Roses and Flames

Chapter 37

In response to Ambrose, the Duke was looking up at her with the devotion of a hound, albeit a hound that had stuck his face in a beehive. The swelling was still bad. But then there was a brightness in the Duke size that came from the returning strength instead of fever. The worst was not over, but it was clear he would fight off the illness.

Patrick had been pacing the whole for hours, trying to come up with some explanation that might mollify his lover and explain his sudden change of heart. She thought of him as a jealous swine who had seduced her to spoil the happiness of his brother. He was not sure, from minute to minute, how he felt about her darling Samuel. But Patrick was certain that man’s eventual happiness had nothing to do with what had happened in the bed down the hall.

He could offer nothing, other than the truth. Your father is a liar. He never cared for me as I thought. He was the old Dukes toady, and he is willing to put your happiness aside to gain the favor of the saint. Her father had but to deny it, as any sane man old. Then Patrick would blurred the truth of what had happened and fall even lower in her estimation. She would see him as either a man low enough to last after his one sister, or one who would make up a despicable lie, slandering her father to mask his own indifference. He had sworn to thorn that he would not speak. And he had done it on his true father’s name. As if he could borrow that families owner when it was convenient, and put it aside when it proved to be troublesome. Perhaps he was as fickle as she thought. That morning, he had been ready to make peace with the Duke and, an hour later, he had cuckolded him in the other room while he slept.

There was nothing he could say that would explain any of it. He could hardly understand himself. He into the sick room and stood by the bed, “And how are you feeling after your rest, your grace?”

 From the opposite side, Ambrose stared at him, as protective as a lioness is with a cub. “He is doing much better, now that I’m here to help,” she said, all but accusing him of doping the man insensible for his own nefarious purposes.

“I am sure of that.” It was what he would have told me worried housewife, on visiting her husband sick bed. Women did not like to be told that all illnesses could not be cured with love and herbs.

“It seems I have a ministering Angel,” the Duke croaked, managing a smile.

“Most fortunate,” Patrick agreed. “But you must forgive me if I send her from the room so that I might examine you.”

“Can I not stay?” She asked it sweetly enough, but then she turned her face from the Duke and looked daggers at him, as though she expected Patrick to do away with his rival the moment she cleared the door.

“Do not worry, my love. I am confident that my brother the physician will settle me in no time. And then, perhaps, you might come back and read to me.” That you gave her appeal imitation offered the smile he had worn at their engagement ball.

“Of course, darling.” She left reluctantly, pausing in the doorway to give him one last lingering glance, as though ¼ hour examination would be an eternity. It was like trying to part turtle doves.

The little hypocrite.

As soon as the door was, Patrick turned back to the patient, is eager to get this over with as they were to be rid of him. “May I have the permission to examine you, your grace?”

The Duke moved his swollen head to the side, considering. “Perhaps the drugs have clouded my mind, but I distinctly remember asking you to dispense with the formality of my title. There is no one to hear you, you know. You could call me anything you like. You could even argue with me, should you have a reason to. “

Despite himself, the corners of Patrick’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Do not tempt me, your grace.”

Another sigh from the man on the bed. “Very well, then. But then please stop asking for my permission before you touch me. You know you have it. Just make me well.”

“I will do my best.” He lifted the sheet. Judging by the extent of the inflammation, it was likely that that you could never be himself again. He carefully replaced the sheet and reached for his stethoscope.

“Doing your best,” the Duke said grimly. “That is no answer at all is it?”

 The patient’s chest and heart were clear. And his ears seemed undamaged as well. The situation was far from hopeless, although he doubted that the Duke would see it that way.

“Do you wish me to lie?”

The Duke managed a false smile. “Perhaps I do, if it means that there is a way to prevent the discussion we must have.”

 Patrick smiled grudgingly as well. “I doubt it will give you comfort. I am not very good liar, you see. I find that I get in no end of trouble trying to conceal their truth.”

 “With Ambrosia?”

Patrick started so much that he dropped the stethoscope.

“You are right,” the Duke confirmed. “You are not a very good liar at all.”

