Jacquie D'Alessandro (4 page)

He pressed his lips together to keep from arguing further. Indeed, arguing was the last thing he wished to do, especially tonight, when they had so little time together. His wooing campaign was off to a disastrous start. Retreat and regroup was definitely his best alternative.

Raising his hands in a show of acquiescence, he smiled. “As much as I appreciate the offer to read your copy, I believe I’ll decline. As for the likes and dislikes of Today’s Modern Woman, I bow to your superior knowledge on the subject, madam.”

She did not return his smile; rather, she lifted a single brow. “You continue to surprise me, Mr. Stanton.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “
I
continue to surprise
you
? In what way?”

“I hadn’t taken you for a coward.”

Her words stilled him. Damn it, this had gone far enough. “Most likely because I am not one. And I hadn’t taken you for an instigator, yet you appear to be deliberately baiting me, Lady Catherine. I wonder why?”

Another layer of crimson deepened her flushed cheeks. She drew a deep breath, then emitted a nervous-sounding
laugh. “Yes, it seems I am. Forgive me. I’m afraid I’ve had a rather difficult evening and—”

Her words were cut off by a loud cracking sound and the crash of breaking glass. Gasps and cries of stunned fright rose from the party guests. Andrew turned swiftly, sickening dread oozing down his spine as he recognized the first sound as being that of a pistol report. Shards of glass sprayed across the floor beneath the now-broken windowpanes. In the space of a heartbeat, a myriad of tormenting images he’d believed buried flashed through his mind with a streak of vivid anguish. A ringing commenced in his ears, drowning out the sounds around him, and he bludgeoned back the unwanted reminders of the past.

“Dear God, she’s hurt!”

The frightened cry from directly behind him jerked his head around, and everything inside him froze.

Lady Catherine, a trickle of blood oozing from between her lips, lay sprawled on the floor at his feet.

V
oices, jagged and disjointed, echoed through Catherine’s mind, along with a myriad of inexplicable, contradictory sensations. Her head ached as if someone had smashed it with a rock. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the hellfire burning in her shoulder. And who precisely had set the swarm of angry bees upon her bottom lip? Yet she somehow felt as if she were floating, engulfed in a strong, comforting embrace that suffused her with warmth, like being wrapped in her favorite velvety blanket. Her cheek rested against something warm and solid. She inhaled, filling her aching head with the scent of clean linen, sandalwood, and something else…a de
lightful aroma she couldn’t define, other than to know she liked it.

She became aware of the hum of voices. One voice, low, deep, and fervent, and very close to her ear infiltrated past the noise of the others.
Please wake up…God, please
.

Something jounced her, shooting pain through her, and she groaned.

“Hold on,” the voice next to her ear whispered. “We’re almost there.”

There? Forcing her eyelids open, she found herself looking up at Mr. Stanton’s profile. His face appeared pale, his jaw tight, his rugged features stark with some unreadable emotion. A breeze dislodged a curl of her hair, blowing it across her cheek, and she realized that she was moving swiftly down a corridor…a corridor in her father’s town house, cradled tightly against Mr. Stanton’s chest, her knees draped over his one arm, his other arm supporting her back.

He glanced down, and she found herself staring into intense ebony eyes, which burned like twin braziers. His gaze locked on to hers, and a muscle jerked in his cheek.

“She’s awake,” he said, turning his head slightly, but his gaze never wavering from hers.

Awake? Had she fallen asleep? Surely not. She blinked several times, but before she could force her sore mouth to form a question, they passed through a doorway and entered a room she recognized as her father’s bedchamber. Seconds later, Mr. Stanton gently laid her upon the maroon counterpane. She instantly missed his warmth as a chilled shudder rushed through her, but seconds later her eyes widened when he hitched one hip upon the mattress, and sat next to her on the bed, the heat of his hand pressing against her stinging shoulder. Some small corner of her mind protested that his nearness reeked of impro
priety, but his presence was so comforting…and she felt so inexplicably in need of that comfort.

A movement caught her eye, and her gaze shifted over Mr. Stanton’s shoulder, where she noted her father looking down at her with an anxious expression.

“Thank God you’ve come around, my dear,” Father said, his voice rough. “Dr. Gibbens is on his way.”

Mr. Stanton leaned closer to her. “How do you feel?”

She licked her dry lips, wincing when her tongue, which felt oddly thick, touched a sensitive spot. “Shoulder hurts. Head, too.” She tried to turn her head, but immediately thought better of it when a sharp pain bounced behind her eyes, roiling a wave of nausea through her. “Wh…what happened?”

Something undecipherable flashed in his eyes. “You don’t remember?”

Trying to ignore the aches thumping through her, she forced herself to concentrate. “Father’s party. His birthday. You and I were arguing…and now I’m here.”
Lying in bed, with you sitting so very close. Touching me.
“Feeling as if I were coshed…hopefully not the outcome of our disagreement.”

