Beauty in Black

by Nicole Byrd

  Gabriel’s blade had not touched him—what had happened?

  Only when Gabriel turned to gaze about the crowd did John at last comprehend.

  He had been shot.

  Twelve

  After a moment of shock he glanced around. Where was Louisa? She could be in grave danger. Another bullet might find its true mark—and from whence had the shot come? He looked about, surprised to see the cluster of people outside the park’s low fence—when had they collected such a crowd? He located Miss Crookshank standing beside Circe, her hands to her mouth in stunned amazement.

  “Get the women inside!” he barked at Gabriel, frowning over the hoarseness of his own voice.

  Gabriel turned. “Circe, go into the house at once, and take our visitor with you. Send a footman here to help.”

  Circe had the wit to obey. Pulling on Louisa’s hand, she ran back toward the house. When John saw them slip through the doorway and out of view, he relaxed and looked back at his own arm.

  The bleeding continued. He would need something to stanch it, and he must dress the wound. Just his luck to stop a bullet meant for someone else. Ironic, too, as this whole thing had started with blood flowing. For the first time in a while, he thought of the struggle being fought inside the house.

  What had happened to his sister-in-law?

  His sword lowered, Gabriel came closer.

  “Do you not intend to finish me off?” John demanded. He felt no fear, only an overwhelming sense of frustration that their fight had been interrupted before—before what? Before he could kill his own brother? Some of his anger, dulled by the shock of the bullet that had come out of nowhere, had faded. Perhaps, just perhaps, it had been a good thing they had suffered an untimely interruption.

  Gabriel lifted his lips, appearing wolflike for once despite his cursed good looks. “I, too, would have wished to complete our fight. But an unkind fate has intervened. Come along.”

  “If you can’t kill me, no one else will be allowed to?” John suggested, his tone wry.

  “Precisely,” Gabriel agreed.

  John tried not to lean upon his brother as Gabriel put one arm about his shoulders, but he found his legs trembling. Gritting his teeth and accepting as little as he could of his brother’s support, John walked slowly toward the house. Muttering, the crowd fell back, their expressions reflecting a blend of disapproval and vicarious excitement.

  A footman hurried outside to assist them, trying to take John’s wounded arm and sending pain flooding through the whole side of his body.

  “Bloody hell!” John muttered.

  “Damn it, leave off,” Gabriel echoed. “Make yourself useful and collect the swords. I do not wish to lose them.”

  The servant hurried to the park, and they continued toward the house.

  The short distance seemed to have grown, but at last they were inside the door. Rather than attempt the stairs, Gabriel led them into the library.

  At other times John would have appreciated the leather-covered chairs and well-filled bookshelves, but just now, his pain was increasing. He hobbled toward a chair.

  There was a sound in the doorway. Glancing back, John saw Marianne Hughes standing there, her expression somber; she looked as if she had been weeping.

  Without ceremony Gabriel released his hold on his brother’s arm and allowed him to collapse into the nearest chair. Looking white about the lips, Gabriel hurried across to greet Marianne.

  Wincing from his own pain, John watched Gabriel grip her shoulders.

  “How is she?”

  “My lord.” Marianne spoke slowly, her eyes dark with sadness. “I regret to be the one to inform you that the child is lost. It was a son. I’m so sorry.”

  Pain darkening his face, Gabriel nodded. “And Psyche?” His voice was low and so hoarse that John could barely make out the words. “For God’s sake, how is Psyche?”

  Marianne gave him a wan smile. “She is very weak, but holding her own, my lord. The bleeding is stopped. Sir William believes she will make it, and that she will have a fair chance of bearing a child again, someday.”

  Gabriel made a strangled noise deep in his throat. He wavered, looking as if he might fall, too. She reached for him, even though he was taller and heavier, as the release from unbearable fear almost sent him to his knees.

  Again, John felt a mixture of emotion as he watched. Happy, of course, to hear that his sister-in-law had not died, and yet . . . he could not separate the confusion of feelings inside him.

