As his mind raced for a solution, Dalton said, “Allen, let us make a deal that suits us both—”
“Shut up. No one cares about your connections, Londoner.” When the evildoer caught Dalton in his sights, Richard shoved hard on the bastard, Daphne screamed and flung herself at Dalton, and gunfire rent the air.
Time suspended for a handful of minutes, as Allen collapsed, with two large wounds that had ripped open his chest. Dirk and Sir Ross charged the fray, and Richard stood upright, dusting himself off. As he hugged his wife, Dalton realized he was uninjured, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks—until he lifted Daphne’s chin, as she was uncharacteristically quiet, to claim a quick kiss and noted the terror in her blue gaze.
“Angel, what is wrong?” Then her knees buckled, he adjusted his hold, and he discovered the bloodstain spreading at the shoulder of her gown. “Daphne. Oh, no. She is wounded.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
With Daphne cradled in his arms, Dalton carried her to Courtenay Hall. Entering via the terrace, he cut through the morning room and met Rebecca and Mrs. Jones in the foyer. And all the while, he kept telling himself she would not die, because he would not allow it, and he was the lucky one. But did it stand to reason that such good fortune automatically extended to his wife?
“Bring towels, hot water, brandy, and extra soap to the master suite.” Then he ascended the stairs, two at a time.
“I should fetch a doctor.” Sir Ross flung open the double doors. “Is there a reputable medical professional in town?”
“Ride to Portsmouth.” He eased his wife to the mattress. “Find the best military physician, and bring him here.”
“Permit me to accompany Sir Ross.” Hicks glanced at Daphne and wiped a stray tear. “She is as a daughter to me, sir. Given my knowledge of the landscape, I can get us there and back, much faster.”
“Thank you.” Then Dalton grabbed the butler’s wrist. “Please, I beg you, hurry.”
“And I will summon the constable and manage the scene in the barn.” With a scowl, Dirk leveled his stare on Richard. “Come with me, as we must align our stories to keep your miserable arse out of prison, as I assume your benevolent sister would prefer.”
“But what about Daph?” The scamp rushed to the fore. “It is all my fault, but I wanted to make her happy.”
Baring his teeth, Dalton lowered his chin. “Come near her again, and I will—”
“You will do nothing, as he is my brother.” With her jaw clenched, Daphne shifted and winced. “Who among us is perfect? He is young and foolish, and he made a mistake, my love. And I forgive him, as he is not the one who shot me.”
“But Richard conspired with Allen and placed you in peril.” Seething with unchecked anger, Dalton wanted blood in recompense for Daphne’s injury. “Even now, you have a lead ball in your shoulder, which must be removed.” To Richard, Dalton said, “Can you not fathom the magnitude of what your actions wrought upon her?”
“Dalton, I need you.” In that single declarative sentence, his bride spiked his guns, but he suspected she knew that. “Let Richard go with Dirk, as I will hurt far worse than I do now, if my brother is tried and incarcerated.”
“My angel, what can I do for you?” In that instant, he bent his head and pressed his lips to the sensitive flesh behind her ear. “Be strong for me, sweetheart. As I need you, too.”
With towels stacked beneath her shoulder, Daphne rested on her belly, with her face turned aside, and Dalton perched at the edge of the bed and pressed a cloth to her wound, to staunch the bleeding. After about an hour, the seepage abated, and he sighed in relief, when he lifted the rag and discovered no pulsating crimson spray. That was their first break. They would need several more for Daphne to survive.
And so commenced the long wait.
It was just before midnight, when the whinny of horses brought him alert, and he discovered Daphne dozing.
“Rebecca, would you see if it is Hicks?” Dalton asked, even as he assured himself that help had arrived.
Minutes later, Hicks and a bespectacled gentleman, wielding a telltale black bag, rushed into the chamber.
“This is Dr. Langdon, of the HMS Temeraire.” The manservant stood at attention. “And I present Sir Dalton Randolph, of London.”
“Sir Dalton, it is good to make your acquaintance, present circumstances excepted.” The grey-haired doctor smiled. “And how fares the patient? Hicks related the details surrounding the wound, and I would like to remove the ball, posthaste. But I would prepare your wife and my instruments, before we begin.”
