Page 14

fourteen

Five weeks later

I sabella sat beside her mother and Helen on the sofa in Gloucester House.

The ticking of the grandfather clock was the only sound. In front of her on a low table lay the latest issue of The Times .

The newspapers hadn’t dedicated much space to the news of a shooting incident in Battersea Park, involving the duke a few weeks ago. She guessed the Beauforts were powerful enough to silence the press when they wanted to. Surely, a shooting wasn’t the type of news the Dowager would want her family involved with.

The aftermaths of the disastrous West End Riots were still the main topic. Windows had been smashed, stores on Oxford Street had been destroyed and ransacked, and the Police Commissioner had resigned amid accusations of incompetence after the destruction the rioters had left behind throughout London. There had been many wounded as well.

Guilt gnawed at her for Anthony’s condition. When she’d wished for something to keep him busy after his unexpected proposal, she hadn’t meant a shooting incident that had almost killed him.

There was a lingering, mourning feeling in the air, like during a vigil, and she hoped the duke wasn’t on his deathbed as some people rumoured. If the newspapers had been quiet about the duke’s condition, the Dowager and Patrick had been vague. They’d answered politely to Mother and Father’s messages, but that was it. No explanation.

After a few more exchanges of curt messages, the Dowager had quite coldly invited them to Gloucester House, but Isabella doubted the invitation was sincere.

“Perhaps we should leave,” she whispered. “I feel like we’re intruding into their difficult moment.”

“We won’t stay long,” Mother said in a low voice. “We’ll enquire about His Grace’s health and leave. If he can receive visitors, Helen will go. The duke will be happy to see you.”

Helen nodded.

“For goodness’ sake, Helen,” Mother continued, “why did you wear those awful shoes? I should have checked you before leaving the house.”

Helen swallowed a couple of times. Either she forced herself not to say anything or she felt humiliated. “Sorry, Mother.”

“Well, I doubt the duke will notice them anyway.” Mother sighed. “Sometimes I think neither of you two listen to me.”

Isabella wondered if her mother cared about Anthony at all. “Mother. The poor man is wounded. We’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes. We aren’t welcome.”

“I won’t tire him,” Helen said. “But he must know I’ll be by his side, no matter what.”

They sat bolt upright when the door inched inwards.

Patrick entered the sitting room and offered a bow, his face pale and strained. “Lady Montrose, Isabella, Helen. Thank you for coming. I apologise for having made you wait.”

“Do not worry. How is His Grace?” Mother put her cup of tea down on the low table.

His paleness and red-rimmed eyes spoke of a lot of worry and little sleep. “His injury is serious but slowly improving although the infection is barely under control. He needs rest, and his recovery will take time.”

“What happened to him?” she asked.

Patrick fidgeted with his hands. “Anthony was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A shooting was happening, and he took a bullet.”

Mother gasped despite the fact he hadn’t said anything new. “Good Lord.”

Isabella had heaps of questions.

He hung his head. “The shot wasn’t the only problem. Unfortunately, the delay in taking him to the hospital caused by the West End Riots worsened the severity of his injury. Had the surgeon operated on him sooner, my brother would feel better.”

“Does he accept visitors?” Helen asked.

“The physician has been very strict, but if one of you wants to see him for no more than a few minutes, a visitor might cheer him up.”

Helen rose before anyone could say anything. If Isabella had to be honest, she wished to see Anthony. But she couldn’t justify her need to see him without telling the whole truth.

Patrick opened the door for Helen. “Very well. Rogers will show you to Anthony’s room.”

“Thank you.” Helen walked out of the room, following the butler.

“We’re sorry,” Isabella said. “Anthony must be in great pain.”

“He is.”

Maybe it was Isabella’s imagination, but the way Patrick avoided her gaze and hunched his shoulders made him look guilty.

“Do you need anything, my lord?” Mother said. “Company or a walk in the park? A bit of fresh air would do you good. Forgive me if I say you look rather pale and tired.”

“The past weeks have been difficult for us.” He rubbed his face.

“We can take a walk tomorrow if you want,” Isabella said. “Just an hour if you can spare it.”

He didn’t smile. “Tomorrow, then. Thank you.”

