“Outside,” Jericho now ordered the duke and viscount, following them out into the hallway and pulling the door to the bedchamber closed to behind him, but he did not close it completely. He needed to be readily available if Jocelyn regained consciousness. “Instead of bothering me, your time would be better spent at the Drury Lane Theater,” he told the two men. “Questioning the patrons as they leave as to whether or not they saw the person responsible for firing the gun.” Jericho had been too intent on getting Jocelyn home and attended to by a doctor to even think of leaving another one of the grooms to ask those questions.
Romney gave a wince, made to look all the more grotesque by the burns down the side of his face. “You do not think perhaps she could have arranged her own shooting in order to convince us of her innoc—” Romney got no further as Jericho’s hands about his throat threatened to choke him into silence.
He thrust his face forward into the viscount’s rapidly reddening one. “She could still die, you stupid bastard, so no, I do not think Jocelyn arranged to have herself shot so as to convince me or you of her innocence!”
Stonewell placed a hand on his forearm. “Arguing amongst ourselves is not going to help the dire situation we now find ourselves in.”
Jericho thrust Romney away from him before stepping back. “I do not see that either of you is in a situation. Jocelyn has been shot, and her life hangs in the balance. I am responsible for her condition—”
“I fail to see how you have come to that conclusion,” Stonewell dismissed, his impatience barely contained.
“Quite easily, I assure you,” he spat. “I believe the shooting tonight to show whoever is the traitor to England is obviously now aware of our investigations, and they are now attempting to eliminate us before we find the guilty party. Murdering the ladies we are investigating is an added confusion.”
Both men seemed stunned for several seconds before Stonewell answered slowly, “That makes a certain sense. Who knew of your intention to go to the theater this evening?”
“I told no one except you, and no doubt you informed Romney.” He eyed them challengingly. “Whom did the two of you choose to tell of my movements?” He raised dark brows.
Romney scowled. “I was informed of your absence due to previous theater plans, as were the other guests, after I arrived at Stonewell House.”
Jericho turned to Stonewell.
The other man’s cheeks were pale, his eyes a cold and icy blue. “I told no one except to have the butler inform Cook there would be two less for dinner this evening.”
Jericho’s mouth twisted. “So the whole of your household staff and all your dinner guests knew of my own and Jocelyn’s whereabouts this evening.”
Stonewell frowned. “My guests, yes, but as Romney said, only after their arrival. I certainly did not feel the need to inform any of my household staff of your alternate arrangements, only that we were two less for dinner.”
“Did any of your guests leave the gathering, even for a few minutes, after you had made my excuses?” Jericho prompted.
Romney frowned. “I believe Lord Carter stepped out for a moment before dinner, as did Lady Letitia Martin.”
“That is because the two of them are involved in an affair,” Stonewell dismissed. “Carter probably had her bent over the back of one of my couches within seconds of the two of them leaving the room.”
“Anyone else?” Jericho prompted impatiently.
Romney frowned. “Not that I recall.”
“It could have been one of your own household staff,” the duke reasoned.
Jericho was well aware of that, and he had already considered the possibility. Except all the staff at Pomeroy House had been with him for over fifteen years, and he had never doubted their loyalty. He found it hard to do so now. They were all very fond of Jocelyn, and Jericho genuinely could not see any of them wishing to do her harm. He had not dismissed the possibility entirely, but it would certainly not be his first conclusion.
He looked at the two men through narrowed lids. “I suggest you now accept Jocelyn to be innocent of treason or anything else. Innocent beyond all doubt,” he added as Stonewell would have spoken. “I believe you should instead concentrate your attention on the two ladies you are to investigate.”
Stonewell gave in inclination of his head. “You have my word I shall do so.”
“And mine.” Romney nodded. “In the meantime, I am happy to sit at your side through the night, if you wish it?”
“I do not need anyone to sit with me,” Jericho refused abruptly. “What I want is to know who shot Jocelyn and why, and I want the answer as quickly as possible.”
“Jericho, you cannot take matters into your own hands—”
“Once I have the name of the person responsible, I can and shall do whatever the fuck I deem necessary to bring an end to their miserable existence,” he warned. “Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen? It is time I returned to Jocelyn’s side.” He pushed past them both without waiting for an answer, entering Jocelyn’s bedchamber to close the door behind him.
Standing beside Jocelyn’s bed, staring down at her, Jericho could see that her eyes were still closed, her cheeks deathly pale, only the slow rise and fall of her breasts beneath her nightrail to prove that she still lived at all.
When—if—Jocelyn recovered, he would do everything in his power to make up for his harsh treatment of her.
Even if that included Jocelyn requesting he never came near her again.
Pain.
Pain so intense that instead of pushing her way through the fog that seemed to engulf her mind and body, Jocey instead chose to sink back into the black abyss where she felt none of that pain.
She was not so successful the second time the fog began to clear, was completely unable to pull herself back into that black abyss. Instead, she was forced to go forward, to where she felt the agonizing pain that held her chest firmly in its grip like that of a huge fist, twisting and grinding her flesh until she cried out.
