Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(38)

“Is there something you require, Miss Ridley?” the butler inquired, rising from a chair near the staircase.

“Yes.” Madeline approached the marble steps, half-afraid that he would stop her from ascending. “I would like to know where Mr. Scott's room is located.”

The butler was expressionless, but Madeline sensed his inner consternation. She knew that he and the servants were unclear about her relationship with Scott, whether she was merely an employee like themselves, or perhaps his latest paramour.

“The doctor is with him, miss,” the butler said carefully. “If the parlor isn't to your liking, perhaps there is another place you would prefer to wait—”

“I would prefer to go to his room,” Madeline said evenly, imitating the crisp tone she had always heard her mother use with the servants.

“Yes, Miss Ridley,” came the reluctant reply. The butler rang for a footman and instructed the servant to show her to Scott's private rooms in the east wing.

The hall was illuminated by a long row of windows that shed light on four alcoves filled with statues, including one of a nude female bathing, which caused Madeline to color. Passing through an arch of gleaming mahogany, she entered a distinctly masculine suite of rooms with rich mahogany paneling, a set of antique German maps framed in carved rosewood, and Persian rugs underfoot.

The footman brought her to a closed door, where Mrs. Beecham was waiting. A housemaid stood nearby, ready to go running for any item that might be requested.

Mrs. Beecham's brows lifted as she saw Madeline. “Miss Ridley…didn't you find the parlor comfortable?”

“I wanted to find out if there has been any word yet.”

Mrs. Beecham shook her head. “The doctor is still with him. I will inform you as soon as there is any news. In the meantime, the maid will accompany you to the receiving rooms downstairs.”

Madeline prepared herself for an argument. “I would rather—”

She was interrupted by the click of the doorknob as the valet opened it from within. Falling silent, she waited as the doctor emerged.

Dr. Brooke was a man in his thirties, with a receding hairline and a pair of round spectacles that gave him an owlish look. He had a kind face and dark, solemn eyes. His gaze fell on Mrs. Beecham, then Madeline.

“I am Miss Ridley,” Madeline said, coming forward. “I came to ask about Mr. Scott's welfare. I am his…companion.”

The doctor took her hand and bowed politely.

“How is he?” the housekeeper asked.

Dr. Brooke's gaze encompassed them both. “Recently I've seen many cases like this. I'm sorry to say that this appears to be one of the worst. Rather surprising for a man of Mr. Scott's usual health…but he does nothing in moderation, does he?”

“I'm afraid not,” the housekeeper replied ruefully.

“I'll visit again tomorrow, to see how the fever progresses,” the doctor continued. “Unfortunately he hasn't yet come into the worst of it. Cool him with frequent applications of water and ice. I suggest feeding him jellies, broth, perhaps a spoonful of milk punch now and then.”

“I have an old family recipe that calls for steeping eucalyptus leaves in brandy,” Mrs. Beecham commented. “Might I give him a dose in the evenings?”

“I don't see why not.” The doctor paused, his gaze lingering on Madeline. “Miss Ridley, may I ask if you intend to help care for Mr. Scott?”

“Yes,” Madeline said firmly.

“Then I suggest that you limit your association with people outside the household. The fever is highly contagious. I wouldn't rule out the possibility that you may yet succumb to it.”

Mrs. Beecham regarded Madeline with a perplexed expression. “I suppose we'll have to ready a room for you.”

Madeline understood the woman's reluctance. None of Scott's staff had had any knowledge of her existence before now. They obviously cared for their master and were wary of allowing someone to intrude on his privacy when he was helpless to prevent it. “Thank you, Mrs. Beecham,” she said quietly. “I assure you, my only intention is to help Mr. Scott…Logan…in every way I can.”

The housekeeper nodded, still looking troubled, and gave instructions to the maid. In the meanwhile, Dr. Brooke bid them farewell and departed in the company of the footman. Taking the initiative, Madeline slipped through the half-open doorway into the bedroom.

It was simply furnished and decorated, with no artwork except a view of clouds and sky painted on the ceiling. The room contained a very large bed with a plum silk counterpane and feather pillows piled three deep at the headboard. Scott lay covered with a sheet and light blanket, the counterpane folded back to his feet. He had been dressed in a suit of flannels, the top half unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He slept as if he had been drugged, the side of his flushed face buried in a pillow.

As Madeline entered, the valet placed a jug of water and a pile of folded linens on the bedside table. A small armchair had been positioned nearby, but Madeline chose to sit on the edge of the mattress. The slight shift of her weight caused Logan to turn toward her with an incoherent mutter, his eyes still closed. His breath scraped in his throat.

“It's all right,” Madeline said softly, soaking a linen cloth in the water, wringing it out and laying it on his hot forehead. The coolness seemed to soothe him, and he relaxed deeper into the pillow. She reached out and dared to stroke his beautiful hair, as she had so often longed to do. It was soft and thick beneath her fingers, like dark silk burnished with mahogany.