He lowered the page to his desk, his gaze focused on the words. “It’s from the Duchess of Kennet. They want you to come right away.”
Rose’s breath caught. “Now? What’s wrong?”
He looked up at her. “Thomas has been shot. They do not think he’ll survive.”
Chapter Fifteen
Aliveried, bleary-eyedfootman opened the door at Ashton House. Rose, who had never been in the house before, tried not to stare at the pure opulence of the entry hall, with its white and black diamond-patterned marble floor, leather and gold leaf topped tables, damask wallpaper, and floral arrangements taller and broader than her father. A second footman took Rose’s pelisse and her father’s greatcoat, and the first footman remained silent as he led them across the expansive hall and up a mahogany, cantilevered staircase that curved up to the second-floor hallway. The intricately carved balustrade revealed a wealth of craftsmanship while the thick banister had been worn smooth by generations of Ashtons.
Another set of stairs awaited, and Rose glanced at Edmund, whose face was drawn with the effort of the climb, but the fine, tight line of his mouth spoke of his resolve. Rose took his arm, both to offer support and seek comfort, and he folded his fingers over hers, squeezing tightly.
They emerged into the dimly lit third-floor hallway. Doors lined both walls, the distance between them speaking to the size of the bedchambers within. Four doors down, the footman tapped lightly on a broad wooden door, which opened quickly. Michael Ashton glanced at Edmund and Rose, then ushered them into the room.
A lamp on the washstand provided the only illumination in a room starkly and elegantly masculine, with its woolen, forest green bed hangings, burgundy and green wallpaper, and massive wooden furnishings that appeared to have been brought forward from the fifteenth century. Instead of the expected scents of sandalwood and mint that were distinctly Thomas, the room held a metallic scent of sweat, blood, and medicine.
Rose stepped cautiously into the room, searching for Thomas’s face among the mounds of covers on the bed. Her view remained blocked by the bed hangings for the first few steps. Robert stood in a far corner, his face gaunt and smeared with filth. He had a fist pressed against his mouth as if he were holding in a barrage of words. Another step, and Rose realized the duchess sat in a chair on the far side of the bed, the duke standing behind her. Both of them stared at the pillows, and another step revealed to Rose what everyone else focused on, and the sight made her breath catch hard. She swayed and felt the steadying hand of her father at her back.
Thomas lay on the bed, his chest and shoulders slightly elevated against a stack of plump feather pillows. His chest and arms were bare, except for the tight bandage that enveloped his chest below his armpits. One section of it wrapped up and over his right shoulder, and a spot of blood had seeped through where the two sections met. Purplish circles surrounded both eyes, and the normal tone of his skin had faded into a gray-blue hue that had even claimed his lips. She could not tell if he still breathed.
“Is he—?” Rose’s knees gave way, but before she could fall, she felt a chair press against the back of her legs, and Edmund and Robert helped her sit.
Robert squatted next to her, his voice low and hoarse. “No. Not yet. The surgeons removed the ball, but he lost a great deal of blood. They think—they think it unlikely he will survive the night.”
Rose watched as the duchess rhythmically, obsessively stroked her son, smoothing the fine dark hair of his forearm, and she wondered what it would do to the duchess to lose yet another child, this one an adult. Rose’s mind stalled at the horror. “How—”
“Two men attacked him as he was leaving the shipping office.”
A sharp pinprick of anger stirred in Rose’s gut and she looked at Robert. “Bentley.”
A single nod. “We think so. I saw it happen, but I couldn’t get to them before they fled. I—I didn’t try to follow them.”
Rose’s brow furrowed, her voice low. “Of course not. You needed to take care of Thomas.”
Another nod, but he looked over his shoulder at his brother’s still form. “I was late. I should have been there.”
Rose glanced down, realizing that Robert’s suit was a solid green, heavy wool, and cut like that of a tradesman. The front had been soaked with a dark stain—his brother’s blood. She shivered. “You were being Robbie Green.”
His mouth tightened to a thin line but he remained silent.
Something deep in Rose’s chest stirred, something familiar and welcome, as if her well of determination had struck a new aquifer. But this time it was tinged with rage—and love. She sat a bit straighter as it crashed over her that whatever had surged and built between her and Thomas Ashton would never be easy or smooth, that it would not be the great romance of novels and bardic tales. Misunderstandings seemed to be their way of life. But it would be fighting for. A fight that had almost been ripped from her life by a man who had plagued her for years.
She leaned closer to Robert and whispered in his ear. “We can find them, Robert.”
He looked at her, a sharp expression in his eyes.
She nodded, whispering again. “You and I. We can do this. We know the people who will talk. Not about fools and rakes.” She looked up at Thomas, her eyes stinging with tears. “For him. Whether he lives or dies, we will destroy them. Tonight we stay here. Tomorrow, they will be ours.”
Robert’s eyes brightened, and one corner of his mouth jerked. He leaned up, kissed Rose on the forehead, and stood. He approached his father from behind, spoke into his ear. The duke stiffened, then nodded, and Robert left the room with an indomitable stride.
Rose stood and offered the chair to her father, who refused at first, until Rose gestured to the bench at the foot of Thomas’s bed. She settled on the bench, drawing her feet up beneath her and reached out, finding his leg beneath the covers. She rested her hand on his ankle, bowed her head, and prayed.
*
Cold. Numbing cold,as if encased in ice. It permeated every pore, every muscle, every bone. The sensation pushed into his consciousness, tugging at his mind, begging him to respond. He didn’t shiver, which seemed odd, almost as if he couldn’t.
Only cold. And darkness, the blackness of an abyss.
Then, slowly, a finger of pain stirred at the edge of the cold, as if blood cut off by a tourniquet had found its way back into its limb, along with the stinging of renewal.
