Chapter 13 #2
He was on his feet in an instant, the chair scraping loudly against the wood floor as he bolted into the corridor. As he reached the entry hall, he spotted Mrs. Haverleigh standing with Wright, her gloved hands fluttering as she gestured wildly towards the drawing room.
His chest tightened. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
Mrs. Haverleigh turned to him. “It’s Dorothea,” she said breathlessly. “She’s taken ill rather suddenly.”
He didn’t wait to hear more.
Dominic pushed past them and strode into the drawing room, his heart pounding. The sight that met him made him falter.
Dorothea was slumped back on the settee, her eyes closed, and her skin flushed unnaturally beneath the morning light. Her hands lay limp in her lap, and her breathing seemed shallow. A white-haired woman stood nearby, her face taut with concern.
“Dorothea,” he said as he crossed the room in swift strides. He crouched down in front of her. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Her eyes fluttered open, and the moment she saw him, her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Go away,” she said flatly.
“No,” he replied, unperturbed. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I told you—”
“I heard you. But I’m not leaving.”
From behind him, the woman answered his earlier question. “She nearly fainted when she stood. Said she felt lightheaded and ill.”
“It’s nothing,” Dorothea insisted, attempting to sit up straighter. “I just need a moment.”
Dominic turned towards the door and ordered, “Send for the doctor. Immediately.”
“That isn’t necessary—” Dorothea began, but her protest was cut off by a sharp gasp as Dominic leaned forward and swept her into his arms.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped, squirming against him as he carried her towards the entry hall.
“I should think it’s rather obvious,” he said, not breaking stride. “I’m taking you to your bedchamber.”
“I do not need—nor want—your help.”
“And yet,” he said, adjusting his hold on her, “you have it.”
“Put me down this instant!”
“No.”
“Dominic—”
“You need to be examined by a doctor.”
“This is absurd,” she muttered, wriggling again.
“What’s absurd is that you’re fighting me while clearly unwell,” he retorted.
“I merely stood too fast. You’re making a fuss over nothing. You needn’t concern yourself with me.”
Behind them, Mrs. Haverleigh’s voice rang with thinly veiled exasperation. “Stop being so stubborn, Dorothea. Let the man help you.”
Dorothea scowled, folding her arms as best she could while being carried. “I am not an invalid.”
“I never said you were,” Dominic replied.
At the top of the stairs, Tabitha appeared, eyes wide with worry. She hurried to open the door to Dorothea’s bedchamber and stepped aside to let them pass.
Dominic carried Dorothea inside and gently laid her down on the bed, brushing a few stray curls from her flushed cheek. “How are you feeling now?”
She turned her face away and crossed her arms again. “I am still very angry at you.”
“That’s reassuring. But I meant physically. What ills you?”
Dorothea shifted her gaze to Tabitha. “Will you kindly inform Lord Warwicke that I merely have the symptoms of influenza?”
Tabitha blinked. “Do you want me to tell him that when he’s standing two feet away from you?”
Dominic studied Dorothea’s complexion. “You’re flushed. And you were perfectly fine earlier. Why do you think it’s influenza?”
She huffed in frustration. “Because my stomach is churning, my body aches, and I got lightheaded. Influenza symptoms, every one of them.”
“So, how were you eating breakfast without complaint just an hour ago?”
With a groan, Dorothea reached for a pillow and placed it over her face. “Go away, Dominic.”
But something gnawed at him. The sudden onset. The odd timing. The symptoms came too swiftly.
What if it wasn’t illness at all?
What if it was poison?
He grabbed a chair and dragged it closer to the bed, sitting down without invitation. “Did you eat or drink anything during your visit with your guests?”
Her voice came muffled beneath the pillow. “Why do you care?”
“Just humor me.”
The pillow shifted slightly as she peeked out at him, clearly annoyed. “I had a sip of tea. That’s all.”
“Only one sip?”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “And now, do you mind leaving me so I can continue loathing you in private?”
He ignored the jab. “Who brought the tea in?”
“What does that matter?”
“Please.”
She relented. “It was the footman. The same one who witnessed my fall from the horse.”
Dominic stiffened. “Isn’t tea usually delivered by one of the maids?”
“Yes, normally,” Dorothea said. “But today, it was him.”
A cold sensation began to curl in Dominic’s gut as he pressed, “Has that footman ever brought tea to you before?”
