Page 68 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

The door swung wide, and Mrs. Gable stumbled into the bedchamber. Her cap was crooked, her apron strings untied at the hip, and the pale morning light caught the stark, terrified tremor in her hands.

“Your Grace… Oh, God, Your Grace,” Mrs. Gable choked out, pressing a trembling apron to her chest. “It’s Master Michael. He’s… He won’t wake properly, sir. He’s burning up, retching into the basin, and screaming that his belly is on fire. We must send for Dr. Thorne at once.”

Lysander was out of the bed before the housekeeper finished her sentence.

He paid no mind to his bare chest or the dark, unbuttoned trousers he pulled on with ruthless speed. The fierce, tender heat that had filled the chamber during the small hours vanished, replaced in a single heartbeat by the icy, terrifying efficiency of a father about to lose his son. He didn’t speak to Fanny; he didn’t even look at her as he yanked on his boots and sprinted down the long, carpeted corridor toward the nursery wing.

Fanny sat frozen for a fraction of a second, her heart thumping frantically against her ribs, before she threw back the linens.

She dressed with frantic hands, her fingers fumbling at the tiny jet buttons on her bodice. Her mind raced through the halls of Hilgrove Manor to the small, sunlit nursery where Michael had been playing with his wooden soldiers just two days earlier.

As she pulled her dark hair into a loose knot, a quiet, tearful voice echoed from the doorway of the adjoining room.

Emily stood in her nightgown, rubbing her eyes, while little Peter peered out from behind her skirts, his tiny thumb hooked into his mouth.

“Fanny?” Emily whispered, her broad eyes filled with a sudden, perceptive fear that mirrored Fanny’s own. “Why was Mrs. Gable crying? Is Michael sick?”

Fanny took a deep, steadying breath, forcing her shoulders to drop, forcing the panic in her chest down into a dark, buried vault. She smoothed her skirts and crossed the room with a calm, deliberate step, kneeling on the rug until she was at eye level with the children.

“Your brother has a very upset stomach this morning, darling,” Fanny said smoothly, her voice warm, steady, and entirely free of the terror clawing at her throat. She reached out, gently smoothing back Emily’s dark curls before tucking Peter’s small chin up. “You know how Michael loves to eat green apples straight from the orchard when he shouldn’t. Dr. Thorne is coming to give him a nasty-tasting tonic so he can rest.”

Emily searched her face, looking for the telltale signs of adult lies, but Fanny kept her smile fixed, soft and entirely reassuring.

“I need you two to be my brave little soldiers today,” Fanny continued gently, kissing the top of Peter’s head. “Emily, will you help Peter put on his woolen stockings and take him down to the breakfast room for hot porridge? Mrs. Gable has extra honey today.”

Peter brightened slightly at the mention of honey, and Emily gave a solemn, adult nod.

“I’ll take care of him, Fanny,” Emily said quietly.

“Good girl.”

The moment the nursery door closed behind them, Fanny’s smile collapsed. She spun on her heel and hurried down the west wing, her soft slippers gliding soundlessly over the runners until she reached Michael’s bedchamber.

The air inside the room was thick, metallic, and foul.

The heavy curtains were pulled back, casting a harsh, cold light over the four-poster bed. Michael lay tangled in the damp sheets, his small frame twisting weakly from side to side. His skin was a ghastly, translucent gray, his dark hair soaked with a cold, sticky sweat. A wooden washbasin sat on the nightstand, filled with dark, violent vomit, and every few seconds, a weak, wet groan tore from the boy’s tiny throat.

Lysander stood rigid at the foot of the bed, his tall frame unnervingly motionless. His hands were clasped behind his back so tightly that the bone flashed white through his knuckles. His jaw was set like granite, but his eyes—wide, hollow, and dark with helpless, suffocating agony—were locked on his son’s pale face.

Near the window stood Veronica. She wore a gray morning gown, her hands neatly folded at her waist, her posture straight and composed. She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief, yet her face remained strangely blank, her sharp eyes flicking toward the door as Fanny entered.

Dr. Thorne leaned over the boy, his fingers pressed firmly against Michael’s small, thready wrist.

Fanny glided into the room, moving past Veronica without a word, and slipped her hand directly into Lysander’s fist. Lysander’s fingers instantly closed around hers, crushing her hand with a frantic, desperate pressure that told her everything he couldn’t say aloud. He didn’t break his gaze from Michael, but the subtle shift in his weight showed he was anchoring himself entirely to her presence.

“His pulse is remarkably fast, yet weak,” Dr. Thorne murmured, setting the boy’s wrist down and pressing his broad palm against Michael’s feverish forehead. “And the abdominal spasms have been continuous since dawn, you say?”

“He began retching around five,” Mrs. Gable said from the corner, her voice trembling as she wiped a damp cloth over Michael’s hot brow. “He kept crying out that his stomach was burning him up from the inside.”

Dr. Thorne straightened his back, turning his sharp, analytical gaze toward the adults in the room. “Has the boy been near the stables? Did he ingest any stagnant water, or stray near the wild berries down by the brook?”

“No,” Lysander rumbled, his gravelly voice dropping into a harsh, cracked register. “He has not left the central gardens since Tuesday.”

“And his meals?” the physician pressed, pulling a small notebook from his coat pocket. “What has entered his mouth over the last forty-eight hours?”

Veronica stepped forward slightly, her tone soft, measured, and sorrowful. “He had the roasted mutton and root vegetables at dinner last night, Doctor. The same as the rest of the household. And a bowl of oats for breakfast yesterday morning.”

“The milk was fresh,” Mrs. Gable added quickly. “I checked the dairy pails myself, sir. None of the other children or the servants is showing any such sickness.”