“How’s the Dowager?” she asked.

“Preoccupied. But you know my grandmama. She’s a strong woman.”

“Thank you, Patrick.”

The Dowager walked in, dressed in one of her impeccable, high-necked gowns. Her hair was styled in the usual old-fashioned chignon, but her green eyes were clouded, and her hollow cheeks showed the same suffering as her grandson’s.

“Your Grace.” Isabella said. “We’re deeply sorry about the incident.”

The Dowager remained unfathomable. The only sign of her distress was the down-turned curve of her mouth. “As a family, we’ve been through many troubles. We overcame those. We’ll overcome this one. Just something for you to think about.” She patted Isabella’s cheek lightly before excusing herself and heading out.

A little quiver ran down Isabella’s neck. The Dowager’s words sounded like a warning.

Mother cast her a puzzled look, but if she searched for answers, Isabella wouldn’t know what to say.

Helen returned to the drawing room with red cheeks and lips pressed together. Her shoulders were shaking. She hadn’t gone for more than three minutes, but her composure had changed.

“How’s His Grace?” Mother asked.

“Recovering.” Helen bowed her head to Patrick without looking at him. “We should leave and let the duke rest.”

Rogers entered the room and cleared his throat, addressing Patrick. “My lord, Lord McFall is here.”

“Again?” Patrick’s voice rose, but he composed himself. “Apologies, ladies.”

After a quick round of polite goodbyes, Isabella left the room confused.

Lord McFall stood in a corner of the entry hall as pale and shaken as Patrick. The tension between him and Patrick was palpable. She couldn’t hear their conversation as the footman escorted them out.

“What happened with the duke?” she asked once in the carriage with Helen and Mother.

“It was awful. I shouldn’t have disturbed him.” Helen dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief. “His face is completely bandaged, he can barely talk, and he’s weak. I fear he might die.”

Isabella’s chest clenched for Anthony. The pain must be unbearable.

“Why is his face bandaged? Where was he shot?”

“Somewhere in the face.” Helen twisted the handkerchief. “The infection is the main problem, and I didn’t understand if it’s completely under control now. Our marriage is unsure. Oh, Mother. All our plans. And if he was shot in the face, he’ll look grotesque.”

“Helen!” Isabella used a commanding tone she didn’t know she could produce. “How can you be so selfish? The duke nearly died, and he must be suffering a great deal, but you worry about your wedding plans and how he would look.”

Helen lowered her gaze, her cheeks reddening. “I care about him. I do, but I was looking forward to announcing my wedding, to starting my new life with him. And then the incident happened. And yes, I’m worried about his looks. There’s nothing wrong with that. You know how cruel people can be. He’ll be ridiculed by everyone. Gossip will spread. Life with him will be brutal.”

“You shouldn’t worry about his looks. For heaven’s sake, he might die.”

Anger flamed red in Helen’s cheeks. “You don’t have to remind me of that. I’m just saying that his face might be ruined forever.”

“Girls,” Mother said. “Enough. Nothing is certain yet, and nothing has been decided. For now, we must show our support and loyalty to the duke. Helen, you ought to remember we’re talking about one of the most powerful families in the kingdom. The Dowager is a personal friend of the queen. No matter what disfigurement the duke will endure, if any, his position won’t be questioned, and rumours come and go. There’s little we can do about them.”

“You’re right, Mother,” Helen said. “Although I’m afraid he’s going to be shunned by everyone. It won’t matter how close to the queen his family is.”

“You’ll be by his side,” Mother insisted, “as a devout wife would do. No one will take away his power and money.”

Isabella had to trap her bottom lip between her teeth not to speak again. She wasn’t as eager as Helen was to marry a duke, but reducing Anthony only to his money and power was cruel. He was kind and so very lonely she was worried the incident would demoralise him further.

Not to mention the small detail that Anthony didn’t want to marry Helen.

* * *

Anthony had to force himself not to scratch his face raw.

The constant itching was only a fraction of the general discomfort he’d experienced in the past weeks. The pain came and went in merciless waves with a fever that left him shaking and sweating. When he didn’t feel pain and the fever didn’t plague him, he was confused and nauseous thanks to the laudanum.

