“Your Grace,” Ruel cut in, taking his father’s arm. “Be reasonable. Miss Webster will do us little good without her leg, and no good at all dead. I need her whole and healthy. The physician confesses his lack of skill in this matter, and I am convinced Mr. Walker can heal her.”
“Convinced, are you? The Indian is a man of low breeding. A heathen.”
“He is the son of an Osage chieftain whose home I visited while staying in St. Louis. Auguste Chouteau hopes to see Mr. Walker returned to America whence he was so ruthlessly exported at the mercy of French officials who—you will recall—held him hostage and used him for the pleasure of their Society until he was able to escape. He fled to us here in England because of his regard for our name.”
“The Chouteau family deserves everyone’s respect. But why we should reciprocate for an uneducated savage is beyond me.”
“Mr. Walker is the most upright gentleman I have the pleasure to know. In honor of Auguste Chouteau, he would be happy to assist us in resolving this medical calamity.”
The duke grunted. “You bring a wounded maid into my household and place her in my bed. You make an engagement of marriage with a woman who is so far beneath you as to bring ridicule upon your name. Now you inflict this uncivilized brute upon me. Ruel Chouteau, you wear my name, you claim privileges as my heir, and one day you will own my titles and possess my lands. Have I misplaced my trust?”
Ruel tried to read the message in the duke’s eyes. He saw in them a hurt he could not understand. Had he been a disappointment to his father? Was it so wrong to associate with such a man as the blacksmith, simply because Walker had no status in Society?
“Your Grace,” Ruel said in a low voice, “I give you my word that I will bring nothing but respect to your name. My primary objective in this life has always been to honor you. With that aim I traveled to America and began to develop a plan to enrich the duchy. I seek nothing more from my existence than security for your properties and your lineage.”
“Your associations with commoners do not please me.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Ruel said, his voice flinty, “but I consider neither this woman nor the blacksmith to be common.”
He let his focus drift to Anne. Her brown eyes, wide and deeply shadowed, stared out at him from her ashen face. He suppressed the panic that gripped his stomach at the thought of her death. If the duke knew the truth about his son’s fascination with a servant . . . about his heir’s deep affection for an Indian from the wilderness of America . . .
“Mr. Walker will tend the woman’s leg,” Ruel told his father, slipping an arm around the duke’s shoulder and turning him toward the door. “She, in turn, will assist me in a small venture.”
“She plans to marry you, my boy. I hope you know that.”
“An alliance of uncertain duration, Your Grace, I assure you.”
The duke cast a glance toward the bed. “I rather like the girl. She is a minister’s daughter, did you know? Her father is a Luddite, of all things. Imprisoned in Nottingham for smashing lace machines. He has bequeathed her quite a quick tongue. I should think she will be good for you.”
Ruel smiled. “I should hope so.”
“If you insist on permitting the savage to try his heathen magic on her, I shall send the physician to tend your mother. The duchess continues to complain of a most tiresome headache.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Ruel watched as his father and the others left the room. Once they were gone, he nodded to the Indian.
“Walker, do whatever it takes,” he said.
“You should not disappoint the duke with your behavior, Blackthorne.” The tall Osage blacksmith removed a damp white cabbage leaf from Anne’s leg and dropped it into a bucket. “He has been more than good to you.”
“How does her wound look?” Ruel tried to peer around the tent of sheets Walker had erected over his patient.
“White cabbage leaves absorb pus,” the Indian said. “They reduce swelling, too. As soon as the leaf grows hot, I take it away and place another under the bandage. I think the wound is almost clean.”
“She seems to be sleeping.”
“No, she is awake. The drug they gave her numbed her mind.” He placed his palm on Anne’s pale brow. “She feels some relief now, as the fever begins to subside. Blackthorne, you must take great care of this woman when she is your wife. You must protect and honor her. There should be no greater love than that between marriage partners. Not even the love between parent and child should be as strong. The duke honors you as his son, but his love for his wife is enduring.”
