“Lady Rannoch?” she heard Kemble ask softly. The valet dropped to his knees before her and smoothed the hair back from her forehead with a hand that was cool and comforting. “My lady? Can you hear me? Are you recovering?”
“I—I do not know,” Evangeline answered woodenly, her voice muffled into the heavy fabric of her wrapper. “Oh, God! What has happened to him? Just tell me what has happened!”
“Pray keep your head down a moment, my lady,” replied Kemble in a soothing voice. “You very nearly swooned.”
Beside her, Lord Linden bent forward to speak softly into her ear. “We shall fetch a cool cloth for your forehead, ma’am. I daresay the sight of so much blood is inappropriate for a lady of delicate sensibilities.”
“My sensibilities are not delicate,” she rasped, addressing her knees. Slowly, she tried to sit up. “Moreover, I have never swooned in my life.”
“No, my lady. I am sure you have not,” soothed Kemble, easing one firm hand around her upper arm. “But these are unusual circumstances. Come, can you stand?”
Dumbly, she nodded and came weakly to her feet, watching Linden’s blond hair return slowly into focus. Kemble rose with her, still holding her arm. Despite Lord Linden’s opposing pressure on her elbow, Evangeline turned to stare at her husband. MacLeod had somehow managed to remove most of his clothing. Beside Major Winthrop, the stranger—a surgeon, she now realized—was still bent low over the bed, his fingertips pressed to Elliot’s throat, an unsettled look fixed upon his face.
Against her will, the valet and the viscount almost carried her back into her bedchamber. As Linden urged her into bed, Kemble strode across the room and yanked the bell to summon her maid. Pressing her back into the pillows, Lord Linden gave her a crooked grin. “Not sure old Elliot would approve of my taking his wife to bed,” he mumbled weakly, “but one does what one must.”
“What has happened?” she demanded hollowly as a cool cloth was settled across her forehead. “Linden, you must tell me! How serious is it?”
“Shush,” soothed the viscount. “Promise me that you will lie still, and I will tell you all that I may.” Evangeline stilled her agitated motions, allowing Kemble to draw up her bedcovers, and Linden continued. “Elliot was shot, my lady.”
“Shot?” Her voice came out a disembodied whisper. “I do not understand. Where? Why?”
“At Vauxhall. And I regret that I must be the one to tell you, for it was almost certainly my doing—”
“How, my lord? I do not understand.”
“Hush, Evangeline,” he said softly. “Elliot will tell you all, I am sure, when he awakens. But I must tell you that he has lost a bit of blood and will lose a bit more this night if the surgeon is to remove the ball.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered, and despite her best effort, the tears began to fall in earnest.
Lord Linden sat himself gingerly upon the far corner of her bed. “Ma’am, you mustn’t overset yourself. I can assure you that your husband is perfectly indefatigable, and he has been through just this sort of thing before.”
Coloring slightly, the viscount had the good grace to look away. “That is to say, he has been shot once or twice and always pulls through. Old Potter is the best of surgeons and has done the honors on Elliot before, so you need have no concern on that score.”
“Who shot him?” Evangeline cried. “Why?”
Linden shook his head and leaned forward to lay one hand gently across hers. “It was an accident, Evangeline, and even I do not fully understand what happened. It is all caught up in Elliot’s past, and I cannot know what he has told you, so I would rather he explained it, and in his own time. But I can tell you that he was in no way at fault and that he acted very bravely. Now, promise me that you will rest, so that I may go and lend a hand to Potter?”
“Yes, all right,” she whispered hoarsely, her mind already clawing toward its own conclusion. But with those same conclusions came a strange sense of calm. Already, her husband lay wounded, perhaps fatally. Evangeline had conjured up many ugly imaginings about what her marriage might be like, yet, regardless of how real her fears became, she had entered into the union of her own accord. She was now his wife.
The phrases for better or for worse, in sickness and in health began to echo in her mind. Yet Evangeline ruthlessly refused to consider the last of her vows, for it was unthinkable that Elliot might die. Almost unconsciously, her hands grasped the bed linens and pushed them away. She could not let him die. She had fallen imprudently in love with him, and she had surrendered to her physical desire for him. If fate now required her to pay for her weakness by means of a marriage that fell far short of her girlhood dreams, she must simply remind herself that it was a marriage nonetheless, and she was long past girlhood. For now, duty called, and she would see to it.
