Chapter Eighteen #2
Lady Violet’s whispered instruction to Sophia after the wedding breakfast. At the time, she hadn’t known what to make of the words, but now, looking at Roxboro, she had some idea, although Violet could never have imagined this scenario.
“Your Grace,” Stone said. “I’ll stay with the duke.”
“Yes,” Dr. Reading agreed. “A lady such as yourself—”
“Forgive me, Dr. Reading,” Sophia returned crisply. “But you don’t know what sort of lady I am. I will nurse my husband, with Barstow’s assistance. And Stone’s.” She glanced at the butler who appeared pleased by her demand. “Now, what must I do?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Send for me immediately if his wounds worsen. You know what I refer to, Barstow, do you not? Redness. Pus. Flesh not knitting together. There’s laudanum for pain and his—other symptoms.”
“I saw many fevers and putrid wounds while I served England, Dr. Reading. I’ll send word immediately should the duke’s wounds worsen. And as to the other, as I’ve said, I helped my uncle who loved gin far too much.” Barstow looked at Sophia. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”
“Putrid wounds. Fever. Some sort of symptoms caused by lack of spirits.” Sophia jerked her chin. “Very well.” The fatigue of the last few hours crept under her skin, but she pushed it aside. Roxboro would not die. She would make sure of it.
When Barstow had yelled to fetch Dr. Reading even as Stone helped him carry Roxboro from the carriage, Sophia had stood still on the drive, deathly calm.
She followed his blood-stained form up the stairs as he was carried to his rooms. Didn’t weep or collapse into a fit of tears, though she’d dearly wanted to.
The entire household looked to her for guidance. Strength.
Because Sophia was the Duchess of Roxboro.
And even though she’d never wanted such a lofty title and had held it only little more than a week, Sophia would not fold. Nor crumple. A duchess was made of sterner stuff.
She had called for hot water and towels, instructing Ann and two of the maids, knowing instinctively that all that blood must be cleaned away.
“Your Grace,” Barstow said gently, as he and another footman had placed Roxboro on the bed. “Stone and I can handle this.”
“No. I’m staying. What must I do?”
Roxboro’s entire shirt had been soaked with blood; his coat long gone and discarded. Cravat hanging by a silken thread at his throat.
Barstow held up a pair of scissors and cut off her husband’s clothes, blocking the view of Roxboro from the others in the room. After pulling the sheet up to the waist, he said, “The worst of it is confined to the duke’s chest and arms.”
The worst of it…the large gaping maws across Roxboro’s torso were so deep in places she could see—inside to the muscle beneath. Barstow instructed her to hold a clean towel to his side as it still seeped blood, which Sophia had done without question.
You will not die, Roxboro. I forbid it. I’ve not yet voiced my annoyance with you.
“Bring me brandy,” Barstow ordered Stone. “You know where he keeps it. Where is Dr. Reading?”
Stone rushed to the armoire and threw open the doors. “For emergencies.” He plucked out a bottle of brandy hidden in the back. “Reading has been sent for. He should be here any moment.” The bottle was passed to Barstow.
“No,” Sophia protested, thinking the butler meant to force some of the amber liquid down Roxboro’s throat. “It will make things worse. I’m sure of it.”
“Not to drink, Your Grace. To clean the wound,” Barstow assured her. “We used it on the battlefield. It helps.” He took the bottle of brandy Stone offered and spilled some of it into the gash on Roxboro’s chest.
When Dr. Reading had appeared, he nodded his approval, cleaning every single cut on Roxboro and splashing each one liberally with brandy, before stitching up the largest. Disturbing to watch as Dr. Reading blithely used a needle on Roxboro as if he were a bit of embroidery.
She did not look away.
Six stab wounds. Two of them so near Roxboro’s lungs and heart, Dr. Reading marveled at Roxboro’s luck for having an assailant with such poor aim.
According to the surviving footman and the driver, the carriage had been attacked after leaving The Sheepshead for The Pillory.
There was a long stretch of road which was rarely traveled except by those going to Roxboro’s estate.
Thick trees lined the route, the perfect cover to hide and waylay the duke’s carriage.
Two men, both wearing handkerchiefs over their faces to hide their features, jumped into the road, killing first the unlucky Milburn, and then taking a bludgeon to John, hitting him so forcefully that he fell from the driver’s seat.
And the second footman?