“Jocelyn! Darling girl. Open your eyes, pet, and let me know you are alive.”
That voice. She knew that man’s voice.
But it was not a voice that had ever spoken so gently or called her darling girl and pet.
“Please wake up, Jocelyn,” that disembodied voice pleaded with her. “Open your lids and let me see your beautiful dark gray eyes.”
Did she have beautiful dark gray eyes? If she did, then she did not recall anyone ever having said so.
Jocelyn.
The man had called her Jocelyn.
No one but Jericho ever called her by that name.
But this could not be Jericho. He was not gentle, nor would he ever call her by such endearments as darling girl or pet.
God, why was she in so much pain?
Her whole body hurt, but mainly the left side of her chest, as if she had been struck repeatedly and was covered in bruises.
She heard a whimper as she attempted to turn on her side, only to realize that groan had come from her own lips.
“That’s it, Jocelyn. Fight the darkness and come back to me.”
That voice, Jericho or otherwise, was becoming distinctly annoying. She did not want to wake up if the pain was only going to become worse when she did so. Did he not understand that?
“You have to wake up, Jocelyn.”
She did not have to do anything of the sort. Why should she when she was sure she would only suffer more deeply if she did so?
Her mouth was so dry, it was if she had not drunk anything for days, and she felt the hot sting of tears beneath her lids as another wave of pain held her firmly in its grip.
“Do not cry, love,” that annoying voice pleaded. “If you will only open your eyes and let me know you are awake, I can give you some medicine to take away the pain.”
She should open her eyes. Let him know she was awake. He would help to ease her pain.
Jocey could do that.
Couldn’t she?
Chapter 15
It took some effort, but she finally managed to pry her lids apart and turn her head toward the sound of that voice. The latter proved to be a little more difficult when every movement caused her further pain, but she finally managed to do that too.
It was Jericho.
But not the elegant and fashionable Jericho she was used to seeing. This Jericho looked as if he had not changed his clothes in days, they were so crumpled. There was also several days’ growth of beard on the firm jaw and hollowed cheeks. His hair was also disheveled, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes as if he had not slept for a week.
Jocey had no idea what had happened to cause him to look so disheveled, only knew she did not like to see him looking so careworn.
She blinked to clear the mist from her eyes. “Are you ill?” Her voice came out as nothing but a whisper. Not surprising when her throat was so dry, it hurt to talk.
“Am I ill?” Jericho came back incredulously. He stood to lean over the bed. “My God, Jocelyn, I have thought for the past four days that you would never wake or speak again.”
“Four days?” A frown creased her brow as she tried to recall what had happened to reduce her to this state.
He nodded. “That is how long you have remained unconscious.”
“I—” She began to cough from the dryness of her throat, instantly causing searing pain to lance across her chest and making her cry out once again.
“Stay calm,” Jericho soothed. “Do not try to talk or move again until you have drunk some of this cold water.” He turned to the jug on the side table and poured some water into a glass. “Only sips,” he warned as he placed an arm about Jocelyn’s shoulders to hold her while he placed the glass to her lips. “The doctor says it is all you are allowed when you first wake, in case it causes you to be sick. Once we know that is not going to happen, I will give you some of the medicine to take the pain away.”
Jericho had genuinely lived with the fear these past four days and nights that Jocelyn would simply slip away from him without ever waking again. The doctor had called every day, assuring Jericho that her condition was no worse, that the body knew best, and Jocelyn would remain asleep until she had healed enough internally to allow herself to awaken. Assurances that had not helped to allay Jericho’s fears in the slightest.
Despite his protests, Stonewell and Romney had also called every day, each of them sitting silently beside him for a short while, their presence more reassuring than he liked to admit.
Jericho had barely left Jocelyn’s side, and when he did need to excuse himself, he always ensured a maid took his place beside the bed.
Until this moment, when Jocelyn at last opened those beautiful gray eyes, he had been afraid to hope she would ever come back to him.
Well…not back to him exactly, he accepted bleakly.
Jericho did not deserve Jocelyn’s forgiveness for the way he had treated her, let alone that she would ever feel the same affection toward him that these last days and nights had forced him to acknowledge he felt for her. But it was an affection he would never burden Jocelyn with. That he did not have the right to burden her with. He had given up that right the moment she arrived at Wessex Manor.
He’d had plenty of time, hours and hours of it, to consider his actions toward her since she arrived at Wessex Manor. His coldness. His suspicion. His cruelty. His threats. His physical chastisements. His having taken advantage of Jocelyn’s warm and giving nature when he seduced her, not once, but time after time.
He had made a promise to himself as he sat beside Jocelyn for all those long and agonizing hours, not knowing if she would live or die. A promise, if she lived, to see her safely settled and married to a man of her choice, a man she loved, before Jericho bowed graciously out of her life.
Thoughts of Jocelyn married to another man, of that man enjoying all of her, her warmth, her laughter, the way she gave herself totally during lovemaking, would be Jericho’s penance.
One he wholeheartedly deserved.
“What happened?”
Jericho eased Jocey carefully back onto the pillows before straightening. “Someone shot you.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“I am assuming because you were with me.”