Indeed, she harshly reprimanded herself, a wife’s place was by her husband’s side. She should be ashamed of swooning, babe or no. Moreover, she, of all women, had no business languishing upon her bed like some delicate, overbred debutante. As soon as Lord Linden finished instructing her maid and quit the room, Evangeline slid out of the bed. She had responsibilities.
“Find Kemble,” she ordered her maid. “Tell him he is to fetch me as soon as the surgeon has left my husband’s bedside.” Lips pursed tight in a pale white face, the girl nodded once, then darted off to do as she was bid.
16
For secrets are edg’d tools, and must be kept from
children and fools.
—JOHN DRYDEN
A ll of Richmond seemed ominously quiet when Gerald Wilson alit from his lordship’s carriage at ten o’clock that morning. The footman, who had come in all haste to fetch Wilson to his master’s apparent deathbed, now put down the stairs and stood deferentially to one side. Rannoch’s man of affairs stepped out onto the cobblestone drive of Strath House and into a thick, spattering rain.
The summer air held a dreariness that was unusual, even for London. Across the wide stone façade of Strath, not a lamp had been lit to cut through the oppressive gloom of the morning. Wilson trudged up the steps to find that within the grand entrance hall, neither children nor servants stirred, save MacLeod, who pulled open the door with an air of poorly concealed grief. It was true, then. The butler’s red-rimmed eyes all but confirmed the worst.
With a deep sigh, MacLeod took Wilson’s greatcoat, then handed him back his tooled leather folio. Already, a thick sheaf of papers protruded from one end, for this was not Wilson’s first stop of the morning. Indeed, Rannoch’s equipage had first conveyed him into the center of the City of London, to the offices of Messrs. Barclay, MacEwen, and Matheson, his lordship’s trio of hardened solicitors. Out of sympathy, Wilson mumbled a few banal sentiments to the elderly retainer, then set off down the hall and up the short flight of stairs that led to his lordship’s inner sanctum.
Everything about Strath was quietly, soberly familiar, the smell of wax and spice, the opulent blues and golds of the Oriental runners, and the rich brown oak of the library door. Nonetheless, things were not the same, and might well never be so again. Indeed, Wilson found himself realizing that this could be his last such trip. Oddly enough, he rather hoped not, for he had somehow grown very fond of the fellow he’d once thought of as Old Scratch jumped up from the bowels of hell. Swallowing hard, Wilson laid his hand upon the brass knob and entered.
The heavy draperies were already open, to no good effect. The room remained as somber and gray as the mood within. “I’ve brought the necessary papers from the solicitors’ office, Sir Hugh,” said Wilson softly, setting down his folio upon the desk.
“Eh?” responded Hugh, stirring vaguely. His bleary gaze drifted up from a low table, scattered with the remnants of an early-morning coffee service. “Papers? What sort?”
Wilson took a quick look about the room and, seeing only friends, spoke openly. “The will, Sir Hugh. And the dower addendum for the young ladies, Miss Stone and Miss d’Avillez. His lordship bade me have it drawn up
last week.”
Major Matthew Winthrop, his back to the room, stood before the window and stared out into the street below. Slowly, he let his hand slide from the window frame and turned to face the others. “Did he sign them?” he asked hollowly.
“No, Major,” answered Wilson, shaking his head. “I am afraid he has not yet had an op—”
“Damn it all, I’ll dower them myself,” interrupted Lord Linden, setting down his coffee with a violence that shattered the saucer, sending it flying from the table in pieces. No one seemed to notice. “If Elliot dies …hell, I’ll see to it! ’Tis the least I can do after having led him—led all of you—into this foolish farce.”
“Pretty things, the pair of ’em,” mumbled Sir Hugh. Absently, he bent forward in his chair, picked up the largest of the porcelain shards from the carpet, and ran his thumb across one splintered edge. “Reckon it won’t take a dowry to find ’em a husband.”
