Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(43)

“No, it can't, Miss Ridley. Not without killing him. He's in a bad way. You must prepare yourself for the possibility that he may not recover.”

It took a moment for Madeline to understand what he had said. She waited for Mrs. Beecham to respond, but the housekeeper was silent. On her face, Madeline saw the same frozen expression that must be on her own.

Madeline looked back at the doctor, while denial welled up inside her. “Prescribe something, then. Tell me what must be done.”

“He's beyond mine or anyone's help, Miss Ridley. At this point, I can suggest nothing other than prayer.”

“Prayer,” Madeline exclaimed bitterly, wanting something far more substantial.

“I'll come by tomorrow morning. Continue to give him liquids and cool him as best you can.”

“That's all?” Madeline asked incredulously. “They said you were the best doctor in London…they said you would cure him! You can't leave without doing something.”

Dr. Brooke sighed. “I don't work miracles, Miss Ridley, and I've far too many cases like this to attend to. Most of them have survived, but there are a few instances in which the fever cannot be overcome. I could try bleeding him, but it hasn't brought about a significant improvement in the patients I've already tried it on.”

“But…he was perfectly healthy only three days ago,” Madeline cried, bewildered and suddenly furious, as if the doctor were responsible for the life that ebbed from Logan's body.

Staring into her pale face, Dr. Brooke sought to give her comfort. “He's a young man with a great deal to live for. Sometimes that makes a difference.” He straightened his coat and nodded to the footman who had come to show him downstairs.

“What does he have to live for?” Madeline said scornfully, striding back into the sickroom with her fists clenched. “The theater?” It was only a building, a place where he could lose himself. He had no family, no lover, no one to whom he had given his heart.

She thought of the mountains of flowers and gifts that had accumulated in the receiving room, sent by friends and acquaintances to express their concern. There was even a basket of jellies from Mrs. Florence, tied with a jaunty blue bow. How could a man who knew so many people, a man so admired and celebrated, end up dying alone?

She wasn't aware that she had spoken her last thought aloud until she heard Mrs. Beecham's reply.

“It's what he wants, Miss Ridley. And he's not alone. He asked you to stay, didn't he?”

“I don't want to watch him die.”

“Are you going to leave, then?”

Madeline shook her head and wandered to the bedside. Logan twisted and murmured in a delirium, as if he were trying to escape an inferno. “Someone must inform the Duchess of Leeds,” she said. “She will want to know.” She went to the writing desk, extracted a sheet of paper, and dipped a pen in ink. Her fingers were chapped and stiff as she addressed the note. Mr. Scott's condition has worsened…she wrote. Her penmanship, usually so neat, was cramped. According to the doctor, he is not expected—

She stopped writing and stared down at the letters, which seemed to dance before her eyes. “I can't,” she said, and replaced the pen in its holder.

Mrs. Beecham went to the desk and finished the task for her. “I will have it sent at once,” she remarked, and left the room as if she couldn't stay a moment longer.

As midnight approached, a new doctor arrived, the personal physician to the Duke and Duchess of Leeds. He was a kindly older man with an air of competence that gave Madeline a flicker of hope. “With your permission, the duchess sent me to examine the patient,” he said to Madeline. “Perhaps there is something I can do for him.”

“I hope so,” Madeline replied, welcoming him into the room. She stayed as the doctor conducted his examination. By now she had become so familiar with Logan's body that she was beyond embarrassment. She knew every line of the long bones, the curves of muscle so close beneath the skin, the latent power that reminded her of a slumbering lion.

Madeline's hopes died quickly as she realized that there was nothing the doctor could recommend beyond what was already being done. Before departing, he left his own elixirs, but Madeline sensed that he didn't have much hope for their efficacy.

“Miss Ridley,” Mrs. Beecham said, approaching her, “you've been with Mr. Scott all day. I'll watch him for a while, and then Denis will have a turn.”

Madeline smiled at the housekeeper, who looked exhausted. “I'm not tired,” Madeline replied, though she ached with weariness. Her eyes felt swollen and gritty, and her arms were raw to the elbow from exposure to ice and poultices. “I'll stay a little longer.”

“Are you certain?” Mrs. Beecham asked.

Madeline nodded. “I would like to be alone with him.”

“Very well. Ring for me or Denis if you need help.”

The door closed, and the room was lit only by a lamp flame and the coals in the grate. The glow touched Logan's face, glazing his profile with burgundy light. Madeline pressed an ice-filled cloth over his forehead, but he dislodged it, his movements increasingly violent.

“Hush,” she said repeatedly, stroking his hot skin.

Unguarded in his delirium, he uttered garbled lines from plays and spoke to unseen people. Madeline sat with him in the near-darkness, her face turning crimson. He used words she had never heard before, saying things that shocked and aroused her, until the hair prickled on her arms. He filled the air with obscenities until Madeline felt she would do anything to make him stop. “Please,” she murmured, laying a cool cloth on his forehead, “you must be quiet—”