 Damn him. And damn his understanding nature. Did he not see that the whole situation was more complicated than that? And once again, Patrick had a strange desire to have a brother much like this for my older and hopefully wiser. Someone in whom he might confide the truth. Then he remembered that he was a physician and not the patient. He was supposed to be the font of wisdom and comfort, not the receiver of it.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” replied the Duke in and even tone. “But I have got you sufficiently off guard that I might get the truth out of you on my condition. We will discuss one thing or the other. What is my prognosis, doctor?”

“You should make nearly a full recovery,” Patrick said, still not wanting to be painted to the untruth.

“Nearly,” The Duke repeated flatly. “And what part of me is do not return from this? Do me the courtesy of saying it please.”

“There is no guarantee, one way or the other,” Patrick rephrased, still not sure he wanted to commit. “But in some cases such as yours, there is a loss of potency, or a chance of sterility.”

“I see.” There was a sort of dangerous quiet in the room and the Duke’s easy manner disappeared. For a moment, Patrick feared what any man would fear upon delivering a bad news to a powerful man. There was a tendency in these things to kill the messenger. Not literally, and of course. But the rumor of misdiagnosis, or malpractice, from a man of this stature would be enough to rein him. But the storm, if there was to be one, did not break. The tension grew and Patrick added, there is no guarantee.

“That will be all, for now, doctor.” The duke glanced towards the door.

“It will be weeks, perhaps months, or longer, before you know the truth. You need to regain your strength first.”

“Before I attempt congress with Ambrosia?”

Patrick brought his hand down hard on the bedside table, unable to control his sudden and violent reaction to the thought. “I know you believe that indeed, if you could. Why you waste as much time as you do trying to heal me, I do not understand.”

“You asked me too,” Patrick said.

The Duke gave an empty laugh. “And they called me a saint. Perhaps nobility runs in our family.”

“Our family has nothing to do with this,” Patrick said exasperatedly. “I helped you because you needed it. And now I’m telling you what I would any man in your condition. Do not give up hope without a reason. It may take some time before you know that we know that you are your old self again.”

“And how will I know?” Samuel asked.

“If you father a child,” Patrick said, cursing his own inability to offer more. “There are no tests beyond this. And if I cannot father a child? Then it might be the fault of the illness. Or it might have been the truth before. Or it might be the fault of the woman that you were with.” Patrick resisted the urge to shrug, but that was hardly a gesture that in fact inspired confidence. “You might have a son by the new year. Or not.”

“You are useless,” the Duke said. “Worse than useless. Get out.”

And now he would call for another doctor. Someone who would lie to him, bring some odd tincture that offered hope.

“You want me gone because I will not tell you what you wish to hear? You asked for the truthful stuff it is not my fault if you don’t like it.”

“Get out.”

“No.” He was refusing a direct order from a peer. It was likely professional suicide. It was illogical as well. If he cared at all for a fortune with the woman he loved, it made it made no sense to encourage this man to bed her. But damnation, the man was his brother. And his brother was at Duke. The Duke’s glare was icy, and superior, it reminded of difference or in their ranks. “How dare you refuse me?”

 Patrick sat in a chair that the bedside that Ambrosia had occupied. “I do because I am more than a doctor to you. You wanted a family, did you? Well, I have little experience with it. But from what I hear, family does not abandon family at moments like this.”

“What can you do?”

“I can say that I am sorry.”

“And how does that help me?”

“You did not let me finish. I could say I was sorry that my is such a great block head. You are worrying about a future that is not certain.”

 The Duke’s eyes were widened near to panic.

“But if it is future, do you understand what it means? That all flesh is grass? That the plans of men are not equal to the machinations of God or fate or random chance?” Patrick glared down at the man in the bed. “I have given worse news to better men than you. I have watched children die. And here you are, grieving for the ones that are not even conceived. I suggest, Samuel, that you accept the fact that there are things that the title will not protect you from. If you are only a saint when your faith is not tested, then you are no saint at all.”

 The Duke was shaking his head as though he could refuse the future he might face and have another. “I never asked to be a saint.”

“But you have been doing a fine job up till now,” Patrick replied. “The only prescription I can offer you this. You must not worry, Samuel.” He put a steadying hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We will deal with the other matters if they arise.”