Along Came a Rogue (2 page)

Thomas.
For a moment he stared in disbelief, his stunned mind unable to comprehend the words falling from the man's mouth. Then his blood turned to ice as panic sped through him and the air squeezed from his lungs.
God no
…it couldn't be. Not Thomas—but the expression on the man's face was too certain to be wrong.

Grey ran for the street.

When he reached Chatham House, the townhome was ablaze with candles and lamps, and his heart stuttered with dread. Two saddle horses stood tied in the front, along with the massive black carriage marked with the Duke of Strathmore's coat of arms.

He raced up the front steps of the stone portico and pounded on the door. Jensen, the Chatham butler, opened the door but did not step back to let him pass.

“The house is closed tonight, Major,” Jensen told him, his ashen face drawn and his gray brows knitted with worry. “Please return tomorrow.”

When he tried to shut the door, Grey shoved his shoulder against it and pushed his way inside, forcing the butler to stumble backward to make way for him.

Had it been any other night, he never would have caused such an uproar. He would have returned the next day as asked, just to keep peace. But tonight, he refused to stand on politeness.

“Where's Chesney?” Grey demanded. “Is he here?”

“Major, please!” Jensen glowered at him. “The house is closed upon order of His Gr—”

“Jensen.” A commanding voice from the upstairs landing cut through the scuffle. “Let him pass.”

The butler glanced up at Edward Westover, Duke of Strathmore. With an aggravated
humph!
beneath his breath at having his authority undermined, he stepped back to let Grey into the house.

He raced up the curving marble stairs, his heart pounding with fear. “Thomas?” he rasped out.

“He's here,” Edward informed him solemnly, keeping his voice low so he wouldn't be overheard by the servants. “The surgeons are with him.”

“He's alive?” Grey gripped the wrought iron banister to steady himself.

A grim solemnity darkened Edward's face. “Barely.”

He exhaled a long, shaking breath. “Jesus…what happened?”

With a glance at Jensen still lingering in the foyer, Edward nodded toward the nearby billiards room. Grey followed him inside and accepted the scotch his former colonel poured from a bottle on the table just inside the door, the half-filled glass beside it telling him that Edward had already sought out his own liquid strength.

As he raised the glass, he tried to hide the shaking in his hands. “Was it the French?” he asked quietly.

Edward and Grey were two of a handful of people who knew that Thomas had continued to dedicate himself to his country after leaving the army, signing on to work secretly with the War Office. If the French had discovered he was spying, they might have attempted an assassination.

Edward shook his head. “He'd been visiting at Strathmore House and was on his way home when a footpad shot him.” He reached for his glass and took a long swallow. “A groom heard the report and found the man rifling through Thomas's pockets.”

Grey steeled himself. “How badly is he wounded?”

Edward's face turned to stone. “Gutshot.”

The air rushed from his lungs, and Grey leaned against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut against the mix of fear, dread, and fury swirling inside him, unwilling to believe the worst.
Dear God
…not Thomas, not like this. Not after he'd faced down death in Spain, only to be killed two streets from his own home.

“The surgeons are operating now. Thank God that groom came upon him when he did, or he would have bled out right there.” Edward studied the amber liquid in his glass. “Jensen sent a messenger to the house. When Kate heard, she insisted on coming with me to attend the surgeons.”

New worry spun through him for the duchess. “In her condition?”

Edward's lips pressed together grimly at the reminder that his wife was expecting. “You try stopping her when she's set her mind on something.”

Taking careful breaths, concentrating on the air filling his lungs and forcing back his growing grief, Grey tried to steady himself. But his heart kept pounding harder, his stomach roiling.
Gutshot
…Thomas was alive, but he'd most likely be dead by dawn.

“Damnation!” Edward slammed down the crystal tumbler so hard the liquor splashed onto the table. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger at his forehead, at that moment appearing as if he'd aged decades. “I sent him away tonight. Kate asked him to stay with us for dinner, but I wanted an evening alone with her.” Guilt stiffened his shoulders as he shook his head. “If I hadn't—if I had just invited him to stay, offered another drink…”

“It wasn't your fault, Colonel,” Grey assured him.