Ruel grimaced at the thought of his self-absorbed, unaffectionate mother and lifted the bucket of cabbage leaves. “I shall take these out.”
“Have I not taught you that the bonds of a family must remain unbroken? To the Osage, family ties are as strong as the sinews of the buffalo.”
“And yet my mother has not laid eyes on me since my return.”
“She is not well. You should leave this woman to me and see to the duchess. With no one to stop him, that London doctor will start some foolishness like filling her stomach with laudanum or draining her veins of her lifeblood.”
Ruel held out a fresh cabbage leaf. The Osage waved it away.
“Now it is time for garlic. Put down the bucket.” He drew two clusters of cloves from his cloth bag. “The Little People used crushed seeds of the wild columbine to make a drink for fever. For wounds and infections, we use the wild four-o’clock or the butterfly weed. Here, I cannot find such plants, so I make this paste.”
Ruel observed as Walker mashed the garlic cloves in a small bowl. The pungent aroma drifted into the room. The Indian spread the paste over the injury to Anne’s leg and covered it with a warm flannel bandage. When he had wrapped and tied the cloth around her leg, he lowered the tented sheets and tucked them under the mattress.
“She must rest,” Walker said. “Her friend can tend her. You should go to your mother.”
Ruel sat in the chair at the edge of the bed for a moment longer and studied his laced fingers. In the passing hours, some of his fears for the housemaid had eased. Now he felt dismayed—almost embarrassed—at the lengths to which he had gone to save her life. Had the laudanum he had been given caused him to take leave of his senses?
“If I am to make this worth the time I have spent on the woman,” he said finally, “I have got to finish it. I must marry her.”
“Worth the time?” Walker regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Are the lives of some humans worth less than the lives of others?”
“Of course.”
“I see. You told me you planned to marry Miss Webster. I assumed you loved her.”
“No, nothing like that. The woman is a part of my plan.”
“Is Miss Anne Webster only ‘the woman’ to you, Black-thorne? This marriage sounds like nothing but a sham.”
Ruel frowned. “You can be tedious, Walker.” He lifted his chin and dismissed his valet with a wave of the hand. “Foley, send for the vicar, and tell my father the wedding will take place within the hour.”
“You intend to marry your woman today? She can hardly open her eyes. What is your hurry, Blackthorne?”
Ruel raked a hand through his hair. “Listen, Walker, I mean to make something productive of my life. I shall not spend my time in the company of Society, dancing jigs and penning riddles. I will not give myself to countless hours spent doing as my father does—having the vicar to tea in the drawing room. Riding through the village and lording it over peasants. Hunting foxes, for heaven’s sake. Even you, whom I admire, have lived a futile life, have you not, Walker? Hammering steel day after day—sweat pouring down your body, the smell of sulfur in your nostrils. You might as well be living in hell.”
The Indian’s eyes went as dark as ink. Ruel knew he had struck a raw place in his friend’s heart. Yet he could hardly restrain his tongue. What good was a life so empty?
“My life can mean nothing to you,” Walker said, his tone harsh. “What will you make of yours? What is it you really want, Blackthorne?”
“Adventure. Money. Freedom.”
“So you will join yourself to this girl as though she were another cog in the machine you are building to glorify and amuse yourself. In all those afternoons we spent together, did I not speak to you of tender affection, Blackthorne? Did I not tell you of the joys of family, of the blessing of a wife and children? Do you not wish for love?”
Ruel shook off the resonating pull of the Indian’s questions. “Come now, Walker, it is not like you to speak such pretty words. Family, blessing, tender affection, love? Good heavens, you will drown me in sugar syrup.”
“Not pretty words. True words.”
“Words have no power, Walker. None. I have never lived with family joy, blessing, or tender affection. Such drivel is the stuff of dreamers. Action has power. A man’s own experience is his greatest teacher. I have been taught by my parents’ example to value wealth and prestige over love.”
“Oh, my boy.”
