One Perfect Rose (35 page)

So the old duke's arrogance and promiscuity had reached beyond the grave and almost caused the death of his heir. There was ironic humor in that.

Wearily Stephen rubbed at the pain in his belly. Hard to remember when it hadn't been part of him. “What the devil am I to do with you, Blackmer?”

There was a pause until Catherine said, “The obvious answer is to turn him over to the magistrates for trial and probable hanging. If you don't want to do that, how about sending him someplace like the Australian colonies? They could use physicians there.”

“Assuming that he could be trusted not to kill someone else.” Kinlock's expression was as flinty as Michael's. “The man's a disgrace to the oath he took.”

Stephen glanced at Rosalind, who still stood to his right. “What do you think?”

“Part of me wants him to suffer as you did. After he'd experienced a year or two of excruciating pain, I might consider clemency. And yet…” She paused, her expression troubled. “Which of us has not made a mistake that might have had disastrous consequences? When Jessica was little, she once helpfully tried to bathe Brian and almost drowned him. What Blackmer has done was not an innocent accident. But I believe him when he says that he didn't mean to kill you.”

In his years as a magistrate, Stephen had often administered justice and done it well, but he had never judged a matter that concerned him so closely. He scrutinized Blackmer's haggard face. His brother, who waited stoically for judgment.

Once Blackmer learned who his father was, the knowledge must have been like an open wound. Every time he saw Stephen or Michael ride by, he would have resented the fact that his half brothers lived with wealth and privilege while he was starved and abused. In fact, since he was a year or two older than Stephen, he would have had the additional torment of knowing that if he'd been legitimate, he would have been the next Duke of Ashburton. Poor bastard, in every sense of the word.

Yet by and large, he'd made the best of his situation. He'd taken advantage of his education and done well enough to be sent to study medicine. He'd become a first-rate physician, generous with his time, caring of those less fortunate. The very model of a self-made man—until bitterness turned him into a poisoner.

Stephen glanced at his younger brother. Michael had also been treated abominably by the old duke, but he had been raised with the advantages of wealth. He had been able to escape the abbey by going to Eton and the homes of his friends. Even so, the emotional and physical abuses of his childhood had caused Michael to behave in difficult, destructive ways until he had made peace with his demons.

In fact, all of the duke's children had suffered from the old man's harsh treatment. Claudia had grown caustic and bitter, while Stephen, the favored son and heir, had become so detached that he'd cut himself off from what mattered most in life. Should Blackmer, who had suffered the most of all, be destroyed because his anger had erupted in such an appalling way?

Blackmer broke the tense, waiting silence by saying flatly, “Lord Michael is right. Though my intent was not murderous, the results nearly were. You have every right to send me to the gallows.” The physician's mouth twisted. “I don't expect forgiveness. But I must, for my own sake, say how sorry I am. To you, Ashburton, for putting you through hell.” He looked at Rosalind. “To you, Duchess, for clearly you have also suffered. In some ways, perhaps, more than your husband.”

His gaze went to Michael. “And to you, Lord Michael. I caused you great grief and separated you from your family. There was not a moment of time during our journey when I did not regret that.”

Stephen thought suddenly of
The Tempest
, the play performed by the Fitzgerald Troupe the first time he saw them. One thing he'd always liked about the story was the way Prospero forgave his brother Antonio for a murder attempt a dozen years before. Stephen had always thought of the play in terms of himself and Michael. But between them there had been no real crimes to forgive, only a history of wariness.

Stephen drew a deep breath, his whole body aching, his stomach burning with agony. He'd suffered months of savage pain because of what Blackmer had done. He should be furious, except that anger would take more strength than he could afford.

He'd always thought of himself as a man committed to justice for all. Where did justice lie in this case?

The key fact was that Blackmer hadn't intended murder. Being a magistrate had taught Stephen to tell the difference between true and false repentance. The physician's remorse was genuine, as was his statement that he had never intended serious harm.

