Chapter 6 #2
The youngest girl blinked at him. “You’re really a duke?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s very inconvenient.
I keep getting lost in my new castle.” He glanced at the old man in the chair, then back at them.
“But I’m quite good at finding doctors. And carrying things.
And doing whatever needs doing.” His gaze locked with Maragaret’s.
“So if you’ll tell me what to do, I promise I’ll do it. ”
The tension in the room shifted slightly.
Margaret’s throat worked. “We need a doctor. But Dr. Bromwell isn’t home and—”
“I’ll find someone.” Henry rose and looked at Matthew. “Will you come with me? Show me where to look?”
The boy straightened, surprised at being asked, at being treated like he mattered. “I already checked his house. And Mrs. Manley’s.”
“Then we’ll check everywhere else. Between the two of us, we’ll track him down.” Henry moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at Margaret to let her see what was in his eyes. I’m not judging this. I’m not judging you. I’m here. “I’ll bring help. I promise.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Me?”
“You know where the doctor lives. You’ve already checked his house. You can show me where else to look.” Henry was already moving toward the door. “We’ll find him.”
He caught Margaret’s eye as he left. Saw the fear there. The exhaustion. The bone-deep weariness of carrying everything alone. Not anymore, he wanted to tell her. You’re not alone anymore. But there was no time.
“Is there another doctor?”
“Dr. Fernando won’t come,” Margaret said, her voice tight. “He’s from Harley Street but I heard he’s visiting. He has a royal warrant. He doesn’t treat—” She stopped. Swallowed. “People like us.”
“I’ll find him,” Henry said.
“Your Grace, he’s expensive. We can’t afford—”
“I’ll bring him here.” He looked at Matthew. “Do you know where he might be tonight?”
The boy’s face became even whiter. “There’s a house party at Silvercroft Manor. All the fancy doctors go there.”
A house party. Of course.
Henry and Matthew took the carriage. It flew through the darkening countryside, leaving the cramped streets behind.
When Silvercroft Manor appeared before them, Matthew let out a low whistle.
Henry had to admit, it looked impressive. The manor house was actually a Tudor-style chateau with smoking chimneys, a red brick facade like St. James Palace, and rolling hills stretching in every direction.
“That’s not a house,” Matthew breathed. “That’s a bloody castle.”
The carriage pulled up to the entrance. Henry climbed out, with Matthew scrambling after him.
A butler appeared at the door, face arranged in polite inquiry that turned to recognition when he saw the signet ring on Henry's finger. "Your Grace. We weren't expecting—"
“Dr. Fernando. I need him immediately. Medical emergency.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Fernando is attending to the guests. Perhaps tomorrow—”
“Now.” Henry’s voice went hard. Ducal. The tone that said this wasn’t a request. “A life is at stake.”
The butler hesitated, then nodded. “If you’ll wait in the entrance hall.”
Henry didn’t wait. He pushed past the butler into the manor. Matthew followed, eyes huge.
The magnificent entrance hall had marble floors, paintings in gilt frames, and a sweeping staircase that probably cost more than Margaret’s entire cottage.
Voices drifted from a drawing room to the left. Laughter. Music. Henry strode toward it.
“Your Grace, perhaps it would be better to—”
He ignored the butler and pushed open the drawing room doors.
The room fell silent. Thirty or so faces turned to stare. Ladies in silk gowns. Gentlemen in evening dress. The murmur of conversation died. The crowd parted.
All eyes fixed on Henry and Matthew—muddy, disheveled, and completely out of place in this glittering room.
Henry didn't care. He scanned the faces, looking for anyone who might be the physician. "I need Dr. Fernando." His voice cut through the silence. "Medical emergency. Where is he?"
A distinguished man with black hair and a dark coat stepped forward from the center of the crowd. “That’s me.”
Relief flooded through Henry. “Good. I need you. Now.”
The doctor’s brow furrowed. “Your Grace? I wasn’t aware you were—”
“Medical emergency. Apoplectic fit. A man’s life is hanging in the balance.” Henry closed the distance between them. “I have a carriage waiting. We need to leave immediately.”
Dr. Fernando glanced at some other men and they nodded. Were they doctors, too?
Silence.
Dr. Fernando placed his glass on a nearby table and kissed a regal woman on the cheek — evening gown, gem-studded tiara, the whole picture.