“Enough of your lamenting. Just keep your eye on me, Walker. You will see I am right in the end.”
Ruel leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. He closed his eyes and gave a deep yawn. Hours of tending the ill did not suit him. He needed to be up and about, paying a visit to Mr. Heathcoat, the lacemaker, investigating the shooting incident, calling on old friends, making preparations for his trip to France.
He opened his eyes. Anne was staring at him. The dark brown-gold of her gaze ran through him like a shower of sparks. In spite of himself, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Heavens, she was a beauty. Even this close to death, the young woman shone with a strange inner light. Her skin was luminous alabaster. Her cheeks glowed a soft pink. The outer corners of her eyes tilted up, so she seemed to be smiling at him even though her lips were still.
“Miss Webster,” he said, unable to hide the concern in his voice, “are you still quite content to die?”
The Duke of Marston marched into the chamber, his cane fairly piercing holes in the carpet as he hurried toward the bed where Anne Webster lay. “Now then, Ruel,” he sputtered. “What is this news I am told? Can you really mean to wed the girl this very afternoon?”
He paused before his son and glanced at the young woman. With a gasp of shock, he turned to his butler. “What have you done to the girl, Errand? Not an hour ago, she was plain! Now look at her!”
The butler regarded Anne. “I believe she has been improved upon, Your Grace.”
Ruel understood the men’s astonishment. The moment he had stepped into the room late that afternoon, surprise tumbled down him like a spray of icy water. “Come, Father, admit it,” he now addressed the duke. “She is an angel.”
Disconcerted, Anne touched her hair. Artfully curled and pinned into the latest fashion, it shone a deep bronze in the candlelight. Ruel realized that although one of the maids had performed this magic, Anne had no idea how she looked. The dress that her mistress, Miss Watson, had selected from her own wardrobe was positively entrancing. The gathered skirt fell to her ankles in a whisper of sapphire blue silk. Soft puffed sleeves hung halfway to her elbows, and were met by white gloves that covered her hands and forearms.
“But . . . but . . .” The duke fumbled for a moment. “Altered though she is, Ruel, you cannot mean to marry the woman today.”
“You can hardly be troubled at my failure to publish the banns, Father,” Ruel said as the duke approached. “I should imagine we must keep the wedding as quiet as the regent’s secret marriage that preceded his alliance to our current queen. Two wives at the same time. Imagine that.”
“Do not speak of such things, boy! As it is, your mother can hardly move without smelling salts to rouse her. She cannot believe you intend to marry a housemaid. Dire, dire misfortune, she assures me. I informed her the lady was a minister’s daughter and not entirely unacceptable, but the duchess is not to be swayed. A minister has no money, she reminded me. I certainly cannot acquaint her with the uncomfortable news that this particular girl’s father is doomed to execution. The daughter of a criminal, no less! No dowry, no money, no grand wedding at St. James’s in London. Your mother is beside herself. Quite, quite distraught.”
Ruel drew back from Anne and crossed his arms over his chest. “My mother will not attend the wedding, then?”
“No, of course not. She is predicting the stars will fall from the sky.”
“May I have the pleasure of your blessing, Your Grace?”
The duke waved his son away. “Is the young lady expected to live?”
“Indeed.”
“Then how can you think of actually marrying her today? I understood you hoped to spend at least a year in mourning to escape my constant pressure for you to wed in Society.”
“No indeed. I plan to make good use of my wife.”
“And then? What will you do with her when she has served her purpose? Cast her aside?”
“I shall see to her welfare, of course. I am an honorable man. To my way of thinking, this situation is hardly uncommon. You asked me not to speak of the regent, but I believe he has set a fine example. Thirty years ago he married a commoner, Mrs. Maria Anne Fitzherbert, a Roman Catholic widow. Ten years later, without benefit of divorce or annulment, he married Caroline Amelia Elizabeth of Brunswick. The future king of England—a bigamist. No one is troubled by it.”