Burnest tiptoed to the bed.
"It is nearly the end," he murmured in Lady Fanny's ear. "Just sit where you are."
She nodded. Her face was drawn.
John crept up to the bed and knelt beside it, his head buried in the coverlet. Lady Frances laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Do not grieve, John," she said pitifully. "You know he would not wish it."
Only a strangled sob answered her. Roxhythe moved his hand.
"Devil … take you … John! What now?"
John carried the hand to his lips, smothering it with kisses.
"My lord! My dear lord!"
"Chut!" Roxhythe pressed his fingers feebly. "Have … a care to him … Fanny."
"I promise."
There was a long, long silence. Nothing broke it save the laboured breathing. John was quiet now, clasping my lord's hand. Lady Fanny sat very still.
Over by the fire was the surgeon, staring into the red embers. He did not move.
Half an hour crept by; yet another. Somewhere outside a clock chimed mournfully.
My lord's eyes opened. There was a far-away look in them not of this world.
"I must … to Whitehall. To … my little … master." Faintly, very faintly came the whisper. His beautiful smile curved my lord's lips. "Sire … Sire."
The eyelids fluttered, closed. My lord's hand quivered. He gave a deep sigh, full of peace.
"Only … your … pleasure Sir …"
His head fell sideways a little on the pillow. The smile was still on his lips, but the light had gone out.
The End
