Unable to resist, Mary started in his direction. He’d won thanks to Andrew’s blunder, with neither man getting hurt. It was the best possible outcome! But as she hurried toward him, a fierce fire ignited inside her, slowing her pace. Blinking, she tried to understand, her hand pressing against the pain and feeling the wetness there as Richard turned toward her. The smile he gave her immediately dropped from his face, confirming that something wasn’t quite as it should be.
“Mary.” Discarding his pistol he ran toward her.
Stumbling, she started to fall, her legs refusing to carry her weight.
“Mary!”
The ground tilted, plunging her into darkness.
Richard’s heart erupted with fear. “No!” Reaching Mary, he gathered her up in his arms, barely breaking his stride as he did so.
“What happened?” Lady Foxworth asked as he hurried past her.
“She has been shot.” The words fell heavily around them. Hell, just getting them past the thick knot in his throat was an ordeal. “We have to get her back to the house.” He heard Lady Foxworth sob as she conveyed the news to Lady Duncaster. Carthright on the other hand . . . Richard tightened his hold on Mary. He would deal with her brother later, as soon as he was certain that her life was not in danger. But if she died . . . He dared not think of such an outcome even as dark rage clawed at his chest.
Vaguely, he was aware of footsteps following him at a brisk pace. If someone spoke to him however, he was oblivious of the fact. All he knew was that he needed to get Mary back to her bedchamber so he could issue instructions for a physician to be summoned. A hand caught him by the arm and he instinctively spun on his heel. “What?”
The angry question was met by a very calm looking Lady Duncaster. “Doctor Florian is a guest here, Mr. Heartly. I will ask him to meet us in Lady Mary’s bedchamber.”
With a curt nod, he strode away, arriving in the aforementioned room only moments later where he was greeted by Mary’s maid, whose face twisted at the sight of her mistress.
“We need to undress her,” he said, focusing on whatever they could do to help improve the situation.
“You cannot possibly—”
“Get out of my way,” he bit out.
Amy didn’t argue any further. Instead, she stepped aside, closed the door and followed him to the bed where he carefully set Mary down.
“Oh no,” Amy murmured as the wound came into view, visible as a large patch of blood against the left side of Mary’s gown.
Richard ignored her. Aware of how efficient Lady Duncaster could be, he did not doubt that the doctor would arrive shortly. They should prepare Mary for when he did, which meant that they would have to get her out of her clothes so the doctor could access the wound properly. To this end, Richard reached down and began undoing the fastenings on Mary’s gown.
“What are you doing?” Amy asked with a hint of horror to her voice.
“What is necessary,” he explained as he pushed the sleeves over Mary’s shoulders and began pulling her gown down over her waist. She groaned slightly, which gave him hope.
“This is highly irregular, sir. Her modesty—”
“Damn her modesty,” he fairly exploded. Amy fell silent and Richard clenched his jaw. He hadn’t meant to be quite that harsh, but by God, he was at his wits-end. This should have been him, not her . . . anyone but her.
With quivering fingers he turned her sideways so he could unfasten her stays.
“Allow me,” Amy said, her tone holding a comforting degree of determination.
Stepping back, Richard watched her work as helplessness drove its way to his core. I cannot lose her. The unspoken words sent a shudder through him. An ache clutched at his heart, tightening his chest and making it difficult for him to breathe.
A knock sounded at the door and then it opened, giving way to Lady Duncaster and an older gentleman whom Richard had not yet met. He nodded in Richard’s direction but did not bother with introducing himself or with making any other attempt at conversation. Richard found that he appreciated that—the fact that treating Mary was of greater importance to him than protocol.
“Please pull the covers up over her legs and then raise her chemise so I can get a proper look,” he said to Amy.
The maid complied without arguing while Richard stood at Lady Duncaster’s side, unsure of how he could be of assistance. Seeing the blood smeared across Mary’s abdomen, he went to fetch the washbasin that stood on a small table to one side, grabbed a clean linen towel lying next to it and presented both items to the doctor.