“I know,” he agreed quietly, “but it damned sure feels like it.” He shoved his glass away. “I've sent a messenger to his parents at their country estate.”

“He has a sister, too, near York—Emily,” Grey reminded him as an image from five years ago flashed through his mind of a stick of a girl with blond braids who had adored her doting older brother. She'd want to know, would want to be by Thomas's side…“We need to send a messenger to her, too.”

Edward nodded grimly, although both men knew the harsh reality that the news wouldn't reach Thomas's family for days. By then, he would likely be past whatever comfort they could give. “I've hired Bow Street to track down the footpad and ordered Jensen to close the house to visitors. There's nothing else to do but wait.”

Grey stared at him, the grief inside him turning into fury.
Wait?
Like hell he would. Downing the rest of the scotch in a single, gasping swallow, he shoved himself away from the wall and charged toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Edward called out after him.

He glanced over his shoulder as he strode from the room, his calm outward appearance belying the white-hot rage burning inside him. “To find the man who did this.”

Edward followed him. “Let Bow Street take care of this. They have access to Mayfair.”

“I have better contacts. I'll have my men in the streets within an hour.”

“Grey.” Edward put his hand on Grey's arm as they reached the stairs, and repeated pointedly, “Bow Street has access to Mayfair.”

Grey clenched his jaw at the unspoken meaning underlying Edward's comment. The runners would be allowed into any house in Mayfair if they said they were investigating the marquess's shooting, while he and his War Office men wouldn't be allowed past the front door.

His eyes narrowed icily at the reminder that he would never belong to English society, no matter how hard he worked, no matter how many promotions he earned. He'd never cared before tonight, and the truth had never cut more deeply than at this brutally frustrating moment when being an outsider made helping Thomas impossible.

“I will find that man,” Grey repeated, wrenching his arm away from Edward's grasp and charging down the stairs toward the front door. “I might not have the same access to Mayfair as a Bow Street runner or a blue blood,” he bit out, “but I also have nothing to lose. And if Thomas dies, I'll make that bastard regret the day he was born.”

“Grey—”

“I
have
to, Colonel. I have to do something to help, however I can.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs to glance back at Edward. His chest tightened with anguish and helpless frustration as the adrenaline coursed through him. “I won't simply stay here and wait for him to die.”

Then he strode out the front door into the black night.

Grey shifted uncomfortably on the chair in Thomas's bedroom as the morning sunlight shone around the closed drapes. His muscles ached stiffly, and he winced as a sharp pain stabbed into his lower back.

One week had passed since the shooting, and he'd spent yet another sleepless night at Thomas's side, keeping watch, leaving the house only to help Bow Street track down the man responsible. He'd found the footpad himself in a seedy tavern in Spitalfields, bragging about how he'd robbed a gentleman in Mayfair, still possessing the watch he'd stolen from Thomas's pocket.
Bastard.
Two runners had to pull him off the man to stop him from beating the son of a bitch to death right there in the tavern, only for him to stand before the gallows at Tyburn yesterday morning and mercilessly watch the man swing.

Perhaps war had hardened him too much. Perhaps he had no compassion left after all the atrocities he'd witnessed in the wars. Because when he watched the shooter die, he'd felt glad. And relieved, knowing the man could never harm anyone else.

The door opened quietly, and Edward Westover stepped into the room. His tired gaze found Grey's and held it in a moment of shared concern, then drifted to the bed and to Thomas's weak body lying there as comfortably as they could make him.

But how comfortable could Thomas be given the hell he'd been through in the past week? And given that his arms and legs were bound to the bed to keep him from tossing about in fitful bouts of feverish sleep and ripping open the sutures. Kate Westover had insisted on that, the young duchess crying in choking fits as she begged the two men to tie him down. They had done it without a word, without a glance at the other, knowing it had to be done even as their chests filled with guilt.

