The realization that he’d been truly ill left her shaken. How could she have been so mistaken? She was so good at spotting an unbalanced person. How could she have missed how utterly ill he appeared? The answer was obvious. He was growing sicker by the moment.
A quick search of his pockets had yielded nothing but several pound notes and a handkerchief stained with yellowish spots and monogrammed with a very grand-looking H. Nothing to indicate who he was or where he belonged.
Clammy nausea clutched at her insides and she fisted her hands.
Should she call for a doctor? To what end? The doctor would leach and bleed and purge the gentleman. She’d never seen that do any person any good. Not Mama when she was dying of consumption. Not Papa in the desperate grips of madness. No, in both cases the doctors’ ministrations had seemed to hasten death.
But what if this gentleman died in her room, alone with her? Anyone would ask what he was even doing here in the first place. They would accuse of her of being a pickpocket who had lured him in, then allowed him to die so she could take his money. Even if she escaped suspicion of being a thief, the inquiry would surely make her look like a harlot. Mr. Ratherford wouldn’t like that. She could lose her chance to be published.
Her nails cut into her palms. Think about what you’re doing.
She had no way of knowing just how ill the gentleman was or how ill he would become. His condition seemed to be rapidly disintegrating and aggressive treatment could leave him weakened to the point he might die.
You don’t owe this stranger anything. You especially don’t owe him this kind of risk.
A groan sounded, long and deep. The sound jerked her out of her thoughts. She refocused on the gentleman lying on her bed. From his open mouth, wheezing sounds issued forth to fill the small space.
She threw one hand to her throat and pressed, trying to ease the sad, burning pressure there. God, he was so helpless. He depended on her completely to make the correct decision.
She took a long shuddering breath and then released her remaining clenched fist.
No, she couldn’t risk Dr. Edmonton. She must care for the stranger herself. While living here in this boardinghouse, she had learned much from listening to the other women, too poor to afford doctors for their families. They often shared nursing wisdom and herbal recipes handed down through generations. She would dose him with elderberry tea and other things.
What to do first? The delirium. His fever must be brought down. It appeared to be cooking his brain. She must unclothe him and bathe him in cold water.
The prospect of stripping an unconscious man didn’t intimidate her. She wasn’t a virgin. For a young woman on her own, and who was good for nothing but aimless daydreams, virginity was an unaffordable luxury. From the doctor who cared for Papa in his worst crisis to the clergyman who had seen him laid in a pauper’s grave, there were always men willing to give her a little help along the way. And she had so badly needed help, so many times. Too many times.
Bedding men in exchange for their help, their money—that was one thing. But what she did not need was to have her private life entangled with any man. And this one was sleeping in her bed
Well, she’d just have to care for him the best she could and hope that when he awoke his memory would be fully intact and he could take himself back to his own world. The sooner the better. But first she’d have to nurse him back to some semblance of health.
She peeled out of her pelisse and let it drop to the floor, then rushed to the bed.
Her gaze traveled over his well-tailored cutaway coat with its brass buttons. She reached out and ran her hand over his dove gray pantaloons. Velveteen. A finer nap than could be believed covered his hard musculature. She jerked her hand back.
Good heavens. She’d never been alone with a gentleman so finely attired. His wealth must be spectacular. That was a bit daunting to be perfectly honest. Still, a man was a man. Only with much tugging, pulling, and shifting on her part did she manage to get his jacket and waistcoat off. His pantaloon buttons proved to be so damned tight. Inexpressibles. Ha!
He groaned a few times but never awoke. She, however, paused many times, sweating, trembling with fatigue. She’d never actually disrobed a man. She hadn’t expected it to be so damned difficult. But she dared not ask for help. The other women here were rather prone to gossip. And if they knew she had such a fine gentleman in her garret, they might actually come in the night and attempt to take his clothes, his fine Hessian boots, and his money.
With no other choice, Jeanne pressed on, peeling every layer off. The tremendous heat of his body seemed to singe her fingers and her hands began to shake with urgency.
Her hands still shook as she stood holding a basin of cool water and sloshing the contents on to the wooden floor. From his broad shoulders to his well-muscled chest, flat stomach and narrow hips, he was absolutely gorgeous. She’d never seen a man so well formed. Well, at least not bared.