“Thank you,” Florian remarked as he wet the towel and began to wipe away the blood, revealing a dark wound surrounded by bright pink flesh.
“Will she be all right?” Richard asked as the doctor began to feel his way around the wound. It looked as if he was searching for something. Groaning, Mary shifted against the touch. “Only time will tell.” Turning her onto her side, the doctor studied her back and then muttered a curse.
“What is it?” Amy asked in a small voice that seemed close to breaking.
Richard winced. He knew what the doctor’s concern was now. “There is no exit wound. The lead ball will have to be extracted if she is to survive this.”
“Fetch some brandy,” Lady Duncaster said, “and I will inform Lady Foxworth of the news.” Suffering from shock, Mary’s aunt had been escorted to her own bedchamber and offered a small amount of laudanum in order to calm her nerves.
“We will need a bit of strength soon,” Florian said without looking up, “so if you can find another gentleman willing to help, I suggest you bring him with you when you return.”
Relieved that he’d been given a task, Richard glanced at Mary’s pale face before quitting the room and going in search of the brandy and Spencer. He felt as though his heart had been torn from his chest. What had happened . . . his steps were heavy upon the floor, carrying him forward only because he knew that Mary now depended on him to help her through this.
Coming from the opposite end of the hallway, Richard saw the man who was to blame for it all—the man who might very well have killed the most good-natured person in the world. Balling his hands into two tight fists, Richard gritted his teeth as he moved toward him. “Carthright!” The name sounded like bone crushing against bone.
“How is she?” Carthright asked, coming to a halt at a reasonable distance. His eyes bore a haunted expression that made him look old and tired.
“Struggling for her life, thanks to you.”
Dropping his gaze, Carthright muttered, “I am sorry.”
The apology reminded Richard of stale bread. “Sorry?” He was incredulous. “You are sorry?”
“Of course!”
Marching forward, Richard raised his fist. “She might die because of you, you bloody idiot!” His knuckles made contact with Carthright’s jawbone, producing a loud cracking sound and pushing Carthright back. “Why?” His voice wavered. “You were supposed to shoot me!”
Dropping to his knees, Carthright raised his arms to cover his face in anticipation of another hit, but Richard made no effort to attack. Instead, he hovered over him, waiting for an answer to his question.
“I was nervous,” Carthright stammered. “I know that you are a far better shot and expected you to fire first, so I . . . I pulled the trigger too early.”
Richard felt his anger rise. “The same reason why you abandoned me in France—because you are a coward.” When Carthright didn’t respond, Richard stepped past him. He didn’t have time for this right now. Not when Mary needed his help.
Returning to her bedchamber a few minutes later together with Spencer, Richard poured the brandy into a large glass so the doctor could dip his tools in it. “How is she?” he asked, his gaze falling on Mary’s twisted features.
“She continues to fall in and out of consciousness.” Arranging some linen towels so they would be easily accessible, the doctor took a seat. “Her pain is severe, as is the wound, but I will do my best t
o save her. I give you my word on that.” He looked at Richard and Spencer in turn. “If you are ready, I would like to proceed. The quicker we get that lead ball out of her, the better.”
A heavy hand touched Richard’s arm and he turned to meet his brother’s gaze, the concern there so raw that it threatened to shatter Richard’s tightly reined control. Turning away, Richard nodded. “Yes,” he told the doctor as he moved closer to the bed, aware that Mary’s pain was about to get a whole lot worse.
Holding her firmly by her shoulders while Spencer pushed down on her legs, the brothers struggled to keep her as still as possible while the doctor worked. Her anguished groans were difficult to listen to, even though Richard knew that it was for the best. But to watch the tools being driven into her, was almost more than he could bear.