“Tell me what you require, and I and my household are at your service, sir.” As the physician retrieved and arranged the tools of his trade, Dalton monitored Daphne’s condition. “It appears the bleeding has stopped, and my wife sleeps comfortably.”
“Bring me an additional basin and pour the entire bottle of alcohol therein. And I need plenty of light, so I would avail myself of your candelabra from the hall.” Dr. Langdon doffed his hat, coat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “If you remain to assist me, you must submerge your hands in the antiseptic, else you risk transferring infection to Mrs. Randolph, which could kill her.”
“Right away, sir.” Mrs. Jones half-curtseyed.
“Wake her.” Dr. Langdon thrust a bottle into Dalton’s grasp. “Dispense about a quarter of the contents, now. And I need hot water, as what is in this ewer is tepid. Also, we will need two extra persons to hold down Mrs. Randolph, while I probe for the shot, as it will be unpleasant, to say the least.”
“You may rely on me.” At the footboard, Sir Ross nodded once.
“And I will assist you.” Hicks gulped. “As must needs.”
“Darling, wake up.” With infinite care, Dalton shook her. “Drink this, sweetheart.”
“No.” Wrinkling her nose, Daphne came alert. “If that is laudanum, I will not take it.”
“It is for the pain and to aid her recovery, as she will need uninterrupted rest.” As he wiped various instruments, Dr. Langdon frowned. “If she will not consume it willingly, then you must force it down her throat. Believe me, you will be doing her a kindness, Sir Dalton.”
Regardless of the situation, and her grievous condition, Dalton could not manhandle his wife. But then he recalled the governor’s demise and understood her fears, and he opted for a different tack.
Dropping low, he met her, face to face. “Angel, do you love me?”
“You know I do.” She bit her lip. “I would give my life for you.”
And she almost had, which was not lost on him. “Then do this, for me.”
Her answering whimper tore at his heart. “But papa—”
“You are not your father, and I will be here with you.” Caressing her cheek, he kissed her. “Please, my angel.”
“All right.” Then she sipped from the bottle, which he held for her, and she squinted and choked. “Oh, it tastes dreadful.”
“Is that enough?” Dalton held up the container, and Dr. Langdon narrowed his stare.
“Give her another good swallow.” The physician adjusted his glasses. “Mark the time as half past midnight, and we shall commence the procedure at the top of the hour.” Then he passed a stubby wood dowel to Dalton and said, “Put this between her teeth, when we begin, as she will need it.”
As the mantel clock signaled the approach of an ominous deadline, Dalton monitored Daphne’s state, as she rambled incoherent nonsense interspersed with the occasional giggle and the mention of his name. When the resonant tone sounded, the doctor dipped his chin, and everyone sprang into action.
With Mrs. Jones holding a single taper, Dr. Langdon cut away the top of Daphne’s dress. “It appears a piece of material from the gown and the chemise went in with the ball, so I must fish out everything, else the wound will fester, and she will die.” With his finger, the physician probed the injury, and Daphne moaned and then kicked. “Hold her still, as I have located the shot, and it is wedged near the joint and the blade. Hand me th
e spreaders, Mrs. Jones.”
“Aye, sir.” Dalton noted the housekeeper’s tears, as she fetched the requested utensil.
Blood pooled from the site, and Dalton winced, as the physician worked. But when Daphne screamed and wrenched hard, Hicks and Sir Ross bore down on her legs, while Dalton clutched her wrists behind her back.
“Worry not, Sir Dalton. It is the laudanum talking. She will remember nothing, in the morning.” Then Dr. Langdon glanced at Mrs. Jones. “Locking forceps.”
When the doctor dug deep into Daphne’s flesh, she spat out the dowel and shrieked in unveiled agony, and Dalton suffered with her. When he could stand no more of her wails, he shifted and spoke into her ear.
“Can you hear me, angel? Focus on my voice, as I am with you.” When she quieted, he kissed her fleshy lobe and declared, for all to hear, “I love you, Daphne. I love you.” Again and again, he repeated the refrain, until she calmed.
