Regarding the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  Finally, chest heaving, he arrived at the side of the dock, assessing the situation. He and his men had gained the upper hand now; the enemy either lay fallen or were running off with their tails between their legs. In the distance, he heard the shouts of victory from Tessa Kent’s army, who’d charged the front of the warehouse.

  Another victory…and another step closer to my vengeance.

  For Tessa was now in his debt. She owed him for his part in the conquest tonight, and he would be calling in that favor when the time came. While he eviscerated De Villier financially, he might request the use of Tessa’s men to dismantle De Villier’s railway foundry brick by brick…best not to leave any loose ends, after all.

  As heady triumph filled him, his thoughts veered unexpectedly toward Gabriella. He flashed to an image of her innocently sleeping in her bed, and the heat in his blood reached a boiling point. There was no better way to discharge the aftermath of battle than fucking.

  He wondered if he could allow himself to break his own rules twice in one day. He probably shouldn’t. But the notion of burying himself in his wife’s tight, wet quim, losing himself in her sweetness—

  A movement caught the corner of his eye. A man coming out of nowhere, running toward him, pistol glinting…

  Christ.

  The thought exploded in his head as gunfire ripped through the night. The punch of the bullet made him stagger, his feet losing purchase. Suddenly, he was falling backward through the air. His head struck something, pain erupting, red splattering his vision. He heard a splash, felt the cold downward drag. Before panic could claw its way to the surface, icy blackness closed over him.

  10

  After tucking the exhausted children into bed, Gabby went to her chambers.

  Although she was physically tired, sleep eluded her. She lay awake, watching shadows chase across the embroidered vines of the canopy. She’d left the lamp on, a behavior carried over from her childhood. Back then, she’d been afraid of the dark, convinced that monsters lurked in the wardrobe and beneath the bed. She’d wake up in the middle of the night, bathed in sweat, nameless dread pounding in her heart.

  The phantom worries followed her into adolescence and womanhood. The truth was she’d never been a sound sleeper. Indeed, the only thing that seemed to help was when Adam made his weekly bedtime visits. After making love to her, he would stay until she fell asleep.

  She always slept well on Wednesday nights.

  Thinking of her husband caused the tide of worry to rise ever higher. She glanced anxiously at the Ormolu clock on her bedside table.

  It’s nearly two in the morning. Where is he? Something’s wrong, I can feel it…

  At the sound of voices, she bolted upright against the pillows. Relief filled her as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She jumped out of bed, dragging on a wrapper.

  Adam’s back. She hugged the knowledge to herself. Everything is all right.

  She heard a knock on her bedroom door and dashed over, flinging it open.

  Nell stood there. The maid’s apple-cheeked face was unusually somber.

  Gabby’s giddiness fizzled. “What’s happened? Where’s Mr. Garrity?”

  “He’s back, ma’am. With Mr. Murray. There’s a physician with them—”

  Gabby didn’t wait to hear more. She was already running, fear propelling every step. She burst into Adam’s suite. Mr. Murray and a sandy-haired man whirled around at her approach…but her gaze was focused on the figure lying on the bed.

  Adam. His face bone-white. He was so still…too still.

  His chest surged, and a hitched sob broke from her lips.

  She stumbled to the bedside, putting a trembling hand on her husband’s jaw. She felt the scrape of his night beard against her palm, the terrifying chill of his skin. An angry, swelling cut spanned his right temple. His hair stuck in damp whorls on his forehead, and his clothes were sodden.

  Her gaze caught on the torn fabric on his right side. On the lethal-looking dark stain.

  “What happened?” She forced the words from her numb lips.

  “He was shot—not fatally,” Mr. Murray said hurriedly when she gasped. “Mrs. Garrity, this is Dr. Abernathy. He’s been attending to your husband.”

  “Good evening, ma’am.” The sandy-haired fellow bowed.

  “You’re not Dr. Abernathy,” she said with a frown.

  Dr. Abernathy, who’d attended to the family’s ailments for years, was a crusty Scotsman, with beetled brows and greying sideburns. This man looked to be in his early twenties…at most. His handsome boyishness might turn female heads, but it didn’t inspire Gabby’s confidence in his degree of experience.