“You were shot,” Mr. Stanton said, harshness evident in his quiet voice. “In the shoulder. And it appears you hit your head quite hard when you fell. I’m sorry for the pain—I’m keeping pressure on your shoulder wound to stem the blood until the doctor arrives.”

His words echoed through her pounding head.
Shot?
She wanted to scoff at his statement, but the burning ache in her shoulder and gravity of his intense regard left no doubt that he spoke the truth. And it certainly explained his nearness and touch. And obvious concern. “I…I do recall a loud noise.”

His head jerked in a nod. “That was the shot. It came from outside, from the direction of Park Lane.”

“But who?” she whispered. “Why?”

“That is precisely what we’re going to find out,” interjected her father, “although the why is quite obvious. These damnable criminals are everywhere. What is this city coming to? The recent rash of crimes in the area must be stopped. Why just last week Lord Denbitty came home from the opera to find his house ransacked. Tonight’s debacle is clearly the doing of some bloody footpad whose weapon discharged while committing a robbery in the street.”

Father’s jaw clenched, and he dragged visibly shaking hands down his face. “Thank God for Mr. Stanton here. While pandemonium reigned, he kept a cool head. He ordered a footman to fetch the doctor, another to locate the magistrate, then rallied several gentlemen to conduct a search outdoors for the culprit and perhaps another victim, all while examining your injuries. Once he’d determined the ball wasn’t lodged in your shoulder, he carried you here.”

Catherine shifted her gaze to Mr. Stanton, who regarded her with such an intense expression, her toes curled inside her satin slippers. “Thank you,” she whispered.

For several seconds he said nothing, then, with what appeared to be an effort, he offered her a half smile. “You’re welcome. Thanks to my adventures with your brother, I have some experience in these matters, although you may retract your thanks when you see the mess I made of your gown. I’m afraid I had to cut off your sleeve.”

She attempted a smile in return, but wasn’t sure she succeeded. “No doubt the bloodstain would have proved ruinous anyway.”

Father reached out and clasped her hand. “We can only be thankful you were merely grazed, and that the lead ball didn’t hit anyone else before lodging itself in the wall. Egad, a mere inch or two, and you might have been killed.” His lips narrowed with determination. “I vow I’ll not rest until the scoundrel who did this is caught, Catherine.”

The room seemed to take a sickening spin as the full ramifications of what had happened clicked into place in her mind. Before she could form a reply, a knock sounded on the door, and her father called, “Come in.”

Dr. Gibbens entered the room, carrying his black leather medical bag, his long face the picture of concern as he approached her. “How is the bleeding?” he asked, setting his bag on the end of the bed.

She felt a lessening of the pressure against her shoulder. “Nearly stopped,” Mr. Stanton said, with unmistakable relief. “There’s a sizable lump on the back of her head, but she’s coherent. She also bit her lip when she fell, but that bleeding has subsided as well.”

“Excellent,” said Dr. Gibbens. He stood for several seconds, then cleared his throat. “And as soon as you gentlemen leave the room, I shall examine the patient.”

Mr. Stanton glowered at the doctor and appeared about to argue, but Dr. Gibbens said firmly, “I’ll give you both my report as soon as I finish. In the meanwhile, you are needed downstairs. The magistrate arrived just after me.”

There was no mistaking Mr. Stanton’s or Father’s reluctance to leave her, but they did as the doctor bid. Watching them close the door behind them, a shudder racked her, a shiver of dread that had nothing to do with the pain throbbing incessantly through her.

Father appeared convinced that she’d been shot by random accident. A robbery gone astray. But he didn’t know
that a growing number of people wished Charles Brightmore dead.

And that tonight someone had nearly succeeded.

Andrew paced the confines of the corridor outside Lord Ravensly’s bedchamber, his insides clenched with impatience and frustration. And stark fear. How the hell long did it take to examine and dress a wound? Certainly not this long. Damn it, the party guests had departed, a witness had been found and interviewed, the magistrate had been dealt with, and still Dr. Gibbens had not emerged. He’d encountered many precarious, unsettling, and even dangerous situations in his life, but the unconditional terror and numbing horror of looking down at Lady Catherine’s bleeding, unconscious form…

God. He paused in his pacing and leaned his back against the wall. Closing his eyes, he tunneled his hands, which still didn’t feel quite steady, through his hair. All the fear and anger and desperation he’d felt since the moment that shot had rung out burst through the dam of control and restraint with which he’d surrounded himself. His knees shook, and with a low moan, he sank down to his haunches and pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead.

