Barbara Metzger by The Duel

race, so he had been spared even that. Still, he had to go offer his assistance. He could not very well go to sleep in his comfortable bed and ignore the boy’s struggle for life right down the other corridor. He had to check, at the very least, that his competent staff was managing the additional responsibility. He could offer to hire extra nurses, promise bonuses. Hell, he would carry coals and hot water, anything to feel that he was doing his share. He went upstairs.
    Lud, the dog must be howling to get out. No, someone was singing, if you could call it that.
    The guest room door was partially open, so he tiptoed in—easy enough, since he was still in his bare feet. By the firelight and the single candle left burning, he could see the girl curled in a chair at the bedside, her feet tucked under her, droning out a gloomy hymn, as if the poor boy did not have enough woes.
    Ian had forgotten about the sister, or thought she’d be asleep by now. He had not forgotten about the dog, having come prepared with a slice of chicken from the untouched platter his butler had brought to the library. The cur was asleep, though, and had not heard him enter, naturally. Lucky pup, Ian thought, not to have to listen to the girl’s ear-mangling music. One of the maids was asleep in the corner, her mouth open, snoring softly. The room was hot, the fireplace piled high with coals. Attie, Miss Renslow, that is, kept brushing damp tendrils of blond hair from her cheeks, wisps that escaped the long braid that trailed down her back. At least someone had gathered the unruly mop into some semblance of order, he noted, and found a ribbon for her. Her cheeks were flushed, but he could not tell if that was from the heat or a whole day of weeping, the poor puss.
    Miss Renslow wore the same shapeless pastel gown she’d had on this morning, and Ian had to wonder if she had rested at all, if she had been offered a bath, a meal, a drop of brandy. No, one did not offer a young girl alcohol for fortification. And of course his household had offered the female every amenity. He’d have them tossed out in the street otherwise. She must simply be afraid here by herself, and was staying at her brother’s bedside rather than sleep in a strange bed.
    He stepped closer and spoke softly. “You can go to bed now, my dear. I will have a maid come to sleep in your room with you. You should not be here alone.”
    Athena jumped to her feet and dropped a curtsy, blushing that their handsome benefactor had seen her sitting like a hoydenish schoolgirl. For that matter, she had tugged her braided hair loose from the coronet on top of her head and was looking frumpish again, she had no doubt. Since it was too late to do anything about it, she merely gestured toward the maid in the corner, who was stirring at the sound of conversation. “I am not alone. Sophie rouses at my call and fetches anything I might want.”
    “Nevertheless, I’ll stay to watch over your brother, and get another nurse to replace this sleepy one. You need your rest.”
    “I need to be with my brother.”
    Ian admired her loyalty, but could not approve of her recalcitrance to follow his suggestion. He was the earl. He knew better, of course. “Really, Miss Renslow, you are doing your brother no service.” The singing alone would hasten anyone’s demise.
    “I am keeping my brother from reopening his wound or aggravating his fever, my lord, the best way I know how.”
    He could not argue with that, since the boy did seem to be lying peacefully. He was far too pale, with blue veins showing at his eyelids, but he was not thrashing about or drenched in sweat.
    “How fares he, then?” he asked, his own stomach’s discomfort quickly forgotten.
    She turned back to the bed. “At times he is fine, speaking to me and sipping some water. Sometimes he sleeps. Then the pain grows too strong for him to sleep. He grows restive, which jars his head or the other wound, and his fever climbs. Then I awaken