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Whatever speculation her nocturnal visit might arouse, she was fiercely glad she had come. Evan's recovery was by no means assured, but the terrible fear that had haunted her since she learned of his injury had eased. As Francesca said, 'twas in God's hands now. Though, she thought with a gallows grin, when had God ever refused a demand by Evan Mansfield?
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Evan opened his unbandaged eye. Thin gray light filtered through the shuttered window and a candle burned low on a table beside the bed.
He was in his chamber in the town house at Portman Square, he realized. He had a hazy idea he'd been here for some time, but most of what had occurred since he left his lodgings to follow the cloak-draped whisperer was an indistinct blur.
Only patches of memory were clear. Watching a knife descend out of the night sky and wondering in that instant if, as his superior had warned, he was about to get his throat cut. A blow to head and shoulder that knocked him to his knees, and then wrestling with the attacker, something warm and sticky blurring his vision and making his hands slick. A grunt when his own blade struck bone. Running feet, numb coldness in his face and shoulder suddenly firing to agony, like a scream in one's ear after silence.
Out of the burning haze of fever, one image hovered: the black-haired, green-eyed soldier of the miniature standing on a sun-splashed balcony beside his brother the Earl, silhouetted against a brilliant peninsular sky, both looking down at him and laughing. “Fool. You thought to be a hero like me, a man she could love," the soldier mocked. "Just what did you accomplish?"
What indeed. Who had attacked him—the man he'd followed? One of their suspects—or someone else entirely? Had Lord Blackwell's operative arrived in time to capture the perpetrators?
Evan had no idea.
The right side of his face burned, his shoulder throbbed at a level just below agony, and he couldn't feel his right hand at all. He tried flexing it.
Pain exploded at his thumb, ricocheted up his bones and reverberated into his skull.
When he reached consciousness again, pale sun shone in the windows. Making note to ignore his bandaged hand, with his good fingers he gingerly surveyed his swaddled side.
His eye—would he be able to see from it? The thought that he might have lost his sight terrified him. Until he thought of Geoff and Richard. Partial blindness would be a light price to pay for a successful mission.
But had it succeeded? All he knew for certain was he'd gained an apparently blind eye, a maimed shoulder and one useless hand, plus a burning fever in and out of which he drifted, suspended between bitter dreams and awakening.
Bitter but for one. Filthy, sweating with fever, he'd opened his eyes to see Emily, coolly beautiful Emily beside him. Her fine soft hands had mopped his brow with cold water, her velvet voice murmuring, “I love you, Evan. I love you." He'd clutched at her fingers, not wanting her to slip away, and she squeezed his hand back.
He smiled now, recalling it. “I love you, Evan.''
“Fool,'' the soldier sneered.
Angrily, Evan opened his eye. His head ached abominably and desperate thirst coated his tongue. Reaching for a glass, he knocked it over, his one-eyed aim off, and cursed.
"Let me, my lord." From his blind side Baines's hand appeared, holding out the glass. His head throbbing, Evan gulped down the water.
"There's a gentleman come to check on you—a Lord Blackwell. Should I let him in?"
Blackwell! Perhaps the agents who'd found him had learned something. "Yes! Help me sit, then send him in."
A moment later his superior entered. "Cheverley! No, don't give me your hand. I'm mightily relieved to see you're recovering. I must admit, you gave us a fright."
"Sorry, sir. I hope that's not all I've given you."
Lord Blackwell laughed, a sharp barking sound. “Indeed not, thank God! You accomplished more than you know."
"Considering I saw little and remember less, I sincerely hope so."
"The man who attacked you wasn't one from your list, but an accomplice. After we nabbed him, we eventually traced him back to the ringleader—the 'quiet civilian,' I believe you called him in your notes. We're still rounding up the rest of the ring—I suspect we may never trace them all, though we shall certainly give it a go."
With bitterness Evan recalled the slim, silent man with whom he'd supped, been billeted, played cards. Remembered Geoffrey choked in his own blood, Richard dying in front of his eyes, his own ruined eye and ominously bandaged hand. But for that man, his friends would be living still. Evan would be whole—and free.