As head of the Kenyon family, it was Stephen's responsibility to rectify the crimes of his father. “If I pack him off to Australia, Great Ashburton will be without a physician, and Blackmer is a good one. I prefer a different approach.” Face stern, Stephen caught his half brother's gaze. “Will you give me your word, as a Kenyon, never to deliberately harm anyone again?”

Blackmer blinked with shock, then stammered, “I—I will.”

“Then return to your home and your medical practice.” Stephen's voice turned dry. “While I don't believe you'll ever commit another crime, I imagine you'll understand that I prefer to find a different physician for myself and my household.”

“You…you're going to let me go?” Blackmer said incredulously. “After what I've done?”

Stephen laid his hand on Rosalind's. Her touch revived his flagging strength and made him understand why he felt so little anger. “While being poisoned is not something I would have chosen, I've done very well from it.” He glanced up at his wife, who was regarding him with grave, dark eyes. “I would never have met Rosalind if not for what you did.”

Nor would he have discovered the spiritual faith that was now part of him and that gave his life a profound new dimension. Having found joy as a result of disaster made compassion surprisingly easy.

His gaze went back to Blackmer. “I will acknowledge you as the old duke's son. If you wish to take the name Kenyon, I will not object. Someday I will be ready to become better acquainted with you. But not quite yet.”

Blackmer's stoicism shattered. “Dear God. Your generosity makes what I did seem even worse.” He covered his eyes as he struggled to compose himself, then dropped his hand and said in a low voice, “I swear to…to go forth and sin no more.”

Stephen looked at Michael. “Will you accept my judgment? I'm not asking you to become friends with Blackmer. Just not to kill him.”

Michael sighed. “Rosalind's remark about how we all make mistakes reminded me of the monumental errors I've made. Having benefited by the forgiveness of my friends, I'm in no position to complain if you choose to be lenient.” He put his arm around Catherine and drew her to his side. “What matters most is that you will recover. But I think I'll leave sainthood to you and my wife. It will never be my style.”

Too tired to move anything more than his eyes, Stephen glanced at Ian Kinlock. “You are the only one here who is not a member of the family. Are you willing to keep silent about what has happened?”

“I suppose so.” Kinlock scowled at Blackmer. “But why couldn't you have been a lawyer? Then wickedness wouldn't have been a shock. I expect better of a doctor.”

“You can take comfort in the fact that I will never forgive myself for breaking my oath,” Blackmer said starkly. “The punishment might seem light compared to my crime. But I assure you, it will be punishment.”

Kinlock studied the other man's face, then gave a nod of grim satisfaction.

Rosalind sent a stern gaze to the people around the bed. “If everything essential has been said, it's time for everyone to leave so Stephen can rest.”

“Everyone but you,” Stephen murmured, his voice barely audible now that the crisis had passed.

Kinlock looked at Stephen. “Plenty of rest, plenty of milk, and no more arsenic. I'll come by in a couple of days.” He collected his medical bag and left the room.

Catherine glanced at Blackmer. “I'll order a room to be prepared for you,” she said without enthusiasm.

He inclined his head. “You're very gracious, Lady Michael, but I think it would be best if I went to an inn.”

She nodded and kissed Stephen's cheek. “Ian said he couldn't provide a miracle, but he did,” she whispered. “God be thanked.”

Michael laid a hand on Stephen's shoulder, his feelings evident in the brief, wordless touch. Then he and his wife left the room arm in arm. Blackmer started to follow, looking broken and tragically alone.

Reminded of Michael's appearance when his younger brother was at the shattering point, Stephen summoned the strength for one last effort. “You can't change your past, Blackmer, but you can change your future. Since your father failed you, create a family of your own that will be more satisfying.”

The physician paused. “I've wanted to, but I felt…unworthy. That it would be wrong to offer marriage to Jane when she's the daughter and sister of clerics, and I'm a bastard whose own father would not acknowledge him.”

“Marry her, Blackmer. Though I've never met the woman, your Jane must have already accepted your illegitimacy or she wouldn't be keeping company with you,” Rosalind said crisply. “Stephen is giving you a second chance. Use it well.”

