said after a trying interview with Diana. She'd refused to let him touch her. The girl was a handful. He was pleased that she was so much better.

But when approached with this suggestion, Diana said to Lucia, "I want to go home. I will be strong enough in a couple of days. I want to go home."

Lucia, seeing that she was growing more and more upset, patted her hand, murmured soothing words, and left. When Lyon did not show himself that day or evening, she sent another message the following morning. This one, she thought, pleased, should get him here quickly enough.

She was smiling when Lyonel was announced some thirty minutes later.

"She is ill again?" were his first words.

"She will be if you don't do something."

"I do something? What is this about, Lucia?"

He still felt off balance at Lucia's cryptic message: "Diana is urgently agitating."

"She insists she wants to go home. Within the week."

"Don't be absurd," he said. "She is weak as a nearly drowned kitten—"

"How would you know?"

He cursed and Lucia merely gave him her patented gimlet-eyed look.

He left her and headed upstairs to Diana's bedchamber. Mrs. Bailey, the dragon, was there. Lyon said in his most imperious voice, "You may leave us now."

Mrs. Bailey knew what was proper and what wasn't, and drew herself up for battle.

"Now!"

That was a voice she couldn't bring herself to object to. "Very well, my lord. Ten minutes. Then Miss Savarol must rest."

Diana eyed Lyonel. When Mrs. Bailey had left the room, she said, "I must learn that tone. It is most effective."

She was still very pale, he thought, coming toward the bed. But she looked wonderful. Her thick hair was brushed and plaited in a fat braid over her shoulder. Her eyes were clear, her look baleful.

"I hear you are urgently agitating."

Diana blinked, then laughed, but it came out as a hoarse rasping sound.

"I also hear you are being a complete and utter idiot."

"How could you hear anything? You haven't been here."

"Lucia sent me a message through the ubiquitous Jamison that you were at death's door again, or rather profoundly agitating. So you want to go home, do you?"

The chin went up. "Yes."

"Well, you aren't going anywhere, do you understand me, you silly twit?"

"You have no say in the matter, do you hear me, you damned arrogant dandy?"

"The next time I thrash you I will ensure that you aren't so clumsy that you fall into any water. Indeed, I will make certain that there isn't any water within ten miles."

Lucia, listening at the door, smiled. Had her proud and gentlemanly Lyonel actually thrashed her? Excellent, she thought. Now she just had to keep Mrs. Bailey away.

"You try that again and I shall make you useless to your damned little amour!"

"Oh, yes? You are so weak you couldn't even give a decent showing of yourself. You would probably start weeping and wailing and faint on me. Again."

"I hate you, you miserable—"

"Don't start that old refrain again, Diana. Leave to go home!" he added in disgust. "Haven't you an ounce of sense?"

"I do not weep or wail."

"Well, you surely faint, and you chose your setting with maximum exposure. In the middle of a ballroom."

"I wouldn't have if you hadn't suddenly whirled me about like some stupid dervish." "I can hear the gossip now," he said, ignoring her.

"You are doubtless with child, my child, and your fainting exhibition was due to your condition."

"That is absurd," she said, her teeth clicking together.

"It most certainly is, but your performance... Oh, damnation, why couldn't you have collapsed with that Plummer ass?"

Diana didn't reply, and Lyonel, his tongue wrapped about more lovely words, paused and looked at her closely.

She had become alarmingly pale. He'd done it again. He said more to himself than to her, "Why must I cut up at you every time I see you?"

"I don't know."

"I'm sorry, Diana. Please, rest now."

"You are leaving again?"

He frowned. "No, I will stay. If I do leave, I promise to come back. You must, I suppose, have someone available to vent your spleen upon."

He leaned down and lightly kissed her pale cheek. "Sleep, you little twit."

"Lyonel?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you really think of me as a sister?"

That brought him up short. "I wouldn't know. I don't have a sister. That is, I did have a sister, but she died when she was just a child."

"You don't still feel guilty, do you?"

"Yes. How can I not feel guilty?"

"Your guilt doesn't show in your insults." "I am made of stern stuff, Diana. Sleep now."

Oddly enough, she was asleep within ten minutes.

As for Lyonel, he kicked a chair in the drawing room. "You want me to what?" he said to Lucia, his eye on the hapless chair that now lay on its side.