His personal journal pages had been empty for weeks on end, so weak he’d been unable to write. He was alive, but he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. He’d barely found a moment of joy in his life before it was snatched from him.

Patrick entered the bedroom silently after Helen had left. The beam of light hurt his working eye. Seeing Isabella would have been better, but on second thought, Anthony preferred not to be seen like that by her.

“Lord McFall is here. Do you want to see him?” Patrick asked.

Since after the incident, Patrick insisted on fussing around Anthony.

“Hell, yes. I can’t keep sending him away.” His voice sounded raspy to his own ears.

McFall’s confident stride faltered when he saw Anthony. Not that there was much to see. His face was almost entirely covered by the bandages.

Patrick lowered his gaze when McFall entered.

“Gloucester.” McFall bowed his head. “I came here to apologise.”

He flexed open his fingers not to touch his face. “The incident wasn’t your fault, but I did ask you many times to renounce the duel. I told you a duel was ridiculous.” The words came out slowly, but the physician had told him to speak anyway to keep his facial muscles active. Or what was left of them.

“I haven’t forgiven your brother,” McFall said, “but I’ll make amends to you.”

“Just promise me you won’t hurt Patrick, and we’re even.”

McFall took a long pause. “I promise.”

Anthony stretched out an arm from the armchair to shake the captain’s hand.

“There’s more.” McFall stared at him straight into his eye. “I happen to know about your dispute with an Austrian count, von Gruner. I would like to offer my help.”

“Yes?”

“Von Gruner and I aren’t close friends, but I saved his son’s life years ago, and he’s always told me he’s indebted to me. I took the liberty to enquire with him about Maiden Hill, and under my solicitation, he agreed to start a negotiation with you. He will no longer ignore your letters.”

Anthony would grin if he could. “That means a lot to my family and me.”

McFall bowed his head. “You should receive a letter from von Gruner soon, but I can already tell you von Gruner will invite you to Vienna for a meeting. He won’t travel here due to health problems.”

Well, Anthony had health problems, too.

“Also, if I may,” McFall continued, “his daughter, Sophia, has a great influence on him. She might be a more sympathetic ear to your predicament. I reckon if she agrees to return Maiden Hill to you, her father will follow suit.”

“Thank you, McFall.” Patrick offered his hand to the captain.

McFall shook Patrick’s hand without enthusiasm.

Anthony exhaled when McFall left. “Good news.” Although it didn’t feel as such.

“McFall did us a great service.”

“He did.” He exhaled and closed his uncovered eye for a moment. “Did Isabella come?”

“She was with Helen and her mother,” Patrick said. “Helen volunteered to see you, but if you want to see Isabella, I’ll let her see you next time. I didn’t know you wanted to see Isabella.”

“I don’t. It doesn’t matter.” He had to be careful to move his lips as little as possible when he talked, because, while his facial muscles needed exercise, they would burn with pain, and the stitches would bleed again if stimulated too much.

“Listen.” Patrick took a step closer. He seemed aged ten years in the past weeks. “Lady Montrose invited me for a walk tomorrow. I won’t be gone for more than an hour. But if you don’t want me to go, I’ll stay here.”

“Go. I don’t want you to stay here for me.” He reclined his head on the back of the armchair.

“You took a bullet for me.”

“You would do the same for me. Stop feeling guilty. Jumping on you was my choice.”

“But I’m the reason you got shot.” Patrick sucked in a deep breath. “It’s my fault.”

“Shut it. Your staying here instead of taking a walk isn’t going to change anything. And I’m not alone anyway.”

“I promise I’ll change.” Patrick nodded. “I’ll do my best to be better.”

“Take a walk. Leave this room for a while. And stop worrying about me.”

Patrick scrubbed the back of his neck.

Anthony hated snapping at him, but for crying out loud, Patrick didn’t need to keep apologising. “What do you want?”

“Do you mean to marry Helen?”

Right now, Anthony didn’t want to marry anyone. Helen’s horrified face and palpable disgust at his condition had subdued his nuptial enthusiasm, and the pain left him with only a few moments of lucid thoughts.

“No,” he said, thinking of Isabella. “Sod the marriage.”

And he meant it.