There was a faint lightening of the physician's features. “Perhaps…I will.” He left, closing the door gently behind him.

The exhaustion that had been hovering over Stephen descended like a London fog. He rolled over, his grip on his wife's hand bringing her down onto the bed. “Oh, Rosalind,” he whispered, barely coherent. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but he had used every last iota of strength. “Rose…”

Tears shining in her eyes, she stretched out beside him on top of the covers and drew him into her arms, cradling his head to her breasts. “Sleep, my love,” she murmured. “Sleep, and be well.”

Releasing his breath in a ragged sigh of contentment, he sank into the blessed welcome of her embrace and let the darkness take him.

 

Rosalind woke when Stephen kissed her under her ear. She opened her eyes and gave him a shining smile. It was morning, the room was full of light, and they were lying face to face wrapped around each other like ivy. As soon as she saw his expression, she knew that his escape from the valley of death had not been a dream born of her desperation. He was going to live.
He was going to live
. “I won't ask if you slept well,” she said lazily, “because I don't think you moved all night.”

“Probably not.” He patted her breast with interest. “That being the case, how did you get into this fetching shift? Or were you wearing it last night during all the melodrama, and I simply failed to notice?”

She smiled. “I got up in the middle of the night and changed, then came back. You never stirred.”

“You could have marched a regiment through here and I wouldn't have noticed. It's the best night's sleep I've had in months.” He flexed his fingers. “I feel better already. The numbness in my hands and feet is lessening, and the ache in my stomach is almost bearable.”

“Wonderful!” She stretched joyously. “I'm so happy that I'd be turning somersaults if it weren't so much nicer being in bed. You must feel even happier.”

“Oddly, last night when I learned that I wasn't going to die, I felt…numb. I guess I had adjusted so well to the prospect of death that it took time to absorb the idea of continued life.” He grinned. “This morning is a different story. I no longer fear death, but I'm amazingly glad that it's not yet my time to shuffle off this mortal coil.” He ran a slow hand along her side from shoulder to hip. “However, the change in prospects means we must now renegotiate our marriage.”

She stared at him, her heart seeming to freeze. “What do you mean?”

“If you'll recall, when I proposed I made the point that even if we didn't suit, you'd be safe because I wouldn't be around to plague you for more than a few months. As you said, we'd have only the cream.” His hand came to rest on her hip, his palm warm through the thin fabric of her shift. “Now you're stuck with me indefinitely, which means milk and cheese and other mundane things along with cream.”

“You beast!” she exclaimed as her heart started again. “I should push you out of bed. I thought you meant that now that you have the time to take a good look around the Marriage Mart, you'd like to put me aside in favor of a more suitable wife.”

He looked startled. “Quite apart from the fact that it's almost impossible to put aside a wife, even if I wanted to, which I most certainly don't, what kind of wife do you think would be more suitable than you?”

She shouldn't have spoken, but now she must continue. “One more like Louisa.” She swallowed. “A wife you could love.”

After a moment of stillness, he said gravely, “I didn't love Louisa, and she didn't love me. In fact, our marriage made us both wretched, though we tried our best.”

“I…I guess I misinterpreted what you said, or didn't say, about your first marriage,” Rosalind said, startled. “I thought you loved her so much that no other woman could ever be more than a bedmate.”

“You think that I only regard you as a bedmate? I owe George Blackmer and the valley of the shadow even more than I thought for the forced lessons on life.” He smoothed back her hair with one warm hand. “As a Kenyon, love was not part of my view of the world, until I had that dream or visit to heaven or whatever it was. I realized then that love was the essence of being.”

His eyes darkened with the force of his feelings. “I desired you the moment I saw you. I liked you as soon as we spoke, and knew that I must have you with me after we became intimate. But only when I neared death and was beyond desire did I fully realize how much you mean to me.” He bridged the few inches between them for a kiss of exquisite tenderness. “I love your body, love your mind, love your soul. I was incapable of saying that earlier, so now I'll make it official. I love you, Rosalind. I've never said that to a woman before.”