As the arrest transpired, acting on the urgent information regarding the poisoning, Gabriel’s trusted London physician, Mr. Watson, oversaw Victoria’s care with swift precision.
Though still weak, Victoria’s shock at her nephew’s treachery was profound.
“Richard?” she asked, her voice trembling with horror. “My own nephew?”
James remained steady, offering her comfort.
“He will answer for his crimes,” he said.
Despite her frailty, Victoria exhaled in overwhelming relief.
“And Genevieve?” she asked. “How is she faring?”
James softened.
“She is being well taken care of,” he said. “You must rest now.”
A breath of gratitude escaped Victoria. James would not tell her the gravity of her niece’s condition. That would harm her more than help her. He would just have to pray that Genevieve did wake up.
***
Back at Mountwood, the apprehension of Thomas Wilkins was executed with equal precision. Under Gabriel’s direct orders, Mr. Winters and two trusted estate guards intercepted Wilkins near the potting sheds, their movements careful but firm.
Wilkins stiffened immediately, his instinctive bluster kicking in.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.
Mr. Winters did not waste time.
“Smite has confessed,” he said. “Your role has been revealed.”
Wilkins faltered but attempted to recover.
“You’ve no proof of wrongdoing,” he said defensively.
Mr. Winters remained unmoved.
“Sabotage,” he said firmly. “The Earl’s saddle, the stable fire, and the damage to the irrigation channels and boundary wall, have all now been linked to you. We know that you were paid to commit this sabotage.
Wilkins’ bravado crumbled. His resistance collapsed entirely.
“You are finished,” Mr. Winters said, not without smugness.
Under guard, Wilkins was secured in the estate’s small lockup, pending transfer to the proper authorities.
Once the chaos concluded and the manor fell silent again, Gabriel was eager to return to his wife. He did not realize how much he had secretly been hoping that she would be awake and talking. However, when he reached her chambers once more, Genevieve remained frighteningly still.
Three days had passed, each moment stretching into eternity as Gabriel sat beside her bed, watching, waiting, willing her to wake. The physicians had warned that her recovery would be slow, that the concussion and blood loss had taken a severe toll, but nothing could prepare him for the agonizing silence. The only reassurance came from the faint rise and fall of her breathing, the delicate thread of life refusing to break.
He had abandoned all the pretense of emotional distance. Never again would he push her away. Never again would fear dictate his decisions, would he convince himself that distance could somehow protect her. He had spent too long building walls around his heart, shutting her out under the guise of preservation. The moment her carriage tumbled down that embankment, every misguided belief had been shattered.
The soft scent of lavender water lingered in the air, mingling with the muted light filtering through the curtains. The room remained unchanged, yet everything felt different. The world had shifted, narrowed to the fragile woman lying beneath pristine white sheets, her golden hair a stark contrast against the pillow. Then finally, her fingers twitched.
Gabriel’s breath caught. He leaned forward, gripping the arm of the chair with white-knuckled force, eyes fixed on the faint movement. Her lashes fluttered. A soft, uneven breath escaped her lips. Her fingers moved again.
Slowly, painfully, she stirred, the effort visible in the furrow of her brows and the shallow hitch in her breath. Gabriel did not move, barely daring to breathe as he watched the gradual return to awareness.
Her eyelids lifted hazily and unfocused.
