Frenchman seated to her left. “I do believe it’s your turn?”
His eyes dropped to his hand. “Oui. Bien sûr.” He played a card.
Millie lowered her voice and murmured to the woman sitting beside her, “I suppose I would be wrong not to ask...none of you young women have been...” She trailed off again, shook her head once more. “Ah, well. In any case, what’s done is done.”
Worry tugged at the woman’s carefully groomed brows. “Quoi?” she whispered urgently. “Dites-moi.”
“I’m quite sure, as long as you don’t plan on any further intimacies with him...”
“Mais, non,” the woman assured her, eyes fixed on the duke. “Definitely not.”
“I’m almost certain you needn’t worry,” Millie reassured her.
“I do believe,” one of the players said to the others at the table, clearing his throat, “that the Comte d’Anterry had an entertainment planned for this evening.”
Just then another of the duke’s friends approached the table and leaned close to Perry. “You look disturbed. Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“It’s probably nothing.” Lord Perry looked to Millie for confirmation. Mille only raised a brow.
The player to her left leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “We have just learned from Monsieur Germain that Winston is contagieux.”
“Dieu.” The man straightened sharply. Glanced over his shoulder.
“It’s likely nothing,” Millie told them. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. His Grace would be furious with me. Please—you mustn’t say a word.”
“Mais, non,” the new man said, still looking surreptitiously at Winston. “Of course not.”
One of the men at the table set down his cards and cleared his throat. “I do believe I never made proper excuses to d’Anterry. I’d best put in an appearance.”
She watched the man walk over and make his excuses to the duke—from a safe distance, of course—and exit the chamber with two of the courtesans at his side.
Within fifteen minutes, fully half the room had emptied.
Within twenty-five, the room was unoccupied except for herself and the duke. He still sat on the sofa where he’d been since she arrived. She still sat at the card table, alone now with another—albeit much smaller—stack of winnings.
“Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me,” Winston drawled, “what you’ve said to all my guests that has left me once again without company.”
“I assure you, I am just as disappointed in the company’s departure as you are. Just when I was holding out hope that the lovely Mademoiselle Hélène might be agreeable to a few moments of diversion.”
“Were you?”
“Only with Your Grace’s blessing, naturally.”
“Naturally. Perhaps we could call her back. You could tell her you were mistaken about whatever you told them and have your entertainment, after all.” He pinned her with that dark devil-gaze. “I hate to see you disappointed.”
After what she’d just witnessed, she refused to be intimidated. “You are too kind. Unfortunately, my duties as your employed medic must come before my own pleasure. If I’m to ensure that Your Grace is in a proper condition to endure the strain of a journey to Greece, then moderation is in order.”
“Did you tell them I had some kind of disease?”
“Good heavens, you don’t have any disease.”
“A mysterious fever?”
“You’re not feverish, Your Grace.”
“I’m well aware of that,” he bit out. “A pox? Is that what you told them?”
She swept the coins from the table into her hand, then dumped them into her coat pocket. “Your Grace has already assured me no such condition is currently present.”
“No such condition has ever been present, Mr. Germain.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t say anything about a pox. Or a rash.”
“You told them I have a rash?”
“I said I didn’t tell them that.”
“I don’t have a rash!” he exploded, just as Harris came through the door. Harris paused, hesitating.
“Mademoiselle Hélène is inquiring after her wrap,” he said.
Millie spotted it on a chair in the corner and took it to Harris. “Please give Mademoiselle Hélène His Grace’s assurances that her wrap has not been contaminated with any rash.”
“Assure the woman of nothing except my continuing regard,” the duke bit out sharply.
“Naturally, Your Grace.” Harris bowed and left with the wrap.
* * *
HE OUGHT TO dismiss her.
Winston stared at Miles Germain across his now-silent dressing room and contemplated his options—which, of course, were many.
“Let us have one thing very clear between us, Mr. Germain,” he said now, not getting up from the sofa, but only because he didn’t want to. Not because his leg hurt like the devil and the beginnings of a headache throbbed behind his eyes. “You are here to administer medical care, by which I mean compresses and bandages and the like.”
“Which will do little good if you do not follow my advice.”
“If I want medical advice, Mr. Germain, I will ask for it.”
And there was that line above her lip.
Devil take it. He’d been doing perfectly well ten minutes ago. But now that everyone was gone, the day’s events—his entire life’s events—were returning to torment him with a vengeance.
Attending that burial was a mistake. Ordering her to accompany him doubly so.
“If I want to entertain guests, then I shall. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Without interference of any kind.”
“As you wish.”
“And that, Mr. Germain, is something you’d best remember. As I wish. Not as you wish.” Yet even now he doubted her capacity to comprehend that basic reality.
The question now was how best to undo the damage she’d done. By now the news of his rash—or whatever the bloody hell she’d told them—would have made its way to half the salons in Paris.
He should dismiss her.
