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For a long moment, the only sound was the dawn chorus of birds outside. “A novel?”

“Yes, I…” Her heart was hammering. She wasn’t sure that she could get the rest of the words out. "I am sorry."

"Sorry?" He blinked at her. "Why should you be sorry? You did not believe that you could trust me. You believed that I had left you of my own accord. So you thought that my promise meant nothing. Whereas, if I had simply told you what your parents did, instead of trying to protect you from the truth… well, everything would have been…” He trailed off.

Now that the room was brighter, she could see how sunken his eyes were. “West. You are tired. You must stop speaking. And I must call Doctor Farnham.”

“No. Speaking with you is the medicine that I need. Now tell me. What about the book? Is it finished?”

“Yes?” It came out as a question.

“Really? You have actually finished an entire novel?”

“Yes? In fact I… I have written... three?”

“I see.” He was silent. “And were you thinking of publishing them?”

“Yes. They are. Published, that is. And that leads me to the next thing. Townley knows. When he was shouting about ghosts and skeletons and… and murder—he was talking about the plots of my books. I write sensational novels. And he has threatened to expose and disgrace me. I am so sorry. I never meant to drag you into a scandal.”

“Sensational novels? Hm.” Suddenly the corners of his mouth were beginning to twitch. “And yet there was Townley, on the brink of hysteria. He was all but ranting. If you had not told me just now, I would never have guessed what he was talking about. And I do not think that anyone else knew, either.”

“He—when I saw him in Cheapside, he called me a radical and a leveler.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Perhaps it was only the growing daylight, but West’s face seemed to have more color. “Well. I begin to think that Townley”—

“Your graces!” The door flew open and Dr. Farnham stood there, flanked by two housemaids, his large dark eyes wide. “Your grace! You are conscious!”

West’s eyebrows went up. “Yes. I flatter myself that I am.”

The doctor shot an alarmed look at Pomona. “Your grace?”

She didn’t know how to explain West’s odd sense of humor. “I—I do not believe that his grace is feverish.”

Dr. Farnham hurried to the bedside, felt West’s forehead, picked up his wrist and began taking his pulse. “Ah!” He frowned, concentrating. “Excellent! Excellent! The pulse has lost the wiriness that it had. Slightly elevated, yes! But certainly not dangerously so!”

West was giving Pomona a questioning look behind Dr. Farnham’s head.

“Dr. Farnham has come from London. He is one of the leading doctors in the capital.” But the bustle around West’s bed increased so much that Pomona had to go stand near the door as his shoulder was unbandaged, checked, and rebandaged. She swallowed hard and looked away from the wound and the purple bruising around it.

“No sign of putrefaction. Excellent. Excellent. It is providential indeed that the bullet did not travel even a half inch lower, or it should have smashed the bone.”

West struggled to push himself up on his good arm, wincing. “Providential? My bad knee gave way under me as I rose in my stirrups and I fell suddenly. Had I not, the bullet would have hit my heart. Now. I should like some breakfast. And send Mr. Bray and Mr. Griffiths to me. And I must have a report on how Ewan Pitman does. And the village—the soldiers have not returned, have they? And”—

“Your grace!” Dr. Farnham looked aghast. “I must caution you against overexertion! You were insensible for three full days!”

“Yes. And I am hungry.”

“I have ordered beef consommée, your grace. And toasted bread.” He rang the bell and made another of his deep bows.

“Really? Broth?”

Dr. Farnham turned to Pomona. “His grace must adhere to a bland diet for now. I shall also permit a boiled egg. The digestion is the seat of health! Any modest reputation for success which I may enjoy is due to my respect for digestion. Once his grace’s digestive fire has has been re-established, he may have a white soup and poached chicken. Then finally we may introduce foods of a more heating tendency—such as beef and mutton, spiced ragout, and so forth. In this way, the digestion will be harnessed to rebuild his grace’s blood, rather than to overtax his constitution.”

“I am in possession of my faculties and my wits,” said West. “I am quite able to hear this conversation.”

“Of course you are, your grace,” said Dr. Farnham smoothly. “Now, I anticipate that it may be difficult to persuade the duke to rest. But at least for the next day or two, he must not strain his mental faculties by attempting to work. Perhaps there is something that he might like you to read aloud? Something that will take his mind off the discomfort of his wound, and help to reconcile him to resting in bed?”

“I… I do not…”