A pin could have dropped while Westhaven stared at his drink.
“I told him I was ashamed to be his son and heir.”
“Ye gods.” Val went to the brandy decanter. “About time somebody set him straight.” He handed drinks all around but saw Dev was staring at Westhaven with a frown.
“The old windbag got the last word somehow, though, didn’t he?” Dev guessed while Anna waited in silent dread.
“I sincerely hope,” Westhaven said, pinning Anna with a troubled look, “it isn’t quite his last word. Just as Her Grace was explaining that Hazlit was her agent, the duke suffered a heart seizure.” The silence became thoughtful as all three brothers considered their father’s mortality, and thus their own, while Anna considered the earl.
“He’s still alive?” she said, drawing three pairs of eyes.
“He was demanding his personal physicians at full bellow when I left,” Westhaven said. “I’ve sent Pugh and Hamilton to him and left very strict orders he is not to be bled, no matter how he rants and blusters.”
“Are you sure it was real?” Dev asked. “I would not put chicanery past him.”
“Neither would I,” Val said, eyes on Westhaven’s face.
“I am sure it was real though I am not sure how serious it was. I am sure he thought he was dying, and of course, he still might die.”
“He will die,” Val corrected. “We all will. What makes you think he wasn’t faking?”
“I’ve seen him morose, playful, raging, and—with Her Grace—even tender,” Westhaven said, “but in thirty years of memory, I cannot recall our father ever looking afraid before today. It was unnerving, I can tell you.
“I recall his rows with Bart,” the earl went on, shoving back to sit on his desk. “I used to think Bart was half-mad to let the old man get to him so. Why didn’t he just let it roll off him, I’d wonder. I’ve realized though, that there is a kind of assurance to be had when you take on His Grace, and he doesn’t back down, doesn’t give quarter, doesn’t flinch or admit he’s wrong, no matter what.”
“He’s consistent,” Dev admitted. “Consistently exasperating.”
“But he’s always the duke,” Westhaven said. “You never catch him breaking role, or doubting himself or his God-given right to be as he is.”
Val took a thoughtful swallow of his whiskey. “If the duke falls, then what?”
“Long live the duke,” Anna said, holding Westhaven’s eyes for a moment. “I am going to have dinner brought in here on trays. I am sure you will all be going to check on your father afterward. You might want to take Nanny Fran with you, as she’s a skilled nurse and would be a comfort to Her Grace.”
Westhaven just nodded, seeming relieved she’d deal with the practicalities.
The evening unfolded as Anna predicted, with all three brothers off to the ducal mansion to see His Grace—to watch Westhaven argue with the duke over the choice of physicians—and to offer the duchess their support.
Val elected to stay at the mansion, agreeing to send word if there was any change in the duke’s condition, while Dev went off to inform their half-sister, Maggie, of the duke’s heart seizure. When Westhaven returned to his townhouse, it was late enough that Anna had dismissed the footman at the front door and waited there herself for Westhaven to return.
She was dressed in only her night rail, wrapper, and slippers when she met him, and heedless of any prying eyes or listening ears she wrapped her arms around him as soon as he was near enough to grab.
“He looks like hell, Anna,” Westhaven said, burying his face against her neck. “He finally looks old, and worse, Mother looks old, too. The girls are terrified.”
“And you are a little scared, too,” Anna guessed, drawing back. “Give me your hat and gloves, Westhaven, and I will fix you a tray. You did not eat worth mentioning at dinner, and Her Grace warned me you go off your feed when you have concerns.”
“What else did Her Grace warn you about?” the earl asked, letting Anna divest him of hat and gloves. She didn’t stop there but went on to remove his jacket and his cravat, and then undo his cuff links and roll back his shirtsleeves.
“It is too hot to go about in your finery,” Anna said, “and too late.”
He’d stood there in the foyer like a tired little boy, and let her fuss with his clothing. She piled his clothing over one arm, laced her fingers through his, and towed him unresisting into the peaceful confines of his home.
The warmth of Anna’s hand in his felt like the first good news Westhaven had heard all day.
“My grandfather died just a couple of years ago,” Anna said as she led him through the darkened house. “I was so lucky to have him that long, and he was the dearest man. But he suffered some wasting disease, and in the end, it was a relief to see him go, but he held on and held on for my grandmother.”
“I can see His Grace doing the same thing,” the earl said, squeezing Anna’s fingers slightly.
“I recall that sense of dread,” Anna continued, “dread that every time Grandpapa dozed off, he was actually dead. He looked dead, sometimes, or I thought he did until I actually saw him pass. Three weeks after he left us, my grandmother had an apoplexy and became quite invalided herself.”
“She suffered a serious blow,” the earl said as they gained the kitchen.
“We all had,” Anna said, sitting him down at the work table. “I recall the way the whole household seemed strained, waiting but still hoping. We were… lost.”
He watched her moving around the kitchen to fetch his lemonade, watched her pour a scandalous amount of sugar into it then assemble him a tray. Something in the practical competence of her movements reassured him, made him feel less lost. In the ducal household, his mother and sisters, the servants, the physicians, everybody, looked to him for guidance.
And he’d provided it, ordering the straw spread on the street, even though the mansion sat so far back from the square the noise was unlikely to disturb his father. The need was for the staff to do something—anything—to feel like they were contributing to the duke’s welfare and comfort.
So Westhaven had issued orders, commandeering a sick room in the ducal chambers, sending word down to Morelands, setting Nanny Fran to inventorying the medical supplies, directing his sisters to pen notes to the family’s closest acquaintances and extended family, and putting Her Grace to extracting a list from the duke of the cronies he wanted notified and the terms of the notice. He’d conferred with the doctors, asked them to correspond with Fairly on the case, made sure Dev was off to inform Maggie, and finally, when there were no more anxious faces looking to him for direction, let himself come home.
And it was home, he thought, not because he owned the building or paid the people who worked there, nor even because he dwelled here with his brothers.
It was home because Anna was here, waiting for him. Waiting to care for him, not expecting him—hell, not really even allowing him—to care for her, solve her problems, and tell her how to go on.
I love you, he thought, watching her pull a daisy from the bouquet in the middle of the table and put it in a bud vase on his tray. When she brought the tray to the table and set it down, he put his arms around her waist and pressed his face to her abdomen.
“I used to look at your scalp wound this way,” Anna mused, trailing her finger through his hair to look for a scar. “I am lucky I did not kill you.”
“My head is too hard,” he said, sitting back. “I am supposed to eat this?”
“I will wallop you again if you don’t,” Anna said firmly, folding her arms. “And I’ll tattle to Pericles, who seems to have some sort of moral authority over you.”