“No,” she replied, clearly puzzled now. “Never. Why?”
Dominic rose from the chair with slow, deliberate movements, every instinct sharpened. “Because I believe I may need to have a word with him.”
“Good,” Dorothea said dryly. “Does that mean you’re finally leaving my bedchamber? I only ask because you are not welcome in here.”
“I shall take my leave… for now.”
Before stepping away, he turned to Tabitha, who stood dutifully near the hearth, her expression tight with worry.
“Do not give Lady Warwicke anything to eat or drink unless you fetch it yourself. No one else. Do you understand me?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Tabitha replied.
Dorothea huffed. “If I weren’t feeling so wretched, I’d be throwing my pillows at your head to drive you out.”
A faint smirk tugged at Dominic’s lips, but it was fleeting. He turned towards the door. “Do try to feel better, Dorothea.”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “Don’t pretend you care.”
He paused on the threshold, one hand resting on the doorframe. His voice was quieter this time, almost gruff. “I do care.”
Then, without another word, he stepped out and closed the door gently behind him.
Dominic descended the stairs two at a time, his mind racing. Something was wrong—deeply wrong—and he could no longer ignore the unease that had been gnawing at the edge of his thoughts since the moment Dorothea had grown ill.
He found Wright in the entry hall, conversing with another servant.
“Wright,” Dominic said sharply.
The butler turned immediately. “Yes, my lord?”
“I need to speak with the footman who delivered tea to Lady Warwicke’s drawing room this morning. At once.”
Wright offered him a bemused look. “My lord… footmen don’t deliver tea. That task belongs to the maids.”
“Well, one did today. Lady Warwicke told me as much.”
A flicker of unease crossed Wright’s face. “I see. I’ll make inquiries right away.”
Dominic stopped him with a raised hand. “That’s not the only thing. That same footman brought our horses around front yesterday morning.”
Wright’s brows drew together in confusion. “That’s highly irregular, my lord. The grooms are responsible for the horses. I assigned no footman to do such a task.”
Dominic’s back stiffened. “Then who the blazes was that man?”
Wright looked deeply troubled now. “I… I don’t know, my lord. But I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Start by rounding up every footman in the household. I want them all accounted for. Now.”
Wright gave a crisp bow and turned on his heel, calling for one of the under-butlers as he disappeared down the corridor.
As Dominic stood in the entry hall, the pieces began to fall into place—one troubling detail after another.
Dorothea’s sudden illness. The footman no one seemed to recognize.
The wrong person delivering tea. And now, a memory returned with a jolt: the fireplace damper being closed, filling Dorothea’s bedchamber with smoke.
At the time, he’d dismissed it as an oversight—a careless mistake by one of the servants. But now? Now he wasn’t so certain.
What if it hadn’t been a mistake at all?
What if someone had wanted to harm Dorothea?
The thought struck him like a blow to the chest, and without another moment’s hesitation, he turned on his heel and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His boots pounded against the polished wood, his breath tight in his throat.
He didn’t knock.
He threw the door open and burst into her bedchamber.
Tabitha, seated in the corner with a basin of cool water and a cloth, let out a startled gasp. “My lord—what is it? Is everything all right?”
“It will be,” Dominic said, though the words rang hollow to his own ears. He forced his voice steady, willing himself to remain calm. “I’m only here to ensure Lady Warwicke remains undisturbed.”
Dorothea, propped against her pillows with a blanket tucked around her, narrowed her eyes with displeasure. “Do you truly intend to make a nuisance of yourself?”
“I do,” he replied as he went to sit down in the chair beside the bed.
She gave him a withering look. “I don’t want you here.”
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “I know. But I’m not here for conversation or forgiveness. I’m here to keep you safe. That’s all.”
“Safe from what?”
“I am not sure yet, but I will know soon enough.”
Not looking the least bit impressed, she turned her body pointedly away from him, her back to his gaze.
He didn’t flinch from her anger. He deserved it. Every ounce of it.
Still, no matter how furious she was with him—no matter how much he had hurt her—he wasn’t going anywhere.
If someone was targeting Dorothea, if someone within these walls had meant to harm her, then he would remain exactly where he needed to be: at her side.
Even if she loathed him for it.
He settled back in the chair, silent now, eyes fixed on the flickering fire in the hearth.
Let her rest.
Let her rage.
He would wait.
And he would protect her.
With his life, if necessary.