  As she braced him, Gabriel pulled Marianne into an impulsive hug, then released her as quickly. “I must see her!”

  “Only for a moment, my lord, the doctor wishes her to be untroubled. She needs to rest,” Marianne warned him. For the first time she looked across at John, and her face blanched. “My lord—what has happened?”

  “Oh, he needs the doctor’s services, too,” Gabriel flung back as he bolted for the stairs. “But only if my wife can spare him.”

  “Thank you so much,” John muttered.

  Marianne Hughes had already hastened to him. Dropping to her knees beside his chair, she reached to inspect his wound.

  “How were you hurt?” She looked up to see the footman hanging the dueling swords back on their hooks against the wall. “Oh, no, you could not—tell me you two idiots were not fighting?”

  He found he did not wish to meet her reproachful gaze. “Ah, an exchange of pent-up emotions, you might say.”

  “Lord Gabriel did this?”

  This conclusion hurt his pride even more than her gently probing fingers hurt his shattered upper arm. “No, indeed! It is a bullet wound, and where the missile came from, I cannot say. From the angle, probably from the top end of the square, but there was no time to see who held the weapon.”

  To his great relief, she paused, her hands still. “Louisa?”

  “She is untouched. If the gunman was aiming at her—she was standing behind me in a group of onlookers—he was not successful.”

  Marianne bit her lip. “This is worse and worse. Perhaps Alton Crookshank is just as villainous as we first supposed. At any rate, we cannot risk her life any longer. First Season or no, I shall have to take her home at once.”

  John felt a pang deeper even than the ache caused by his wound. Louisa would leave, and so, too, most likely, would her aunt. He would not see them again, perhaps for months. He tried to consider.

  “Do you think she will be any safer in Bath?” he asked, thinking aloud.

  “But what else can I do? She is too exposed in London.”

  “I agree. I think she, and you, of course, should come for a visit in Kent. At my estate we will have much greater control over who may approach her, and any strangers will be immediately obvious.”

  Marianne considered, and while he held his breath for her answer, they were interrupted by the physician.

  “What’s this?” The renowned doctor looked tired, but he became businesslike at once as he pulled up a chair to sit beside John and consider his injury. “Who has been lobbing bullets at you, my lord?”

  “That is the question,” John agreed dryly. Mrs. Hughes stood and made way for the doctor, but it was her face he watched. She must agree to his impulsive plan. He could not lose her, not now, when he had made no progress on securing Louisa’s safety and working toward a disentanglement of his matrimonial intentions.

  The physician slit open his shirt and pressed a clean cloth against his arm to slow the blood, forcing John to suppress a groan.

  “Whoever delivered it, this bullet must come out, my lord. Fortunately, it seems to be a small bore.”

  Large enough, from John’s viewpoint. He gritted his teeth as the man reached inside his bag and found a long metal instrument, which John eyed with distrust.

  “Perhaps,” he said, seeing Marianne still in the background. “You would excuse us?”

  “Yes, my lord, if the doctor has no need of me.” She glanced at Sir William Reynolds, who nodded.

  “You ha
ve done good work this day, dear lady, and I am happy you were here. But this I can manage alone.”

  So at least she would not see him cry out in pain, John thought, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead as the doctor probed. God!

  The room dissolved into a reddish blur as the pain overtook him, and if there were hoarse groans, he was not sure who made them . . .

  Later, when at last the bullet had been removed, the wound dressed and wrapped in clean cloth, he was able to sip a glass of brandy and try to make his eyes focus.

  “I would recommend not moving him for a while,” Sir William was saying.

  To whom was he speaking? John tried to answer, but his tongue seemed thick.

  “We will see to him. And thank you again, sir.” It was his brother’s voice, heavy with fatigue, grief, and the aftermath of great fear.

  Damned if he would be beholden to his brother! John tried to protest, but he found that the doctor had left the room, along with Gabriel. He seemed to be alone.

