“You are keeping vigil, I see,” the doctor murmured, nodding. “Many dukes I work with simply wave me in to attend their wives. It is nice to see.”
“Yes, yes,” he said quickly. “I require an update.” His voice was rough with a lack of sleep and high frustration. He swayed tiredly on his feet and grabbed for the chair’s back to steady himself.
“Your Grace, you must rest.”
“I must know my wife’s condition,” he growled.
Mr. Thornton grimaced before nodding. “Her Grace’s condition is improving, and her body is taking well to the tinctures and medical treatment. Her arm is not showing signs of infection, and the splint issecuring the break very well. However, she will need a great deal of rest to fully recover.”
As the doctor ran through all of the things that was still left to heal—her ribs were still bruised, and her body had rejected one of the herbs that could help her pain management—Graham’s hand clenched and unclenched at his side. His emotions warred. How could she be so well if she was not awake?
With Amelia being in the carriage alone, and not woken up yet, nobody knew how her carriage had overturned. The coachman had been injured to the head and unable to remember properly. During the haze of being awake, Graham had turned over the carriage accident. In all his years he had not known anything to be wrong with the carriage they had taken that night. It had withstood snow—why had it suddenly failed on a wet road?
He had been angry, blaming the coachman for driving recklessly, but Felicity had quickly reminded him that the coachman had been the same for many years.
“That is all my reports for now,” Mr. Thornton said. “Should you need anything else, Your Grace, do not hesitate to send someone for me. I will be here at a moment’s notice.” He paused. “Your wife will be well, Your Grace. Shewillcome around; it will take time but you shall have her back.”
“Thank you.” It was a reluctant gratitude, but he was grateful for the honest assurance. He nodded as the doctor took his leave. He sank back into the chair, clasping Amelia’s hand, but no sooner did he do that, a knock on the door sounded.
“Leave us,” he snarled, not bothering to look over his shoulder. Felicity or Daphne would walk right in, so he knew it was someone he did not wish to see.
“I have brought flowers for our fallen duchess.” Owen’s voice had Graham tensing. “And I also wish for a private word with you regarding some news.”
Graham and Owen had barely spoken since the tense lecture he had delivered to Graham the night of the musicale evening. Wordlessly, Graham nodded, and although he was loathe to leave his wife, he stood up and went into the hallway, gesturing for Owen to follow him into his chamber.
It wasn’t where he would usually conduct meetings but it was the furthest he dared go from Amelia.
“You look as though you have not slept in days,” Owen murmured.
“I have not,” Graham sighed, rubbing his dry, gritty eyes. “I cannot sleep when my wife is… when she was—” He cut himself off, not daring to speak of those first hours when there had been too much blood, and too much paleness in her face, and Graham had feared of truly losing her.
“She cannot open her eyes to a husband who is not even awake enough to support—”
“Spare me your lectures,” Graham snapped. “What is your news?”
Owen looked upwards witheringly but how could he expect Graham’s patience to be at its best in a moment like this?
“A witness has come forward regarding the night of the accident,” he told Graham, his voice grave. “He was a street urchin trying to sell an evening paper, and he saw a man tampering with your carriage moments before Her Grace would have gotten into it.”
Graham’s stomach dropped. “It was deliberate?”
Owen’s expression was pinched when he nodded. “There is more. The lad reported the description.” He paused long enough that Graham wished to grab and shake him. “It matches that of your cousin, Lord Percival.”
Graham’s heart stopped. “What?”
“Percival tampered with the carriage, Graham.”
Everything narrowed down into rage. It built, slowly at first, like he could feel it, and he thought it would only come out in a snapping, angry shout. But his whole body tensed, and then Graham’s fist slammed into the wall next to him. Pain lanced through his knuckles, shooting right up his arm, but he did not care, for the pain was a welcome distraction to the maelstrom of fury. Owen’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, steadying and grounding.
“You must tread with caution—”
“Damncaution,” Graham snarled. “I shall wring him—”
“Graham.” Owen’s voice snapped, raising louder than Graham had ever heard. “We need stronger, harder evidence. You might be a duke but he has won over the ton with his charm and presence. We cannot simply accuse him on the witness statement of a paper boy. For every witness we might find, Percival will likely charm five to give an alibi.”
After a moment of trying to rein his anger in, Graham nodded, not trusting himself to curse terribly. His own cousin. The betrayal coursed through him as he shoved off the wall, pacing into the hallway, needing more ground to cover. His muscles were tight, and exhaustion weighed heavily in his stomach, but he turned that night over. Percival had apologized for his outburst, knowing full well what he had planned—or perhaps, at that point already done—to do.
“I do not know how I can remain calm when he is the reason my wife is lying in bed in her condition, why she almost—” he cut himself off, not able to say the word. He turned sharply on his heel, pacing, mutteringto himself.