Damn it, he’d only ever once in his entire life felt so helpless—and that situation had ended disastrously. And under such horrifyingly similar circumstances. A shot. Someone he loved falling to the ground…

His every nerve ending pulsed with the need to kick down the damn door, grab the doctor by the neck, and
demand
he make Lady Catherine well. And the instant she was, he would deal with the bastard who had done this to her. But in the meantime, this waiting was eating at him. That and the fact that just prior to the shot they’d argued.
Argued
, for God’s sake. They’d never before exchanged a cross word. A sick sense of loss gripped him as he recalled her cool, dispassionate gaze during their conversation. Never had she looked at him like that.

“Any word on her condition?”

Andrew turned at Lady Catherine’s father’s voice. The Earl of Ravensly strode down the corridor, his features tight with worry.

“Not yet.” Andrew rose, then jerked his head toward the bedchamber door. “I’m giving your Dr. Gibbens two more minutes. If he hasn’t opened the door, propriety be damned, I’m storming the citadel.”

The ghost of a smile whispered across the earl’s haggard face. “How very American of you. But in this case, I must agree. In fact—”

The door opened, and Dr. Gibbens stepped into the corridor. “Well?” Andrew demanded before the earl could speak. He pushed off the paneled wall and approached the doctor, barely refraining from grabbing the smaller man by his cravat and shaking him as a dog would a rag.

“You correctly assessed the situation, Mr. Stanton. Lady Catherine’s injury is, thankfully, a superficial flesh wound, which I cleansed and dressed. Thanks to your quick intervention, she did not suffer a severe loss of blood. While the bump on her head will bring some discomfort, it will not cause any long-lasting harm, nor will the cut on her lip. I expect her to make a full recovery.” He removed his spectacles and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “I’ve left some laudanum on the bedside table, but she refused to take any until she’d spoken with both of you. I recommend that she not be moved this evening. I’ll call upon her in the morning to assess her condition and change her dressing. She is most
adamant that she return to Little Longstone and her son tomorrow.”

Everything inside Andrew rebelled at the thought of her being out of his sight, and he had to clamp his lips together to keep from voicing his objection.

“Headstrong gel,” the earl said, his eyes suspiciously moist. “She cannot bear to be parted from Spencer. Is it wise that she travel so soon?”

“I’ll give you my opinion after I examine her tomorrow,” Dr. Gibbens said. “I bid you both good night.” With a nod, the doctor left them.

“Come, Stanton,” the earl said, opening the door. “Let us see for ourselves how my daughter is faring.”

Andrew offered up a silent thank-you for Lord Ravensly’s invitation, for in truth, he didn’t know if he was capable of remaining in the corridor for another minute. He followed the earl into the bedchamber, then paused in the doorway.

Lady Catherine lay in the oversized bed, the maroon counterpane covering her to her chin. Bathed in the golden glow cast from the fire burning in the grate, she looked like a gilded angel. Loose tendrils of chestnut hair fanned out across the cream pillowcase, and his fingers itched to brush the shiny strands back from her soft skin. For all the times he’d dreamed of holding her in his arms, never once had he suspected that if the moment ever came, it would arrive in the guise of carrying her unconscious, bleeding form.

He approached the bed slowly, his knees threatening to wobble, his gaze minutely noting every nuance of her being. Her eyes appeared huge, and shadows of pain lurked in their golden brown depths, along with something else that looked liked fear. A small red mark marred her
swollen bottom lip. Her face was devoid of color.

“Dr. Gibbens assured us you would make a full recovery,” Lord Ravensly said, taking her hand between both his own. “How are you feeling?”

A grimace passed over her features. “Sore, but very grateful. My injuries could have been much worse.”

The earl visibly shuddered, a sentiment with which Andrew wholeheartedly agreed. Her troubled gaze bounced between them. “Were you able to find out anything about who fired the pistol?”

Andrew cleared his throat. “One of the party guests, Mr. Sidney Carmichael, reported he was just entering his carriage when he heard the shot. He saw a man running into Hyde Park. He provided a good description to the magistrate and said he would definitely recognize the man if he saw him again. Lords Borthrasher, Kingsly, Avenbury, and Ferrymouth, as well as the Duke of Kelby were entering their carriages nearby and agree they saw a shadowy figure in the park, but none could provide a detailed description.

“The group of gentlemen who searched outside came upon an injured man near the town house. He identified himself as a Mr. Graham. Mr. Graham claims that while walking down Park Lane, he was accosted from behind. When he regained consciousness, he realized he’d been relieved of his purse and watch fob.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “Did the robber have a pistol?”

“Mr. Graham didn’t know, but then, he never saw his attacker before he was rendered senseless.”

“No doubt the scoundrel knocked him out with the butt of the pistol,” Lord Ravensly fumed. “Then the weapon discharged, and here we are. Damn footpads.” He shook his head, then frowned at Lady Catherine. “Now what is this nonsense Dr. Gibbens said about you wanting to return to Little Longstone tomorrow?”