  He tried to get to his feet and was disgusted to find his legs wobbly as jelly. He fell back against the chair and heard Gabriel speak from the doorway.

  “Poetic justice, that you should be the puny one, now, eh? And left in my charge? It makes me want to laugh.”

  John flushed. “What do you mean? I have no intention of troubling you.”

  His brother came closer and ignored the comment.

  “When I was small, you were the one who tormented me. Could you have forgotten? I never will.”

  John frowned. “I did what any older brother does. So we had a few spats, why should that shadow you still? You’re a grown man and doing well enough with your life, from the looks of it. Get over it, man.”

  Gabriel scowled at him. “You are lucky to be unable to stand. Otherwise, I would knock your teeth back into your head for your impertinence.”

  John shut his eyes for a moment. He had no strength left to quarrel. “Just help me to my carriage.”

  “In your condition? Neither my wife nor Mrs. Hughes would ever let me hear the end of it. I shall summon two footmen to help you upstairs and into bed.”

  “No!” John objected. “I must get back to the inn.”

  “You think a second-rate inn will offer more comfort than my household can extend?”

  John tried not to snarl. “I have someone—something—I need to attend to.”

  “Who?” Gabriel demanded, still sounding as if he enjoyed having the upper hand, damn his hide. “Don’t tell me you have installed a light-o’-love in your rooms even as you court a virtuous young lady?”

  “Of course not.” John glared at him.

  “Our father could have done it, why not you?”

  “I am not our father.” He had to grit his teeth. Nor did he wish to tell his brother the real reason he needed to return. He had been ridiculed enough.

  “He has a dog,” a light voice said from the doorway.

  “What?” Gabriel turned to look at Circe, who watched them from the threshold. “Impossible.”

  “He has dog hairs on his trousers and a dusty paw print on one leg that his manservant failed to brush off,” she pointed out as if it were evident to anyone.

  John bit back a groan. If she were not careful, this child would be burned as a witch.

  “It must be a dog from the inn,” Gabriel argued. “Our father never allowed dogs in his house—he could not abide them.”

  John drew a deep breath. “I have a dog, and the servants might forget to feed her or neglect to let her out for her run. Or worse, allow her into the street to be trampled.”

  Silence. His brother gazed at him, his expression impossible to read.

  “She is not used to London traffic,” John tried to explain, trying not to sound defensive. “What the hell is so hard to understand about that?” Remember Circe’s presence, he reminded himself. He wished he could take back the expletive, then gave it up. If his brother’s household maintained any of the proprieties, the child would be up in the schoolroom.

  “You can’t have a dog.” Gabriel still stared at him. “Our father—”

  “I am not our father!” John repeated.

  The two brothers gazed at each other, and the air was heavy with unspoken emotion. A pity they had not finished that duel, John thought.

  Gabriel wheeled and headed for the door. “I will send a servant to fetch your dog and your clothes, and pay your charges. The barouche has already been returned.”

  “My bills are paid,” John snapped. “And I am going back to the inn.”

  “The footmen will help you upstairs,” Gabriel went on as if he had not spoken. “The doctor will see you tomorrow when he comes back to check on Psyche. And I believe he left you something to help you sleep. Please take it.”

  “Your solicitude is most gratifying,” John said through his teeth.

  “I just wish to shut you up,” Gabriel told him, his smile twisted. “Circe, you may leave now before you hear anything else unsuitable.”

  “Interesting, you mean,” Circe said.

  Gabriel raised his brows in silent warning.

  “Oh, very well.” The child turned and left his sight.

  Two large footmen came to lift him, and John found he was too weak to prevent his brisk transport up the stairs and into a guest chamber, or the removal of his clothes, or the passing of a borrowed nightshirt over his head. Then there was a vile concoction to swallow, and then, indeed, he slept.