“I have the ball, as well as the textiles, Sir Dalton.” The physician rinsed the blood from his hands. “Your wife appears to have fainted, blissfully so, given I must remove some damaged tissue, in order to avoid possible necrosis, and then clean and stitch the wound. But she will heal nicely, I predict.”
“Dr. Langdon, I am in your debt.” Likewise, Dalton owed his angel, an evermore-appropriate moniker in light of the day’s events, a sum he could never repay, given she had sacrificed herself in exchange for his life. Yet, at some point during her ordeal, he realized he did not want to be saved if it cost him his wife, as he could not fathom a world without her in it.
#
The mantel clock chimed the hour, and Daphne stirred and counted the tenor dongs. Resting on her belly, an unusual practice for her, she reached across the bed for her husband, as it was past due for him to wake her for his favorite activity. When she found him clothed and resting atop the counterpane, she frowned and squeezed his fingers.
Dalton sniffed and then jerked awake. “Daphne, darling, you are with me still.”
“Of course.” She smiled, shifted to roll over, and searing pain had her moaning. “Oh, dear. I feel as if a runaway coach has struck me. Why am I so sore?”
“Mrs. Randolph, I am Dr. Langdon.” A polished gentleman, vaguely familiar, bowed. “Do you think you can manage, if we sit you upright?”
“I believe so.” With her husband’s unfailing support, she changed positions and gasped when her dress sagged. “What happened to my gown?”
Glimpsing the dried blood that marred the material, Daphne clutched the bodice to her chest and sobbed, as a cascade of fragmented memories assailed her. The threatening note. Richard’s betrayal. Mr. Allen bearing down with a pistol pointed at Dalton. The echoing shots. The acrid stench of gunpowder. The intense ache from her injury. But it was the last reminiscence, a series of words, simple on their own, but taken together as a whole a promise of everlasting devotion, which quelled her fears.
I love you, Daphne. I love you.
“Oh, I am going to be unwell.” As she leaned against Dalton, the doctor brought her a basin.
“Take deep breaths, Mrs. Randolph. You are safe and on the mend, but you suffer a severe case of nerves, which is understandable, so try to relax.” With a kind expression, Dr. Langdon pressed the back of his hand to her forehead and her cheeks. “No fever, which is an excellent sign.” To Dalton, the doctor said, “Fetch her a nightgown, and I will clean the stitches, apply a styptic, and dress her wound.”
At his suggestion, Daphne gulped. Propped forward, she bit her tongue, as Dalton disappeared into her closet. A few minutes later, he emerged, only to repair to his dressing room. When he returned, holding one of his lawn shirts, he winked, and she grinned.
“This might serve our purposes better, as you intend to put her arm in a sling, to allow her shoulder to heal.” As he draped the garment over her head, Dalton cast her a conspiratorial glance, conveying a wealth of meaning she comprehended too well.
Given her husband’s predilections, her nightwear, if she could call it that, consisted of the sheerest materials, which functioned as more an afterthought than functional clothing. Although she felt poorly, she did not want to send the physician into an apoplectic fit.
After Dr. Langdon completed his work, he donned his coat and hat. “I shall check your progress, tomorrow, around noon.” He retrieved his black bag and, to Dalton, stated, “If there is any change in her condition, send for me, at once. Otherwise, I expect it to take a full two months for Mrs. Randolph’s complete recovery, but I shall monitor her closely, every day, for a sennight.”
“May I bathe?” How she longed for a hot soak with her husband.
“Yes.” The doctor pointed for emphasis. “But do not submerge the wound or wet the bandages.”
A half hour later, despite her pleas, she could not coax her suddenly shy husband into the water, but he washed her as if she were a porcelain doll. And once he had tucked her beneath the covers, he fed her a light repast.
When Mrs. Jones collected the dishes, she shed a few tears. “My dear, it does my heart good to see you looking better. Hicks and I thought we had lost you, and we could not bear it. And Mr. Anderson, the constable, is just arrived from Portsmouth. He wants to interview you, about the events.”
