Sarah hurried to the door and went out, closing it softly behind her. Rose could make out scraps of their conversation, particularly James’s side.
“But where is my brother?” he demanded after a minute or two. Then, after hearing Sarah’s response, he cursed and said, “I’ll find him.”
A few moments later, the door opened and closed again, and Sarah returned to her side. And then the doctor came over to tell her that he needed to examine her now to be sure everything had been evacuated. Rose couldn’t suppress a shudder when he said that word, but she lay down obediently. The doctor’s hands were warm and intimate on her body. Mortifyingly thorough.
Eventually, it was over.
“There’s nothing left inside,” he said. Did he realise how his words pained her? “You must rest now, your ladyship. Keep to bed. I will come and see you tomorrow, and for a few days after to make sure all is well and that you do not succumb to fever.”
She nodded wanly, uncaring, and the doctor departed with one last sad-kind smile.
And then there was Sarah, guiding her to the armchair and pressing hot, sweet tea into her hands and having the bed remade with clean linen. Helping her into a clean nightgown.
“Thank you, Sarah,” she whispered as she crawled between the freshly laundered sheets.
“It’ll be all right, milady,” her maid said in her quiet, capable voice. Unflappable and certain.
“Yes,” Rose lied.
Her eyelids felt like they were made of lead. She closed them. Heard Sarah depart, taking the light with her. At last it was dark and quiet again.
She slept.
Gil was relieved to see his brother.
“James!” he bellowed, waving.
He’d retreated to a corner of Belle Orton’s gaming hell with a decanter of brandy after Ferdy had left him, grumbling about married fellows who should know better. Since then, he’d been alone with his thoughts. James was a welcome distraction.
“Come an’ ’ave some of this brandy with me, Jimmy!” he slurred as James approached. He lifted the decanter in invitation, only to frown at its near emptiness .
“No, thanks,” James said easily.
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport!” He stood unsteadily and threw an arm around his brother’s shoulders, urging him toward the chair Ferdy had vacated but James resisted, disentangling himself with disconcerting ease.
“Not like you to refuse a drinky, Jim,” Gil grumbled. He sat down again heavily, his knee colliding with the table, making him frown.
“You’re drunk, Gil. You need to come home.”
Gil shook his head. “The night’s young.”
“It’s five o’ clock in the morning, old man.”
“Christ, is it?” Could it really be that time already?
“Come on, old man.” James hauled him upright. Gil rattled the table with his knee again and steadied himself by leaning on James, who stumbled slightly under his weight.
“Where we goin’?” he asked. He suspected, distantly, that if he were less drunk, he’d be embarrassed.
“I told you. Home.”
“Lor’ Jim, anywhere but there!” Gil protested, but he let James lead him out of the club and down the front steps to a waiting carriage. He felt dizzy and sick as James pushed him in, slumping heavily over one of the seats. James climbed in and settled on the opposite bench, slamming the door behind them. The carriage lurched sickeningly as they set off. The swaying motion and the smell of the leather upholstery made Gil want to vomit. He moaned a protest.
“Not like you to get like this, Gil,” James observed mildly. “More my sort of thing.”
“Rose and I had ’n argument.” Gil explained, forcing himself to sit upright. He let his head fall back against the seat as a wave of sickness washed over him and closed his eyes. “’Bout all the women I had.”
There was a brief silence. “Annoyed, is she?” James asked at last.
“Y’ could say that,” Gil said faintly. His stomach roiled unpleasantly. “Disgusted with me is more like it. Don’t blame her.”
“Better get you home then, old boy. Sober you up.”
Gil couldn’t open his eyes. “Hmmmm,” he agreed. And then he must have drifted off into a half sleep, waking up only when the carriage reached Stanhope House.
It took him a few moments to get himself together, stumble out of the carriage and follow James. Once inside, Henry the footman took their greatcoats, then lit the way upstairs with a branch of candles. Feeling groggy and increasingly queasy, Gil climbed the stairs behind Henry, James at the rear. Halfway up, he tripped, cracking his chin on one of the steps. His stupid hands hadn’t moved quickly enough to save him, and he stared at them, annoyed.