I rolled off the carriage and into the woods, Your Grace. I knew they’d kill me too if I didn’t. Ran alongside when they drove off. One of them jumped inside with the duke.
The young man, Samson was his name, took a deep breath and had looked away before continuing. He could be no more than twenty.
The carriage rocked back and forth. I knew—the duke was in danger.
The door opened and—a body fell out before I could catch up.
Not the duke, Your Grace, but his assailant.
Dead. The man who’d taken John’s place, pulled the horses to a stop and jumped off the seat cursing something fierce.
I lunged and tackled him to the ground. His Grace threw open the door, a pistol in his hand as we fought.
“Don’t worry, Samson,” the duke said to me. “I’m a good shot.”
Samson had swallowed, throat bobbing as he related to Sophia and Barstow what had happened. The poor footman had been horrified Roxboro might have died under his watch.
Shot him straight between the eyes, Mr. Barstow. The duke weren’t wrong. He’s excellent aim. He was bleeding so bad. I put him and John in the carriage. I unharnessed one of the horses, meaning to ride to The Pillory for help.
“You should rest, Your Grace,” Barstow said in a quiet tone from behind her.
“He won’t awaken…for some time.” The butler’s words turned thick, the unspoken knowledge that Roxboro might not wake up at all sitting between them.
“I’ll have Mary come up and sit with the duke while you have something to eat. ”
“No, I want to stay with him,” Sophia looked up at the butler. “Please see to the others. They’ll need to retrieve…Milburn. Inform his family.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Ensure that Milburn’s family is informed and…
give my deepest sympathies,” she croaked, closer to tears than she’d been since watching a bloodied Roxboro pulled from the carriage.
“The duke owes them a debt for Milburn’s devotion to duty.
We will not forget. I will ring for you, Barstow, should I need assistance. ”
Once the butler departed, Sophia pulled up the stool Dr. Reading had used. She laid a hand on Roxboro’s own. His skin was a sickly hue, the color of paste. Or soured milk. Dark lashes fanned across the striking cheekbones, not moving as he took shallow breaths.
“I’m so…annoyed with you, feckless sot,” she murmured, dabbing at Roxboro’s forehead with a cloth.
The heat of his forehead burned her fingers, far warmer than he’d been an hour ago.
The fever had started. “Having Damon send me ahead because you lacked the courage to tell me you didn’t wish to endure my company on the journey. ”
Roxboro made a sound, head twisting as if listening to her.
“Did you know,” Sophia said casually. “That ‘three-legged stool’ also refers to a gentleman’s anatomy. My maid, Ann is her name, taught that to me on our wedding night. I wasn’t going to use it, of course.” She wrung out the cloth and dipped it once more into the basin of water.
A raspy noise came from Roxboro’s chest. He panted slightly. Settled again.
“I’m sure, given I’m so bloody annoyed, you’re probably wondering why I’ve chosen to sit with you.
Well, you’re my husband, whether you wish it or not.
And I have come to the unwelcome conclusion; I don’t dislike you as much as I should.
But that could change at any moment once you are well.
Also, and I will insist on this, but I think,” her voice broke just a little.
“That Samson deserves a bonus for saving your life.”
Roxboro twitched once more, eyes moving beneath his eyelids.
“Good, you agree. I didn’t want to argue over it.”
Samson had the presence of mind to bind Roxboro’s wounds even as the duke instructed him to turn the carriage and retrieve John, a short distance behind them. The footman had only just decided to ride for The Pillory to seek help when the footmen Barstow dispatched arrived.
“No one was more surprised than I to discover you could handle yourself in a fight. Honestly, Roxboro, I was shocked. As is the entire staff.”
Not entirely true. Barstow hadn’t seemed surprised at all.
“Clumsy duke that you are,” she halted and pressed a cloth to his forehead.
“I would have thought it more likely you’d shoot your own foot off.
I wouldn’t have guessed you would remember there were pistols under the seat since your memory is spotty at best.” A tiny sob escaped her lips.
“And being able to aim properly while bleeding to death was truly inspired. Not to mention your use of a knife.” A tear trailed down one cheek. “Roxboro,” she choked.
Sophia laid her head down on the bed, cheek next to her husband’s chest so that she could hear the rattle of his breathing.
The terror and fear at the last few hours bubbled to the surface, no matter how she tried to stop it.
She sobbed, wretchedly, against Roxboro, soaking the sheets with her tears while he stayed silent and unmoving.
I do not dislike him.
Quite the opposite.