  He woke, some hours later, feeling muzzy headed and feverish. The sheets had become twisted with his tossing about. Worse, he found he had an urgent need for the necessary. But a bossy valet—just what he hated about those servants—appeared at once and would not allow him out of bed. The manservant straightened the sheets and tried to sponge off his forehead.

  John frowned and waved the sponge aside, then used his one good arm to try to raise himself. The other arm and shoulder were swathed in heavy bandages.

  “The doctor said you were not to be up, my lord.”

  “But I need—”

  The man brought him an earthenware jug and motioned to explain its use.

  John swore. Allow another man to help him piss? Not likely! If only his legs were not still weak, and his head did not whirl like an eddy in a brook. The thought of flowing water made his bladder ache even more.

  “Would you rather I summoned your brother, my lord?” The man seemed to have no idea how much that grated the patient’s nerves or blew away his last vestiges of forbearance.

  John cursed again, but what choice did he have? His body had failed him, and he had never in his life felt like such a weakling. His need too urgent to ignore, he allowed the man to hold the jug, but that was all.

  “Just keep your hands to yourself!”

  He thought he saw amusement in the servant’s eyes, but the man kept his expression impassive. “As you say, my lord.”

  When John’s bladder was empty, the valet took away the jug and gave him another dose of the foul-tasting medicine. Soon the heaviness descended once more, and he shut his eyes.

  The next time he woke, he felt cooler. He was pleased to see Runt curled up on the rug at the side of the bed. When he moved, the little dog whined and lifted her head.

  “So, you are here after all. I hope you bit a plug out of my brother. Not that he would have gone to fetch you himself, of course, so no hope there.”

  The animal wagged her tail in answer.

  “Yes, I know you would have done so if I had bade it,” John agreed. He felt a little less alone in the enemy’s stronghold, as ridiculous as that reaction was. He shut his eyes for a moment and wondered where Mrs. Hughes had gone to. He hoped she had not left for Bath, to take her niece home.

  “Does it hurt much?” a by now familiar voice asked.

  John looked up quickly.

  The child stood in the doorway, and the door was half open.

  Aware that he wore only the borrowed nightshirt, John pulled the bed linens up to his
chin. “You should not be here.”

  “I know. Gabriel told me not to come into your room. I am not in the room—I am in the hallway,” she said in her usual dignified tone. “But my governess, Miss Tellman, and I have been taking your dog for walks three times a day.”

  “Oh, thank you,” he forced himself to say. He hated being in this house, but he could not take it out on her. “You should send a servant—”

  “But you were concerned about her, and I have been most careful to keep her out of the road. She does heed my commands nicely—you have trained her well. What’s her name?”

  John shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them to see that his dog had run across to push her nose into the girl’s hand. Traitor, he thought, unreasonably.

  “Runt. For obvious reasons.”

  “Yes, she is quite small, and the ear—well, it lends character to her face. I have made a quite successful drawing of her for you when you are well again. She has a sweet nature, and she’s most loyal, obviously devoted to you.”

  “Dogs usually are.” He refused to act sentimental over a mere animal.

  Runt ruined his attempt at rationality by running back to the bed, standing on her hind feet and whining.

  John put out his right hand, pleased that he felt a little strength returning to his limbs, and rubbed the dog’s head. Her tail wagged furiously.

  “Down,” he ordered, keeping his voice brusque. “You will tear the linen.”

  Runt licked his hand one more time, then sat obediently.

  “My lord, how are you?”

  Marianne Hughes stood behind the girl.

  John felt such a rush of relief that she had not left the city that he almost forgot to be self-conscious. Then he remembered his ridiculous plight, not to mention his undressed state—damn, but if he had been whole and strong, he would have had a whole different set of feelings—and tried not to color. He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble that covered his scarred chin and cheeks and felt even more chagrined to be seen in such a condition.

  Fortunately, she did not come closer, but stood in the doorway. “I did not wish to disturb you. I only wanted to see how you were feeling.”