Page 69 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Dr. Thorne frowned, dipping two fingers into his leather bag to extract a small glass vial of dark liquid. “It is an acute inflammation of the stomach lining, certainly. It resembles the violent summer fluxes, yet the rapid onset is troubling.”

Fanny watched the physician uncork the bottle, her heart aching as Michael let out another pitiful, whimpering moan, his tiny hands clutching wildly at his stomach.

Her mind scrambled back through the past two days, trying desperately to remember every single moment she had spent with the boy. She thought of his breakfast, his games on the rug, the way he had leaned against her knees while she read him a story about knights…

She opened her mouth to speak, to detail every morsel he had touched while in her care⁠—

The tea.

The thought flashed through her head, but just as it formed, Michael let out a sudden, sharp cry of pain, his body arching off the mattress as a fresh wave of violent spasms wracked his tiny frame.

Dr. Thorne immediately bent back over the bed, his voice sharp. “Hold his shoulders, Mrs. Gable! Quickly, we must get a spoon of this soothing draught past his teeth!”

Lysander let go of Fanny’s hand and moved forward, his massive hands gently but firmly pinning his son’s thrashing shoulders to the pillows, his face twisted in silent agony.

The chaos in the room swelled in an instant—the clink of glass, the doctor’s quiet orders, the boy’s weak, muffled weeping, and the heavy, suffocating panic that filled every corner of the bedchamber.

Fanny stepped back half a pace to give the men room, her chest heaving as she watched Lysander whisper soft, broken words of comfort into his son’s damp hair.

In the frantic, terrifying noise of the moment, the memory of the small silver tray, the painted porcelain cup, and the warm herbal tea she had brought to Michael’s bedside yesterday afternoon slipped quietly into the dark, completely forgotten.

The heavy oak door of the study clicked shut, sealing out the damp, panicked murmur of the corridors.

The room was freezing. The grate was cold, the ash gray and dead from the night before, but Lysander couldn’t bring himself to cross to the bell pull. The silence inside his chest was far heavier than the quiet in the room.

He stood behind the mahogany desk, his hands flat against the polished wood, staring down at a blank sheet of parchment. His knuckles were still red and raw from gripping the bedpost, Michael’s shoulders, and Fanny’s small hand as if she were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

‘Pulse fast, yet remarkably weak.’

Dr. Thorne’s voice echoed against the wood paneling, dry and methodical. He had packed his dark leather bag, promised to return before dusk, and left a small vial of brown liquid that did nothing to stop the horrific, arching spasms wracking his seven-year-old son’s frame.

Lysander closed his eyes, but the dark brought no relief. It only brought back the image of Michael’s face—gray, glistening with cold sweat, his small fingers clutching his belly as if trying to tear the fire out from the inside.

A sharp, shallow breath dragged through his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, forcing his jaw to set until the muscle locked.

He had lost his first wife to betrayal, scandal and death, lost his reputation to the sharp, glinting knives of the ton, and he had accepted the quiet, cold solitude of Hilgrove as his due. But Michael? He was innocent. He had done nothing to earn the dark, rotten luck that seemed to cling to the Radforte name.

A soft, hesitant knock rattled the heavy oak door.

Lysander didn’t move. “Leave it.”

The brass latch lifted anyway. The door creaked open an inch, admitting the dim gray light of the corridor, followed by the soft rustle of heavy woolen skirts.

Veronica stepped into the room. She kept her head bowed, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, modest knot at the nape of her neck. Her gray morning gown was neat, without a wrinkle, though her fingers twitched slightly as she folded them over her waist.

“Your Grace,” she murmured. “I… I ask your pardon for disturbing you. I know your mind is with Master Michael.”

Lysander didn’t turn around. He kept his palms pressed into the cool mahogany, his shoulders rigid. “The doctor has left his orders, Veronica. Mrs. Gable is with him. There is nothing more to be done until nightfall.”

“I know,” she said quietly, taking a small, soundless step further into the study. She paused, her slippers sinking into the thick carpet. “It is only… my conscience would not permit me to remain silent. I have been sitting in the window seat, praying, but the burden of it is too great, sir.”

A faint, bitter edge touched the back of Lysander’s mouth. “The burden?”

Veronica shrank back half a pace, her eyes darting to the cold hearth before returning to the floor near his boots. She wrung her lace handkerchief between her fingers, twisting the fabric into tight, white cords.

“I am sure it is nothing, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice dropping into a breathless, uncomfortable rush. “A mere coincidence. A woman’s foolish worrying, no doubt. I hesitated to say anything to Dr. Thorne while the room was in such chaos, for fear of causing unnecessary alarm or bringing unjust suspicion upon… upon family.”

Lysander’s posture shifted. The cold numbness in his limbs gave way to a sharp, sudden vigilance. He turned slowly, his boots heavy against the floorboards, until he was facing her directly.