Blood was swiftly wiped away by Lady Duncaster who’d proven most efficient in regards to this matter. The doctor retracted his pincers, pulling out a fragment of Lady Mary’s gown, “Excellent,” he murmured. “Most infections are caused by bits of foreign material getting pushed inside the wound upon impact, so I am happy to have recovered this.”
Not long after, the doctor declared making contact with the lead ball itself. Richard’s hands tightened against Mary, even though her body had gone limp after losing consciousness again. Still, he could not risk her waking up and disturbing the doctor’s delicate work. Slowly, the shot was dragged out of her torso and dropped into a bowl. “That ought to do it,” the doctor said as he leaned back with a sigh. He placed his hand against her forehead. “She feels cool to the touch, so I would suggest keeping a blanket over her for warmth.”
“Do you think she will be all right?” Lady Duncaster asked, giving voice to Richard’s own concern.
“Only time will tell, I suppose.” Reaching for his needle and thread, the doctor proceeded to stitch up the hole.
Richard knew what he meant, even though he’d hoped that the doctor might have offered more of an assurance. But having been to war and witnessing the effect such wounds could have on seemingly healthy and strong men, he was also aware that the worst might still be to come. “I will watch over her,” he said decisively.
The statement was met by hushed silence until Spencer quietly said, “I do not think that doing so would be an appropriate course of action. You are not her husband, after all.”
“I will be soon enough. Once she recovers.” And she would recover. She simply had to. The alternative wasn’t an option.
“Even so, you must consider her reputation,” Lady Duncaster said. “People will talk once they notice your presence here.”
Grinding his teeth, Richard stared at each of them in turn, not liking the extent of their sound judgment. “Then what would you suggest I do? Because I can assure you that doing nothing is out of the question.”
“Perhaps you could sit by the door while Lady Foxworth and I take turns in the room with her.”
“By the door?” he muttered, feeling as though he’d just been banished to a corner.
“You will still be close enough for us to keep you apprised of her condition and you would also be of great help if we need to call for the doctor to return. Considering how invested you are in her recovery, I daresay you would fetch him faster than any of my servants.”
“You can be certain of it,” Richard said.
“Then it is settled?” The pitch of Lady Duncaster’s voice suggested a question even though Richard was wise enough to know that it was anything but.
He nodded, because although he would have preferred to sit by Mary’s bedside, he knew such a thing would not be possible. Instead, he found himself occupying a comfortable armchair only minutes later. A footman had even brought him that day’s paper so he would have something with which to pass the time. As if he was able to concentrate on politics or gossip—trivialities, in truth, when considering the fact that Mary’s life was still very much at stake.
Instead, he focused on his breaths, aware of how tight his chest felt against his lungs. He turned the pages of the paper, but failed to comprehend a single word that was printed thereon. It was all a massive blur, distorted by the most bizarre feeling that the only thing he cared about was in the room beyond, and that he just might lose it.
The thought stuck, disturbing him to the point of restlessness. For years he’d been motivated solely by the need for revenge. He’d achieved his goal. Victory was his. But at what cost? A shudder went through him. Carthright had definitely wronged him. Of that there was no doubt. And he might not deserve his title, his property or his fortune, but if Richard hadn’t striven to take them all from him, then perhaps . . .
He shook his head, unwilling to torture himself with what-ifs. One thing was certain however, and that was the fact that he would gladly repeat the past five years of misery for a chance at a different outcome—one in which Mary would not get shot.
The door opened beside him and he was on his feet in an instant. “How is she?” he asked upon seeing Lady Duncaster.
“She is still sleeping.”
“Have you touched her forehead, ensured that she does not feel feverish?” Lord how he hated the helplessness.
She nodded. “Of course.”
Expelling a breath, he thanked her for letting him know, resuming his seat as she returned to the room, closing the door behind her.
Two hours later, Lady Foxworth arrived to switch places with Lady Duncaster. “Mr. Heartly,” she said, her hollow eyes sparking a little upon seeing him there. “I did not expect to find you here, though I suppose I should have done. What happened today—”
“She will recover,” he said with certainty.
