footmen have already been called.’
‘Listen to my plan.’ Phoebe forced her voice to be calm. She had to get through to this man. The boy was in trouble. She could see his blue lips and uncontrollable shuddering. This was no act of defiance or a wish to get attention. This was something else entirely. ‘He may not be to blame.’
Mr Clare’s face blazed with a barely controlled fury, but she stood her ground and refused to flinch.
‘Do you not think every way has been tried? Tried and failed? I have had experienced nurses. This is no tea party, Miss Benedict. This is real life. The boy must take his medicine or risk dying.’
‘But not that way! It is cruel and is making matters worse! We need to speak if I am to help the boy.’
A faint sardonic smile touched his lips. ‘I am rather busy at present. If you disagree with my methods, you know where the door is.’
‘You will listen to me.’ Phoebe ground the words out. ‘Will you tie me down as well or will you listen to what I have to say!’
Mr Clare glanced at the boy and his face appeared to soften momentarily. Phoebe silently pleaded that somehow her words had penetrated, that he would finally agree to listen.
‘You have five minutes, Miss Benedict, to explain yourself.’ His quiet words filled the room. ‘After that, my coach will return you to your home.’
Phoebe blinked. He had agreed! Tension flowed from her shoulders, leaving her weak and giddy.
Mr Clare led the way into the hallway as she heard Robert’s sobbing increase, but the squeaking of the bed slowed. The fit was ending. She gave one hurried glance, but saw that the boy appeared to be coping. She carefully closed the door.
She looked Mr Clare in the face and sought to find the concerned, loving parent, rather than the stern savage who had greeted her at the door.
‘That boy is far from being mad.’ Phoebe crossed her arms and met his intense gaze. ‘He is frightened beyond measure. The threat of ropes and being forced to take the medicine is making matters worse. He had already begun to calm down when the medicine was mentioned. Yes, he is excited, but—’
‘What do you suggest should be done with him?’ Mr Clare raised an eyebrow. ‘He bit Mrs Smith two nights ago. I saw the teeth marks on her arm. Others have tried to tell me that it is my duty to send him to the madhouse. But not Robert! Not while I have a breath in my body!’
Tiredness made Phoebe’s mind clumsy, but she fought against it. All she knew was that tying the boy down was wrong. He was a frightened little boy in need of understanding. He had had scarlet fever, not brain fever. ‘Did she say why he had bitten her? Did anyone see it happen? She went against your wishes about the window.’
Mr Clare’s face took on an even more ruthless demeanour, became even more piratical. She suspected that he longed for a plank so that she could be ordered to walk it. ‘She attempted to give him his laudanum. And I saw the bite.’
‘Perhaps the nurse tried to force it down his throat— against his will. He reacted in the only way he had left.’
‘He must do as he is told, Miss Benedict.’ Mr Clare regarded her with disdain. ‘All of us must do things in this life that we dislike, but we do them. It has been explained to Robert, several times.’
‘Have you ever had medicine forced down your throat, Mr Clare?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It matters a great deal.’
The air crackled between them, replete with some raw elemental emotion. His hard look intensified. Phoebe resolutely refused to turn her gaze away as the heat between them threatened to sear her. Suddenly he turned his face. The breath exited her lungs with a whoosh.
‘My stepbrothers never had to be tied down when they had scarlet fever, not even the youngest, and he contracted rheumatic fever,’ she said quietly. ‘I think the nurse has frightened Robert badly.’
‘Your stepbrothers were not Robert. If he will not take his medicine, measures must be taken.’ Mr Clare’s mouth became a thin white line. ‘Is that all you wished to speak me about? Your time is nearly up.’
‘Have these fits been happening long? Did he ever have episodes like this before she started to care for him?’ Phoebe asked quickly, seeking to regain the upper hand. ‘Your sister never said that he suffered from any affliction. Did the fever cause this?’
‘They started within the last few weeks. Just before Mrs Smith started or just after.’ Mr Clare ran his hand through his hair. ‘Then this started happening—these fits of madness. I knew Diana was my last chance. Robert’s cries were unbearable.’
Phoebe pressed her lips together. Thank goodness Lord Coltonby had seen the sense of it and had prevented his wife from travelling. This sickroom was the last place where Lady Coltonby should be.
‘Have you had the doctor in? What does he say?’ Tiredness made her head fuzzy, blocking her thoughts.
‘Doctor MacFarlane says that only time will cure him. It is out of our hands.’ Simon Clare crossed his arms and gave her a dark brooding look. ‘Robert must be nursed here.’
Robert was not mad. It was his illness. He had contracted rheumatic fever. It had to be. It bore all the hallmarks of what Edmund had had. St Vitus’s dance. Phoebe paused, unclear how best to proceed. Then she decided that she would simply have to say it, tell Mr Clare the worst. But hopefully, once he knew, then he would stop using the ropes. It had to work.
‘My youngest stepbrother, Edmund, contracted rheumatic fever after his bout of scarlet fever. His limbs and face would shake and move. Our doctor called the condition StVitus’s Dance. It affected his heart, not his mind.’
‘And how does he fare now?’ Simon Clare’s hoarse whisper echoed down the corridor.
‘He can run as well as any man, better than most. He has finished his last term at Oxford.’ Phoebe could not resist a note of pride creeping into her voice. Of all of her stepbrothers, Edmund was the one she felt closest to. He made her feel as if she was not an outsider, as if he truly cared about what happened to her. ‘He hopes to join one of the Inns of Court soon and train to be a lawyer. Hardly the actions of an imbecile.’
She forced her gaze to meet Mr Clare’s green one, felt it bore down into her soul as if he were searching for something. Every inclination in her body told her that he would yell and storm, but she kept regarding him, refusing to flinch. He looked away.
‘Is it not an affliction?’ Mr Clare’s voice was a husky rasp. ‘Will Robert recover? Will he return to his old self? Do you promise me?’
‘I have every reason to hope Robert will recover as well. He looks so much like Edmund,’ she whispered. ‘It may take a long time, but there is hope. You do not need to use ropes. He must be kept calm. Please let me try. Your sister believed I could help.’
‘You have seen him at his worst and have not run. It is more than several of the maids were able to stand. Perhaps Diana’s judgment was not misplaced.’ The colour drained from Simon Clare’s face, but his shoulders straightened. ‘What