“You were the target?”
She really was too ill still for Jericho to bother her with the details of his own conclusions.
“Who?” Jocelyn prompted when he gave no further explanation.
Jericho’s jaw tightened. “We have not ascertained or apprehended the culprit as yet. But we will,” he assured her. He had insisted Stonewell and Romney give him daily reports on their progress in that regard. If they were to visit him, then they might as well make themselves useful.
“You were not hurt?”
“I?” He gave an impatient shake of his head. “No, I was not hurt.”
“I remember hearing a second shot.”
“It missed its target,” he reported grimly. “Nor should you be worrying about anyone but yourself and your own recovery just now,” he added briskly. “Can you swallow some of your medicine, do you think?”
“Yes, I—” She moistened her lips. “I believe I should like that.”
Jericho raised her as gently as he had the first time to assist her in taking some of the medicine he hoped would ease the pain he could now see etched in her face. “That should help momentarily,” he comforted while he helped her settle back on the pillows.
“Jericho.”
“Yes?”
“I—”
“I am sure you think you know best, Soames,” a woman’s voice outside the room interrupted them, “but I am going to be with my lamb whatever the marquis’s instructions might be to the contrary!”
Jericho turned in time to see Lady Gwendoline throwing open the door into the bedchamber, ignoring him complete as she strode purposefully across the room to Jocelyn’s bedside. An apologetic-looking Soames stood in the doorway.
“All is well, Soames,” Jericho assured the butler ruefully.
He had never seen the mild-mannered Lady Gwendoline as determined as she now was to be at Jocelyn’s side. He doubted, that when the lady was in this mood, any man would be able to stop her from doing exactly as she wished.
“Oh my lamb. My lamb,” Lady Gwendoline crooned as she leaned over the bed to stroke Jocelyn’s pale cheeks. “I have no idea of the goings on in my absence.” She gave a narrow-eyed glare in Jericho’s direction. “But I shall sit with you now and see that you rest, and soon you will better.” She held tightly to Jocelyn’s hand, perching herself on the edge of the chair Jericho had recently vacated.
Jocelyn’s closed eyes showed the medicine had already done its job and sent her back to sleep.
Jericho had written to Cousin Gwendoline to let her know he and Jocelyn were in London and that there had been an accident. He had not liked to explain the full circumstances of Jocelyn’s injury in a letter. He could see now that Cousin Gwendoline had drawn her own conclusions regarding his involvement in it, and now blamed him entirely for the condition of her “lamb.”
She was not so far removed from the truth either. Jericho was to blame. Totally. Stonewell’s initial letter informing him of Worthington’s and Lady Priscilla’s deaths had warned him they doubted those deaths had been accidental. A suspicion which Romeny’s report of being shot at had confirmed. But Jericho had not taken the proper precautions to protect Jocelyn from a similar attempt being made upon her life.
He had been too intent on protecting himself, not from outside murderous intent, but from the feelings he knew he had for Jocelyn.
Feelings be damned.
Call it by its proper name, you coward.
Love.
He was in love with Jocelyn.
Totally in love with her.
He had never wanted that emotion in his life. Had never wished to be a part of the vulnerability of loving any woman. But he was in love with Jocelyn, knew that if she had died, a huge part of him would have died alon
g with her. The best part of him. The part of him that loved and adored her.
Enough to let her go.
He straightened. “I am pleased to see you, Cousin Gwendoline,” he told her sincerely.
“Well, I am not pleased to see you,” she snapped. “You disappeared with my lamb in the middle of the night without giving me so much as a word of explanation.”
“I left word you were not to worry.”
“Which was a sure way of ensuring I would do so.” She gave a disapproving shake of her head. “You shall go and bathe, shave, and change your clothes, after which you will return and tell me exactly what has happened here,” she instructed in the most imperious voice Jericho had ever heard her use.
It made him feel five years old again and being chastised by his nursemaid for not having washed behind his ears. “I will have tea and refreshment sent up to you while I am gone,” he murmured affectionately.
She nodded. “After which you will return and explain yourself.”
“Yes, Cousin Gwendoline.”
She lifted one gray eyebrow. “I trust you are not being disrespectful, Jericho.”
“Not at all,” he assured truthfully. “The least you deserve is an explanation.” Even if it was one that would not show Jericho in a good light.
“What is Jericho’s excuse today for not visiting me?” Jocey prompted wearily as she sat in a chair by the window in her bedchamber looking out onto the square.
It had been a week since Jocey first woke up in so much pain, she could barely speak.
A week during which Lady Gwendoline had been constantly at her side.
Jocey had written to Prudence Germaine several days ago to inform her friend she was indisposed, but she had not revealed the nature of that indisposition to her. Prudence had already suffered enough and did not need to know there was still a madman out there indiscriminately attempting to murder The Sinners and anyone who happened to be in their company.
The doctor visited daily, that gentleman seeming pleased with Jocey’s progress.
Jocey had progressed, from lying in the bed, to being propped up on the pillows, then from the bed to a chair, and from the chair to the occasional walk about her bedchamber.
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