"How could a man turn his back on his country, knowingly cause the death of his own soldiers?"
Lord Blackwell shrugged. "Debts. Greed. Simple venality. But with your help, we've stopped the drain of ammunition—there's not been a single irregular or lost shipment since the attack. Wellington himself sent a message of thanks. I'll bring it to you later, when you're more recovered. Well, I must not tire you."
Lord Blackwell rose. "I'll stop by later to see how you get on. Heal quickly now, eh? We need you back at Horse Guards."
"I will. Thank you, my lord."
With a nod Lord Blackwell walked out.
Evan leaned back against the pillows, as drained after carrying on a simple conversation as if he'd gone ten rounds with Jackson. At least he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do. A welcome change from recent events, that.
Sometime later, after he'd dozed and breakfasted and dozed, after his mother had paid him a tearful visit, Andrea a soothing one, and the physician with his instruments of torture—clean bandages, cleansing powders, the lance—had gone, Baines announced another visitor. Brent.
His friend—his former friend?—walked in quietly and took the chair by his bed. For a moment neither spoke.
'"od's blood, Evan, you look like hell."
He laughed shortly, grimacing at the now-familiar discomfort. "Feel like I lingered in its fires, too."
"The sawbones says you're better. You do look better than when we first brought you. I thought..." Brent's voice wavered "...thought for a while we were going to lose you."
"You weren't so lucky."
Brent grinned. "No. Unfortunately, the physician says you're out of danger now, so I guess we're stack with you."
Out of danger. Physically, perhaps. But his life was still in as great a shambles as when he'd run off to play hero. "I suppose one must be grateful for that." Recalling the news his mother had relayed, he added, "Speaking of grateful, I must thank you for helping Mama drag my carcass back to London. It can't have been easy for her. And for coming so faithfully to check on me. Andrea says you've been by once or twice every day since I arrived."
Brent shrugged. '"Twas nothing. Evan, I wanted to apologize—''
Evan waved his good hand. "No need for that."
"Even so, I said...I said some unforgivable things, and I'm sorry. I know you would never knowingly hurt Emily. I, more than anyone, understand how irresistible she is."
Odd how, despite the fire of his wounds, the mention of her name still sent a bittersweet ache clear to the bone.
He should leave it at that. But he couldn't help asking, "How is she?"
"Good. Worried about you." Brent smiled again, a bit wryly this time. "I suspect she'd have come here to check on you herself if I hadn't promised her daily reports. But otherwise, she's well. The shop prospers, and despite that, she's becoming more and more accepted. Indeed, I'm afraid she'll soon be up to her pretty earlobes in suitors. I'd better get that ring on her finger quickly."
"Ring?" The word struck Evan like a blow to the chest. "You've proposed and she's accepted?"
"Not...quite. Oh, I've made my intentions clear. She's not given me a definite answer—yet. You know, if it were possible for the two of you—''
"It's not." Sorrowful finality colored his words. He'd canceled part of his debt to Richard, but the other was still to be paid.
Brent smiled faintly. "I think I fell in love with her that day in her shop. Though I want her to taste the pleasures of being a beautiful woman in her first Season, I must admit I'm selfish enough to claim her as soon as she'll let me." His gaze left Evan's face and wandered away. "I couldn't bear to lose her now."
A sentiment Evan could well appreciate. Although it caused a physical ache almost as painful as his wounds to think of her wed to another, she deserved a good man like Brent to love and protect her. "I wish you happy, then." He drew in a slow breath. "Take care of her."
Brent studied his face in silence. Finally he gave Evan a brief nod. "I will. Thank you."
All the same, he didn't think he'd be able to bear witnessing the happy courtship. "When do you expect..."
"I'm not sure. I hope to be able to make the announcement shortly, with the ceremony toward the end of the Season. I suppose I can wait that long." Brent laughed, the sound joyous. “How about a double wedding?''
God forbid. Evan shook his head violently and regretted it, the motion seeming to set large rocks crashing about inside his skull with a force that reverberated to his toes.
While he was engaged in halting them, Brent rose. "I'll leave you to rest. Glad to see you so much improved. And thank you. Your...your friendship means a lot," he finished gruffly.
