Royal Regard

Chapter Twenty-Seven, Part 1

"It has been six days. Will she never wake?" Nick begged rhetorically, turning away from Charlotte to hide incipient tears. His head fell, listless, onto Bella's motionless shoulder, hoping against hope if he jostled her even slightly, she would regain consciousness.

He needed no mirror to know his face was creased and unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, broad frame missing half its bulk, as though the flesh had followed his half-dead will to live, leaving his dirty shirt to hang off his shoulders like a ship's flag in a ghost wind.

Once the doctor had settled her unresponsive form at the Firthley's townhouse and allowed visitors, Nick had barely left the room but to use the chamber pot. The cheerful, yellow, floral wallpaper mocked him every time his eyes focused enough to take it in. His hand was always entwined with Bella's; at the moment, both hands, holding on like she was his life preserver. Or rather, he was hers.

Charlotte tried to soothe Nick, her hand patting his back. "She'll be fine, Wellbridge. The doctor said there was every reason to hope, and she's so very strong."

Firthley knocked lightly on the open door, inviting himself in and sitting across the bed from them, the candlewick spread as white as Bella's face. He motioned to Charlotte's maid to adjust the curtains, as the afternoon sun would soon be blinding.

Of the three in the room, Firthley was the only one whose person was in any kind of order. As the functions of government hadn't ceased without Nick's acknowledgement of them, Firthley planned to attend The House of Lords in the afternoon, so was flawlessly attired in a day suit of dark grey broadcloth with black kid gloves, hair powdered in the fashion of the old men Firthley aligned with in Parliament.

Charlotte, by contrast, may as well have been dressed as a servant. Her faded cotton gown might have started orange or yellow, now worn to the color of hay, the print blurred and indistinct beneath a floor-length linen apron, stained and spotted with the residue of a sickbed.

When he heard the choking sound in Nick's throat, Firthley stood. "Wellbridge, it's time for a brandy. Past time, in fact. You should be half-dead from drink by now."

Nick looked up at him, confused and forlorn. "A drink?"

"Yes, old man, a drink," Firthley countered. "You've spent almost a week alarmingly sober, and it's time you act like a proper Englishman, not a woman. Crying at her bedside. It's disgraceful. Bella needs a man, not a milksop."

Nick's shoulders straightened. "I am not a milksop, Sir."

"I have pistols in my study if you have the bollocks to prove it—please excuse the indelicate language, my dear."

"Given the circumstance, husband, I think it—"

"Come along, Your Grace."

Charlotte objected, "Alexander, he is only—"

"I'll have no argument from you, Lady Firthley. You've done more than enough, encouraging him in this unseemly display. You may send a footman if there is a change. Wellbridge?"

Charlotte merely huffed her strenuous objection.

Nick stood, took a deep breath, and followed Firthley out of the room, looking back over his shoulder. The sunlight that had been about to light up Bella's face was now muted, leaving her in shadow. When he saw her shoulders twitch and head loll to the side, he started to turn back, but Charlotte was only adjusting the pillows. Firthley waited, tapping his toe.

Once he had closed the door, and as soon as they were out of earshot, Firthley mumbled, "Apologies for the slur, Wellbridge. Charlotte would never follow two men on the verge of fisticuffs." Nick nodded to acknowledge Firthley's thin ruse, but narrowed his eyes when the marquess followed with, "Though you have been acting rather too womanish."