“That will be fine, Mrs. Jones.” Dalton wrapped a shawl about Daphne’s shoulders. “But first I would have a word with you and Hicks.”
“Yes, sir.” The housekeeper curtseyed.
“Is something wrong?” Daphne studied her brooding husband. “You have been awfully quiet since Dr. Langdon departed.”
“When the constable questions you, give him honest replies, save your brother’s involvement with Allen.” It had not escaped her notice that he evaded her query. “Do not temper your responses, and all will be fine.”
“You wished to see me, sir?” Hicks strolled into the bedchamber, with Mrs. Jones at his side.
“Indeed, as I must apologize to you, both.” Dalton stood and approached what Daphne considered the combined backbone of Courtenay Hall. “In my desperation to identify the villain, I suspected your involvement in the nefarious caper. Owing to our brief acquaintance, I hid the truth of Sir Ross’s persona, and I am not proud of my behavior. In my wife’s defense, she never once doubted your constancy, and she objected to my accusations. To my everlasting shame, she was correct in her assertions, and you are true and loyal friends. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
Hicks and Mrs. Jones stared at each other and blinked.
Then Mrs. Jones clutched a fist to her chest. “Sir Dalton, we have cared for the Harcourts as we would our own children, if we had any. It is to your credit that you confess your notions, however misplaced, and I bear no grudge.”
“Neither do I.” The butler, so long Daphne’s protector, shook Dalton’s proffered hand. “As I have served this family since before Mrs. Randolph was born, I must say it is nice to see happiness fill this grand estate, after so much misery, so we will consider the matter closed and dwell no more on it. Now, should I send in Mr. Anderson?”
The constable had once represented Daphne’s worst nightmare, given her raids on passing ships, but those days were no more, and he had no interest in the singular practices that had brought her to her husband. Now, he posited an end to a dark chapter in her life, one she was more than ready to leave behind.
“Remember what I told you, angel.” Dalton met her gaze and sat beside her, after she patted the empty space on the bed.”
“Stay with me.” She scooted close and rested her head to his shoulder. “I am afraid.”
Just then, the constable traversed the sitting room and paused in the entry to the interior chamber. “May I come in?”
“Of course, Mr. Anderson.” Dalton waved a greeting. “I have agreed to the interview, but under duress, as my wife is injured, and I would not risk her health for the sake of your report.”
“I understand, Sir Dalton, and I have only a few questions, as Richard has been very forthcoming.” Th
e constable flipped through the pages of a small notebook and pulled a pencil from his coat pocket. “When did you first receive the threatening letters?”
“In London, just prior to my wedding.” She cleared her throat.
“And why did you not notify the proper authorities?” Mr. Anderson narrowed his stare. “Did you inform anyone of the situation?”
“I told no one.” Nervous, she swallowed hard. “Given I thought it was someone’s idea of a horrible prank, I did not wish to alarm my husband.”
“And what secret did Mr. Allen intend to reveal?” The constable inclined his head. “What manner of disclosure was at the center of the blackmail?”
As she had promised Dalton, she dissembled in that respect. But Mr. Allen, ironically enough, had provided her answer, that night in the study, and it coincided beautifully with the interrogation. “Mr. Allen threatened to divulge unflattering information about Governor Harcourt. It seems my father borrowed a great deal of money from Mr. Allen, and the blackguard threatened to disparage my family’s reputation unless I paid him to remain silent.”
Little by little, she recounted the details of the past month, providing as many particulars as possible, and the constable took copious notes. But the truth came easy, as she had lived the incidents, and she concealed nothing else excepting Richard’s part in the drama. It was, perhaps, for that reason Mr. Anderson never debated her responses. So when he put away his pencil, Daphne enjoyed a modicum of relief.
“Indeed, this has been a most distressing case, Mrs. Randolph.” The constable shifted his weight. “There will be an inquest, to record the facts, but I anticipate no difficulties, as the evidence and witness accounts match your statement. And Allen has a lengthy record of nefarious deeds. You will be notified of the date, but you are not required to attend, especially in light of your injury. I appreciate your cooperation and wish you a speedy recovery.”
The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) Page 29