“Very well, Your Grace. Let me get my bag.”
Relief flooded through Henry.
Within minutes, Dr. Fernando, Henry, and Matthew were in the carriage, racing back through the dark countryside.
“The patient’s condition?” Dr. Fernando asked, all business now.
Henry relayed what he’d seen. Matthew added details—when Mr. Foley had first complained, what he’d eaten, how quickly he’d deteriorated.
The doctor asked sharp, efficient questions. Matthew answered as best he could.
When they pulled up to the cottage, Dr. Fernando didn’t hesitate, he simply climbed out and strode inside with his bag. He didn’t look at the patched roof and cramped rooms.
Henry watched him disappear through the door and turned to Matthew. The boy was trembling. Trying not to cry.
“You did well,” Henry said quietly. “Your sister is lucky to have you.”
“I should have found help faster. Should have—”
“Dr. Fernando is here now. One of the best doctors in London. Because you knew where to find him.”
Matthew’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he? Mr. Foley?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said honestly. “But he’s got the best chance now.”
They went inside together.
Dr. Fernando was already examining Mr. Foley. Margaret stood nearby, pale but composed. Her sisters watched from the doorway.
The doctor worked with practiced efficiency. He checked Mr. Foley’s pulse. Listened to his breathing. Tested reflexes.
Finally, he straightened. “Apoplectic fit. Mild, I believe. His arm may remain weak, but with proper care and medication, he should recover.” He pulled out a notebook and began writing.
“I’ll need these medicines prepared. They’re specialized—you’ll need to send to the apothecary on Harley Street.
I’ll also need to see him again in three days, preferably at Cloverdale House in London. ”
Margaret’s face went white. “Dr. Fernando, I’m afraid we can’t afford—”
“It’s handled,” Henry said quietly. “I’ll arrange it.”
She looked at him, eyes shining with unshed tears.
Dr. Fernando glanced between them before clearing his throat. "Yes. Well. His Grace has been most generous. Now, let me explain the care instructions…"
If Henry wanted to do one thing right as duke—one thing that mattered—it was this.
Lifting up people who deserved it. People who'd been overlooked and undervalued and judged by fools who had no idea what constituted real strength.
The way he'd been lifted up and given a chance he'd never expected.
A title he'd never wanted but could use for good.
Suddenly, the path was clear.
Everything led to her.
He needed her as much as she needed him. Maybe more. Because she made sense of this new life. Gave him purpose beyond signing papers and attending balls. Made him feel like he could actually do something meaningful with this absurd amount of power and money.
And oh, how he wanted her. Not merely in the carnal way—though that was true too, simmering beneath every look, every touch. But deeper, fuller, as if their souls had recognized each other across a crowded ballroom. As if he’d been searching for something without knowing it, and she was the answer.
It was madness. He’d known her for mere hours. It was also the truest thing he’d ever felt.
He paid the doctor enough to cover the visit and the medicines and probably several more visits if needed, then he rolled up his sleeves and asked the question that seemed to undo her completely, “What can I do to help?”
Her face crumpled. Then straightened. “Firewood. We’ll need more firewood.”
“Show me where it is.”
He carried wood. Cut more for the next day because Matthew was just a boy and cut slowly. They’d run low in days. He helped make broth, despite having no idea what he was doing—Margaret taught him with patience that made his chest ache. He did every unglamorous, undignified task without complaint.
He found more dignity in performing tasks for the people he hoped to count into his family soon than to stand useless in a corner with feigned honor that was a blank facade.
Because this was what mattered. Not ballrooms or propriety or what the gossips would say.
This. Her. This family that had become his the moment he’d decided to make Margaret his.
When midnight came, he settled into a chair outside Mr. Foley’s room. Margaret appeared with a blanket and insisted on sitting with him despite his protests.
They sat in the darkness. Her hand in his. Their silence comfortable.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. You didn’t have to—”
“I did.” He squeezed her hand. “Because I care about you. More than I should. More than is wise. But I can’t seem to help it.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then: “I care about you too.”
His heart nearly stopped. “Then that’s enough. For now. That’s enough.”
They sat together. Holding hands. Standing watch. And Henry knew with absolute certainty: this was what he’d become duke for. Not the title or the money or the power. For this moment. This woman. This chance to be more than he’d ever imagined. For her.