  “Dr. Douglas Abernathy, at your service. My father, the Dr. Abernathy with whom you are acquainted, is attending a birthing in Hampshire.” The young physician’s manner was competent and brisk, his Scottish brogue less pronounced than his father’s. “I examined the patient in the carriage. The good news is the bullet itself didn’t cause too much damage. A flesh wound to the right side, with no organs or bones hit. I was able to staunch the bleeding.”

  She took in the information with fervent gratitude.

  “The next step is to properly clean and dress the wound,” the doctor went on.

  At that moment, footmen arrived with pitchers of steaming water, towels, and an empty cart, setting up the equipment per the physician’s orders. Dr. Abernathy unpacked his leather satchel onto the cart, laying out the instruments of his profession with the precision of a boy lining up toy soldiers.

  He used a pair of pinchers to pick up what appeared to be a large darning needle, passing it back and forth through the flame of a candle. “The task ahead is rather grisly, I’m afraid. Perhaps you’d care to wait outside, ma’am?”

  “I’m staying.” Swallowing, she asked, “You’ve, um, done this before?”

  Dr. Abernathy went to scrub his hands thoroughly in the washbasin, using water from a steaming ewer. “I’ve recently returned from six years of medical training at the University of Edinburgh, practicing at the city’s largest hospital.”

  That was reassuring, at least.

  “Tell me how I can help,” she said.

  “Your job will be to keep your husband calm whilst I clean his wound with a saline solution. I’ve given him some laudanum, but it won’t ease the pain entirely. After that I’ll stitch him up—”

  Adam’s moan caused Gabby to whirl around. She gently brushed the hair off his forehead.

  “Everything’s going to be all right, my love,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”

  His lashes lifted, revealing his dark and glassy gaze. She could tell that he wasn’t seeing her.

  “Won’t drown…not a bleedin’ kitten…” he mumbled.

  Dr. Abernathy wheeled the cart to the other side of the bed. “Keep talking to him, ma’am.”

  “You’re safe, darling.” She forced the words over the lump in her throat. “We’ll have you right as rain in no time.”

  Wielding a pair of scissors, the physician expertly snipped at Adam’s garments. The fabrics fell away readily until he reached Adam’s shirt. Gabby’s breath lodged at the sight of the massive crimson bloom on the linen. When Dr. Abernathy tried to pull the shirt away from the wound, Adam jolted with vicious force, nearly throwing Gabby from the bed.

  “Mr. Murray, if you’d secure the patient’s left arm. And you two,”—Dr. Abernathy nodded at the footmen—“one at his legs, the other over here at the right arm. All of you hold him as still as you can. Mrs. Garrity, keep him distracted.”

  Nodding, Gabby remained by Adam’s side, giving Mr. Murray enough room to do his part. Brushing her trembling fingers through her husband’s thick hair, she channeled her strength and began telling the story from the children’s play. The physician moistened Adam’s shirt, easing the linen away while Adam jerked, groaning. At the sight of the gaping, oozing crater of flesh, a buffle-headed sensation swept over her.

  “You’re doing f
ine, Mrs. Garrity.” Mr. Murray’s voice grounded her. His brow was sheened from the effort of holding her husband still. “Now what happened when Princess Gianna found her dancing slippers?”

  Somehow, Gabby managed to continue her tale. As the physician rinsed and cleaned the lesion, she babbled on about mysterious forests, magical castles, and triumphant princesses. The needle flashed, pulling the tattered edges of skin together, darning flesh as if it were a torn stocking. Tamping down nausea, she kept talking until finally, finally the doctor completed his handiwork.

  “It’s done, my love,” she said shakily.

  Adam didn’t reply; he’d lost consciousness.

  “It’s for the better. His body needs rest to heal.” Dr. Abernathy uncapped a glass jar, removing its grayish-brown contents with a spoon. Carefully, he smeared the gruel-like substance over the stitched flesh.

  “What is that?” Gabby asked queasily.

  “A healing poultice made from moldy bread and honey. To minimize the risk of infection.” With Mr. Murray’s help, the physician wound a bandage around Adam’s torso and covered him with a blanket. “My work is done for now. I’ll be by to check on the patient tomorrow.”