“Good God, stop it, both of you!” Major Winthrop came away from the window in three quick strides. “He isn’t going to die, damn it! Moreover, we are none of us at fault! None of us. Elliot wouldn’t tolerate such drivel.”
Lord Linden shrugged lamely, then shoved his long manicured fingers through hair that was no longer perfect. Indeed, Wilson noted, the viscount’s normally flawless attire was in total disarray, looking very much as if he had slept in it. No doubt he had. A woolen blanket lay crumpled in a heap at his feet. “I thought up this reckless scheme of spreading rumors that Elliot and Cranham had set aside the past,” answered Linden softly. “I was certain that the person who tried to kill Cranham murdered Antoinette, and I was so damned arrogant, I thought I could flush out the killer. Good God, I treated it like a lark! I ought to be hanged.”
Bracing his hands upon his thick, muscular thighs, Winthrop sank slowly down into the chair opposite Sir Hugh. “But that’s just it, Linden! Do you not see? We had to do something. Elliot was forced yet again to live under an insufferable cloud of suspicion.”
The baronet made a little choking noise and Major Winthrop scowled darkly. “Do not deny it, Sir Hugh. You know it is true. The conjecture over Cicely’s death ruined his life ten years ago. And matters were growing uglier with every passing day.”
“But why Howell?” rasped Sir Hugh. “And after so many years? Good Lord! Known ’im all my life! At Harrow with him and all that. Thought him too damn lazy to hold a grudge, and over an orphaned niece? But he wanted Cranham dead. And maybe Elliot blamed.”
Slowly, Winthrop shook his head. “No, Hugh. I think you’re mistaken about the grudge. It had to be something else. Lord Howell’s niece was little better than a slut, and he must have known of Cicely’s reputation. Many a gentleman among the ton had propositioned her, but not for marriage. I had begun to believe that she had accepted one of them, someone who took advantage of Elliot’s innocence all those years ago and did not now want the ugly truth to come out.”
“As did I,” agreed Lord Linden bitterly. “And I had some hope of forcing the gentleman into the open.”
“Yes,” mused Winthrop. “Do you not find it remarkable that Howell, of all people, remained silent when Elliot severed his engagement to Miss Forsythe? Indeed, he has always tactfully avoided all of us. Perhaps he found it prudent to let Cranham take the brunt of Elliot’s rage and suspicion. When Cranham returned from Baipur, the trouble began. You know, Howell refused to see Cranham on at least a dozen occasions.”
“Oh, Cranham’s a troublemaker of the first order, and no mistake,” agreed Linden, sagging wearily backward into the depths of his chair. “And while he admits he bore a grudge against Elliot, he swears he did nothing more, save trying to seduce Antoinette, whom he seemed to think was blackmailing Elliot.”
“You believe him?” asked Sir Hugh flatly.
“Oddly enough, I do,” murmured Lord Linden thoughtfully, “but only because he could not possibly have stabbed himself.”
“Indeed,” answered Winthrop, rubbing his wide palm back and forth across his shadowed chin. “It was just as Linden surmised. Cranham and Elliot together—that was the perceived danger. Together, they must have constituted some sort of threat. Something Howell was willing to kill for …”
Suddenly, the door swung inward to admit a man Wilson recognized as Potter, the surgeon, having seen him at Strath on at least two previous occasions. Major Winthrop and Lord Linden came swiftly to their feet. “How is his lordship?” asked the major anxiously.
Potter set down his bulging leather bag on a side table and pressed his thumb and forefinger against his puffy eyelids. He shook his head, making his heavy jowls flop like a weary hound. “Weak, gentlemen. Very weak. More blood loss than I have seen in many a day.”
“Will he live?” asked Sir Hugh, wringing his hands with uncharacteristic concern.
“Too soon to say, Sir Hugh,” answered the surgeon bluntly. “But he is strong, not to mention stubborn. Moreover, the wound, though deep and nasty, is in his thigh. A shot to the chest or belly, now, that would have meant a sure and painful death. As it is, I would have to say he is in God’s hands.”
“What can we expect?” asked Linden anxiously.
“If he lives through the complications, we may find him crawling out of bed in a sennight,” answered the surgeon with an equivocal shrug, “or he may be dead by nightfall.”