His gaze swung back to Grey. “You spent the night here again.” Not a question, but a grim accusation.

“Yes.” And he'd spend tonight here, too. Although, he thought, grimacing as he shoved himself from the chair and rubbed at his stiff neck, the least Jensen could do was offer to bring in a cot for him. But he wouldn't complain, not with Thomas lying so still, so pale in his bed.

“How is he?” Edward asked quietly.

“Better.” He'd slept through the night at least, for once not thrashing about in the bed nor crying out in his sleep. That was due to the receding fever and the longer and more frequent stretches of wakeful consciousness that came as he slowly regained his strength. But the color had yet to come back to his sallow cheeks, his face still as pale as a ghost's.

Edward moved slowly to the side of the bed and frowned down at Thomas and the ugly black sutures marring his side. “At least the swelling has gone down. Kate will be glad of that.”

“Is the duchess here with you?” Grey stepped up beside him. Together the two men stared solemnly down at their friend, helpless to do anything more than continue to hold their vigil.

Edward shook his head. “She wanted to come, but I made her stay home. She's exhausted and needs to rest, both for her sake and the baby's.” Then he frowned. “But most likely she'll be back this afternoon. I doubt I can keep her away for long.”

Grey nodded, his chest swelling with appreciation and gratitude for the duchess. She'd insisted on being at Chatham House nearly as many hours as he had, and far more than Dr. Brandon, the official physician tending to Thomas. “Don't keep her away too long, Colonel.” He said softly around the knot in his throat, “Thomas is better when she's here.”

Edward heaved a heavy breath and nodded. “He likes it when she feeds him.”

Despite the heaviness weighing in his gut, Grey crooked a half grin. “He likes looking down her dress when she leans over to put the spoon to his mouth.”

“That, too.” Edward grimaced. “When he's healed, I plan on pummeling him for it.”

Grey's eyes moved slowly over Thomas, his body so still except for the faint, steady rise and fall of his chest. So impossibly pale…“Then I hope you get to beat the hell out of him very soon,” Grey said quietly, his teasing words dull with grief.

“Me, too,” Edward murmured.

A clatter of noise went up from downstairs and broke the post-dawn silence of the still-sleeping town house. The front door opened loudly. Footsteps rushed in and out of the house as muffled shouts sounded outside. Then an angry voice called through the halls.

Edward slid a sideways glance at Grey. “Chatham's arrived.”

“Apparently,” Grey muttered, not looking forward to seeing Thomas's parents. They had never approved of his friendship with their son, and certainly not after the incident five years ago when they'd caught him kissing their daughter. They tolerated him now only because they didn't want to alienate Thomas.

Moments later, his mother ran into the room. Mary Matteson, Duchess of Chatham, halted when her eyes landed on her son. A soft sob tore from her throat. She came forward slowly toward the bed, her hand shaking violently as she reached for Thomas's cheek.

“Thomas?” His name was a pleading whisper between choking sobs. “Thomas, can you hear me? Darling, it's Mother…please…please wake up…”

Soft cries poured from her, her already red-rimmed eyes revealing the tears she must have been crying for days, ever since the messenger arrived with news of the shooting and along every mile from Lancashire as they raced back to London.

“He's so cold and pale,” she breathed in an anguished whisper, her fingertips stroking his face. “My baby—my poor baby boy…”

The two men looked on helplessly, before Grey had to turn away, his eyes blurring.

Edward placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “He's out of danger now,” he assured her, his quiet voice calm and steady. The same timbre Grey remembered from Spain whenever Edward spoke to the wounded men after a battle, to give them whatever comfort and courage he could. “Dr. Brandon confirmed it. Thomas will be just fine.”

Then her cries of worry turned to ones of relief. She grabbed Edward's hand and squeezed it tightly. “But—but he's not waking up…”

“He's been sleeping deeply all night,” Grey interjected gently, yet keeping his distance. He wasn't welcome here, but he wanted to ease her suffering however he could. “Sleep is a good sign. It means his body is healing.”