  Gabby gave him an anxious look. “How long will it take for my husband to recover?”

  At Dr. Abernathy’s somber expression, her stomach plummeted. He drew her away from the bed, Mr. Murray joining them.

  “The bullet wound should heal in a fortnight,” the physician said quietly. “But there is another concern.”

  “What concern?” she blurted.

  He and Mr. Murray exchanged looks.

  Her voice rose. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “When Garrity was shot, the force of the bullet knocked him off his feet.” It was Mr. Murray who replied, his tone grim. “He hit his head and fell into the water. I saw this from the other end of the dock. I don’t know where that shooter came from, thought we had the enemy under wraps. I ran over, dispatching the assailant and diving in after Garrity. He wasn’t breathing when I got him out. But I was able to pump the water from his lungs and revive him.”

  Gabby clutched her hands tightly.

  “Your husband is a fit man in his prime, which bodes well for his recovery,” Dr. Abernathy said. “As we cannot predict the future, we must concentrate on what we can do for him in the present. There’ll likely be a fever, and our immediate job will be to keep him as comfortable as we can.”

  A million thoughts skirled in her head, but she knew he was right. She had to remain calm. She couldn’t let herself become overwhelmed or paralyzed by fears about the future.

  Adam needs me now.

  Drawing her shoulders back, she asked, “You will leave instructions for my husband’s care?”

  “Of course, ma’am.” The physician looked relieved, as if he’d been expecting her to fall apart. “And I’ll be by to check on him on the morrow.”

  “I am obliged, sir.”

  After the physician departed, Gabby returned to Adam’s side. His eyes were closed, the wound on his temple pronounced against his ashen skin. A deep divot formed between his brows, his jaw taut. Beneath the blanket, his chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow surges. It seemed impossible that her potent, vital husband could be this vulnerable. She took his hand in both of hers, willing some of her own strength into him.

  Please God, she prayed, see my husband well. I’ll do anything…anything at all…

  “Everything will be all right,” Mr. Murray said gruffly.

  “Yes.” Forcing back tears, she said, “Thank you, sir, for your heroism this night. We owe you more than we can ever repay—”

  “If Garrity wants to thank me, he can do it himself.” Mr. Murray attempted a smile, which came out rather lopsided. “He has the toughest hide of anyone I know. He’ll pull through.”

  Gabby fought the quiver in her throat. In her soul.

  She had to be strong—for Adam’s sake.

  “I know he will,” she said.

  He has to. Please God, he has to.

  11

  The darkness was winning.

  Adam fought it, but the freezing depths pulled him deeper and deeper. Fear suffocated him, filling his lungs, weighing him down like bricks dragging him to his watery grave.

  No, I won’t die like this. Like a bloody drowned kitten. Won’t give him the satisfaction…

  He was weary and cold…so bleeding cold…but something in him wouldn’t give up. Pain burned, yet he resisted yielding to oblivion. He struggled on through searing flame and bone-cracking chill. For an infinity, he fought gravity’s pull, striving for the surface. For survival.

  Sink or swim, sink or swim, not going to sink…

  Just as the last of his strength was leaving him and he knew he could fight no more, he saw a glimmer…a shaft of light piercing the darkness…

  “What’ve you found, Mr. Garrity?” Even distorted by water, the girl’s voice was bubbly and sweet, like lemonade mixed with champagne. “Is it a treasure?”

  “Ne’er know what gifts the Mother Thames will bring,” a man’s voice replied. “Whate’er it is, it’s heavy, that’s for certain.”

  Adam felt a jerk as he was pulled upward. The depths grew lighter and lighter, voices clearer and clearer…

  “Bloody ’ell! ’Tis a lad.”

  “Is ’e dead?” came the girl’s trembly voice.

  “Give us some room, dove, and we’ll see.”

  Weight descended on Adam’s chest, the pressure on his broken ribs forcing a cry from his lips.

  “That’s right, boy. Cough it up,” the man said. “Swallowed ’alf the Thames, you did.”