“Has the bleeding stopped?”
“Aye, and you can thank her ladyship and that eccentric valet for it, too. Both been up all night. Man knows as much about medicine as some physicians I’ve seen. And her ladyship is a tough piece of work—barking orders, changing dressings. She’s already sponging tea into ’im. Got the staff moving like a well-ordered battalion. Wouldn’t have thought it when I saw her very nearly faint last night, but if sheer determination can keep a fellow alive, his lordship will make it.”
The gray light of late morning seeped into Elliot’s bedchamber, casting grim shadows across the already harsh angles of his face. A day’s growth of beard merely emphasized the pallor of his normally dark skin. Mercifully, the tourniquets and surgical instruments had been long since carried away, and the seemingly incessant train of servants bearing water, sheets, and bandages had finally vanished.
And Elliot was still alive. The blood loss had been prodigious, and at times his heartbeat weak, but he was still very much alive. Wearily, Evangeline wiped the back of her hand across her forehead and sank into her chair by Elliot’s bedside.
“ ’Tis almost noon, Lady Rannoch,” whispered Kemble as he assiduously rearranged the contents of Elliot’s dressing table for the tenth time. “There is little you can do for the nonce. Go to your room, and try to rest.”
Evangeline bounced anxiously from her seat and crossed to the other side of Elliot’s massive bed. Absently, she flicked up the covers and straightened them with a snap. “You are all kindness, Kemble, but I know I shan’t sleep. I must remain here—at least until he wakes.” Across the wide expanse of bedding, she saw Kemble purse his lips stubbornly. “He will awaken, Kem,” she responded in a firm but quiet voice.
The valet turned to face her, his expression one of concern. “Indeed, all will be well, my lady. Rannoch has lived through worse. But you! You need your rest, for we may have hard days ahead. You, perhaps, more so than anyone?”
Ignoring the thinly veiled question in Kemble’s last remark, Evangeline prayed, as she had prayed all night, that the valet’s faith in Elliot’s strength was well placed. Her husband was a strong, healthy man, was he not? But how much blood loss could a person endure? She had no clue. A clean shot, Potter had said. What a horrid phrase! There had been nothing clean about it.
Since five o’clock that morning, she had not left her husband’s bedside, save for a quarter hour spent explaining matters to the children—or perhaps lying to the children was a more apt description of what she had chosen to do. How could one explain, particularly to little Zoë, the horrible truth? Evangeline had hardly known what to say, and so she had stumbled
through half-truths and platitudes. Afterward, Zoë and the younger children had sniffled quietly, while Theo had stood apart, biting valiantly at his lower lip, old enough to sense what had gone unsaid.
Evangeline gazed again at her husband’s face, so deathly pale against the linen, and her unspoken need for him knifed through her heart. No, it was more than need; it was the fear of needing, for what would she do if she lost him now? Despite all that they had been through, and all that she had sometimes believed of him, her love had held fast, almost against her will. Gently, she brushed his hand with hers. Elliot’s long, graceful fingers lay limply atop the woolen coverlet. The light dusting of dark hair across the back of his hand was just beginning to be visible in the feeble daylight. Elliot had such big hands, such capable hands. How it hurt to see them so lifeless yet so strikingly beautiful.
As if in response to Evangeline’s thoughts, the fingers of his left hand began to move restlessly against the bedcovers. Her gaze flicked back to his face. Beneath his lowered lids, she could see his eyes move back and forth. Then, gradually but unmistakably, the movement of his hands and eyes stilled, and his breathing eased. What had been a shallow, uneven pattern shifted to deeper, more restful inhalation. It was, she fervently believed, a positive sign.
Oblivious to Kemble’s puttering in the background, Evangeline absently picked up Elliot’s left hand and pulled it to her lips. Her worry abated for just a moment as she realized that his skin felt surprisingly normal against her mouth. Indeed, his fingers were warm, rather than the cool, seemingly bloodless hands of early morning. Better still, he was not feverish, and she could only hope that he would remain so. Gently, Evangeline reached across the pillow to place her free hand against his brow. Warm, yes. But not hot. Evangeline gave a little sigh of relief and dropped her hand away just as Elliot’s eyes began to flutter.
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