Her only response was a tremulous smile, and then she was gone, ushered into a room that he was still denied entry to. Lady Duncaster exited soon after. “I will send a tray up with some food for you. Is there anything else you would like?”
“Perhaps a clock? I did not think to bring my pocket watch with me when I left my room this morning and I would like to keep track of the time.”
“Of course,” Lady Duncaster said. “I will ask a footman to bring one up for you right away.”
As it turned out, the footman brought a notebook and pencil as well, which was wonderfully thoughtful since it allowed him to jot down Mary’s status every half hour. Even though there was little to say, it gave him something more meaningful to do than reading the paper.
“Would you care to join me for a drink?” Spencer asked at half past eleven when he returned carrying a brandy bottle and two glasses.
“I certainly would not mind the company.” Richard began gesturing for the footman to bring another chair but Spencer stopped him, lowering himself to the floor instead with his legs stretched out before him.
“Any news?” Spencer asked as he poured the brandy and handed one of the glasses to Richard.
“She sleeps,” Richard said with a shrug.
“I suppose that is a good thing. From my experience, sleep is the fastest way to recovery. That and some good food!”
Richard couldn’t disagree with that. Leaning forward, he clinked his glass against his brother’s and took a sip, grateful for the drink’s soothing effect. “I just wish that she would wake up and let us know how she is feeling.”
“She will,” Spencer assured him. And then, “I bet you must be pretty angry with Carthright.”
Stiffening, Richard allowed a slow nod. “Angry does not begin to describe how I feel about him. Whatever he did toward me, this is so much worse.”
“Perhaps I should warn you against punishing the fellow any more than you already have done?”
“That will not be necessary. I realized this evening that it was my blind path to revenge that has led to this very moment. Without it, Mary might not have gotten shot since Carthright would not have had a reason to challenge me. Christ, Spencer! Pistols were my choice!”
Spencer snorted. “If you start thinking like that, you will never stop. The point I was trying to make is
that I spoke to Lady Foxworth earlier. Rest assured that she will not allow Carthright to go unpunished.”
“What can she possibly do to justify his actions? He is not even her son.”
“Do not underestimate the lady, Richard. I find that women have a tendency to achieve their goals in the most extraordinary ways.”
The door to Mary’s bedchamber opened and both men got to their feet as the lady in question appeared. Her anxious expression was not the least bit comforting. “She is developing a fever.”
Richard tried to look past Lady Foxworth but she blocked his line of vision. “How bad is it?”
“I think you ought to fetch the doctor.”
Richard didn’t question her for a second. He just handed his glass to Spencer and left at a brisk pace, returning with the doctor just a few minutes later. But when he tried to follow the doctor into Mary’s room, Lady Foxworth stopped him. “She is not decent, Mr. Heartly. Please try to understand.”
The door closed in Richard’s face and for a long drawn out moment, he just stood there staring at it, unable to comprehend that he was being kept away from the woman he loved while her life hung in the balance. “Damn Society and its ridiculous rules!”
“Hear, hear,” Spencer muttered. Leaning against the wall, he’d waited for Richard to return.
Casting a look over his shoulder, Richard said, “I ought to break this bloody door down.”
“I can help you, if you like.”
A tempting idea, though one that would probably not be well received by anyone else. So he waited, glanced toward the clock. Almost an hour ticked by at a murderously slow pace before the doctor himself re-emerged. From behind him, Richard could hear Lady Foxworth bustling about in an agitated way that only served to heighten Richard’s concern. “It does not look good,” the doctor pronounced. His apologetic manner grated.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Richard asked.
“The wound does not look infected, but her fever is steadily rising. If we fail to stop it, then there is no telling what might happen as a result.”
His Scandalous Kiss: Secrets at Thorncliff Manor: 6 Page 27