Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(35)

“Good riddance to her. Now get away from my door.”

Madeline complied gladly, but after the first few steps, she paused. There had been something odd in his voice, a strain that touched her. He sounded tired. No wonder, she thought, with so much of the company absent: In spite of his orders to stay away, and her own hurt and embarrassment, she was driven to return to the door. “Mr. Scott, is there something I can do? Would you like some tea?”

“Just leave,” he muttered. “I have work…no mood for distractions.”

“Yes, sir.” But still she couldn't go. She was filled with the growing conviction that something was wrong. It was so quiet inside the room. It wasn't like him to keep his door closed at this hour, barring himself from the rest of the company. Placing her hand on the worn brass doorknob, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If her suspicions proved to be false, Scott would most likely take her head off.

As Madeline entered the room, Scott seemed not to notice her until she was at his side. He sat at his desk amid a pile of blotted and crumpled paper, dragging a sleeve across his forehead before picking up a pen. He wore no coat or waistjacket, and shivers chased down his back as the cold air in the room sank through the thin linen shirt. He smothered a violent cough, dropping the pen and scattering drops of ink over the desk.

“Sir,” Madeline said quietly.

Scott's head turned toward her, revealing a flushed face and glazed eyes. It seemed as if he watched her through a dense fog. Without thinking, Madeline reached down to touch the damp ruff of his hair and smooth it gently. Her fingers brushed against his forehead, detecting the dry heat of a raging fever.

“Let me help you,” she said as he twisted away with a muffled curse.

“I have to finish the new schedules.” Doggedly he groped for the discarded pen.

“You have a fever, Mr. Scott. You must go home and rest.”

“I'm not sick. I never—” He jerked as she touched his hot forehead once more, and then his eyes closed. “Your hand is so cool,” he said hoarsely, catching at her fingers. “Christ, my head is pounding.”

Madeline was wrenched with worry. Was there no one to care for him, to look after his welfare? Frozen in indecision, she stared down at him while he shook with tremors.

“You must go home, sir,” Madeline said firmly, and repeated it over his objections until Scott fell silent, huddling against his desk. He rested his forehead on his closed fist, using his other hand to grip her fingers. Reluctantly Madeline pried herself free. “Don't move,” she said. “I'll be right back.” He didn't reply, only sat listlessly, using the last of his strength to keep himself upright.

By a stroke of fortune, the carpentry shopboy, Jeff, was passing the office. Madeline called his name, and he stopped at once, his eyes friendly and inquiring.

“I'm afraid Mr. Scott is ill,” Madeline said, indicating the half-closed door behind her. “He must leave right away. Would you please tell someone to have his carriage brought around?”

“Mr. Scott…ill?” the boy repeated, seeming not to hear the rest. He looked thunderstruck, as if such an occurrence were outside the realm of possibility.

“There's something else,” Madeline added. “Make certain that the duchess is told to leave immediately. She mustn't come near Mr. Scott—it would be dangerous for her to catch the fever.”

The boy retreated, glancing warily at the office. “What about you?” he asked in concern. “Shouldn't you stay away from him, too?”

“I don't believe I'll get sick,” Madeline replied. “I think I would have by now, if I were going to. Please go quickly, Jeff. I'll stay with Mr. Scott while you send for the carriage.”

“Yes, Miss Maddy.” He shot her a glance of admiration. “If you don't mind my saying, you're an angel, Miss Maddy. As kind and sweet as any girl I ever knew.”

Madeline shook her head with an abashed smile. “Thank you, Jeff.” Returning to the office, she found Scott's cloak and draped it around him. The heavy wool should have warmed him, but he continued to shiver and cough. As he tried to rise from the chair, Madeline rushed to him.

“Sir, you mustn't! You aren't well enough. The footmen will arrive soon to help you.”

“I can leave on my own,” he growled, pushing at her small, restraining hands.

“I won't be able to keep you from falling,” Madeline insisted. “And if you collapse before you reach the carriage, you may injure yourself…and think how it will appear to the others. You wouldn't want them to see you that way.”

Scott went still, and Madeline realized she had hit on a vulnerable point. He couldn't tolerate the least sign of weakness in himself. At all costs, he would maintain his image of authority in front of his employees. Leaning his head on his hands, he waited in a subdued manner that almost frightened Madeline. He wasn't at all himself.

It was only a few minutes until a footman dressed in black and silver livery appeared at the office, but it seemed an eternity. Although the footman tried to appear unruffled, his eyes widened as he saw Scott. Madeline asked him to help Scott to his feet, and the servant complied in a dumbfounded manner. She wondered why it was such a surprise to see his master ill. Apparently Scott was so good at being a legend that it was easy for everyone, even his servants, to overlook the fact that he was only a man.