  He choked, brine spewing from his mouth and nose. He vomited and vomited until his throat was raw. When he was empty, he tried to open his eyes, the lids crusted together with the salt of the river and his own tears. His lashes came unstuck, and he blinked as he saw the face of an angel. A girl with blonde ringlets haloed by light.

  “You ain’t dead,” she said in that sparkling sweet voice.

  “Wh-where am I?” he croaked.

  “On a lighter wif me and Mr. Garrity. We were scavenging for goods but found you instead.” She tilted her head. “I’m Jessabelle. Who’re you?”

  “Jessabelle,” he murmured. “I…I’m…”

  His teeth chattered. Cold and heat flashed through him simultaneously, his limbs shaking. Darkness replaced the images and voices, a whirlpool of nothingness beckoning. He felt a gentle hand upon his forehead, calming him as oblivion claimed him once more.

  Gabby jerked her fingers from her husband’s brow. His skin was hot; as Dr. Abernathy had predicted, a fever had set in. For the past three days and nights, she’d kept vigil, dozing in fits by Adam’s side, waking to his incoherent moans. Although Mrs. Page and Nell had offered to keep watch so that Gabby could get some rest, Gabby had refused to leave him.

  She’d replaced one cool compress after another as each became steamy with his feverish heat. Using a spoon, she’d painstakingly fed him water and soothed his chapped lips with salve.

  Mostly she’d prayed and prayed and prayed.

  But what made her pull away now wasn’t the burning flame of Adam’s skin. Shaking, she rose from her chair and went to rinse a compress at the washbasin, another worry joining all the rest.

  Who is Jessabelle? Why is my husband calling this woman’s name?

  Adam had never mentioned a Jessabelle before. Gabby would know, wouldn’t she, if her husband had a female acquaintance…one with whom he was apparently so familiar that he would utter her name in the throes of delirium? And if Gabby didn’t know this woman, why would Adam keep the knowledge from her? Unless…unless…

  No, stop it. He promised he would be faithful to you…and Adam is a man of his word. He’s never lied to you.

  “Jessabelle…don’t go…” This time, Adam’s voice had a raw, guttural, tormented quality to it.

  Virulent heat built inside Gabby as if she’d caught her own fever,
one born of suspicion and doubt. She couldn’t stop her mind from wandering back to a few months ago. To that time when she’d found Adam thoroughly foxed in his study. It was the one and only time she’d ever seen her husband drunk…and free of his usual restraint.

  Shocked, she’d asked him if something was the matter.

  And he’d slurred, “Someone important died. In a workplace fire.”

  When she’d tried to ask him more, he’d put a stop to her questioning by kissing her. By doing unspeakably intimate things that made her blush and quiver just to think of them. Afterward, he’d passed out, and the next day he’d recalled nothing of what transpired between them that night…which was probably just as well. She still didn’t know what to make of that dark, animalistic side of her husband.

  Or of her own shamefully wanton response.

  The next morning, she’d read in the papers that a massive fire had consumed a notorious brothel called The Gilded Pearl. Stunned by the coincidence and unable to contain her suspicions, she’d gone to Adam. Asked him if the person he’d lost—if the person he’d gotten drunk over—had had something to do with this house of ill repute.

  He’d denied having a mistress or lover.

  Faced with his frigid displeasure and her own pounding anxiety, she’d let the matter drop.

  But now all her doubts came boiling to the surface. Was this Jessabelle the one who died in the bawdy house fire? Who was she to Adam, why was he moaning her name with such anguish…?

  Do you really want to know?

  Fear churned her insides.

  As she wrung the towel over the basin, she told herself that Adam wouldn’t lie to her. He’d said that he had no mistress, and she had to believe him. Because if she couldn’t trust her husband—the man she loved with her heart and soul—then what sort of marriage did she have?

  I will be faithful to you, take care of you, see that you want for nothing.

  He’d given her his word: that had to be good enough for her.

  Besides, she reasoned, Jessabelle could be anyone…not necessarily a lover. Not even necessarily someone important. Who knew what a fever could do to one’s mind, the hodge-podge of memories it might unearth? Perhaps in his delirium, Adam was recalling a childhood friend or a maidservant or…even an animal.