Chapter 44
Nathaniel and Grace had been sitting in the salon, enjoying the quiet that followed dinner. Abigail had left near two hours ago, wrapped in her cloak and kissed on the cheek by Grace before stepping into the waiting carriage. She'd seemed tired, but content.
A decanter of port sat between them, each with a glass in hand. The fire had burned low. Outside, the sky had deepened into dusk. They spoke in low voices about the townhouse they had purchased for Sophia and Jasper—a wedding gift the young couple would be arriving to claim any day now.
Both turned at the sound of brisk footsteps in the corridor.
Their butler entered, his expression polite but puzzled. "Pardon the interruption, my lord, but a footman from the Duke of Winterset has called. He asks to speak with you."
Nathaniel stood at once. Grace set her glass down with a soft clink.
The footman was shown in a moment later, his hat tucked respectfully beneath his arm. He looked barely twenty—and visibly anxious.
"My lord, my lady," he said with a quick bow. "Forgive the intrusion. His Grace sent me to inquire after Lady Winterset. She was expected home some time ago but hasn't yet arrived. We hoped she might still be here—resting, perhaps?"
"She left nearly two hours ago," Nathaniel said, his brow furrowing. "She said she wanted to be home before dinner."
The footman's mouth tightened. "Yes, my lord. His Grace is... understandably concerned."
Grace stood at once and rang for their footman. "Please have our carriage readied. We'll leave at once for the Duke of Winterset's townhome."
The footman bowed. "Very good, my lady."
Grace and Nathaniel moved quickly to the front hall, the quiet of the house replaced
by sudden urgency. Grace fastened her cloak with unsteady fingers.
"If she's not here," she said, voice tight, "and not there—then where is she?"
Nathaniel didn't answer. He reached for the front door and opened it—and nearly collided with a man on the other side.
The constable took a startled half-step back, arm raised mid-knock. "Your Grace?" he asked, removing his hat quickly. "Lord Everly?"
"Yes," Nathaniel said, his voice clipped.
The man gave a short nod. "I've been sent by the Duke of Winterset—there's been an accident. The Duchess's carriage overturned near Grosvenor Square. One of the horses was spooked. She's been taken to St. Bartholomew's Hospital."
The world narrowed.
Grace let out a soft, strangled cry, her hand flying to her mouth.
Nathaniel's voice came hoarse. "Her condition?"
"She was found unconscious, my lord, and her injuries are quite serious. The duke is already on his way to her and asked that you be informed. He thought you would wish to be there."
For a moment, no one moved.
Nathaniel turned to Jasper's footman. "Go on back to His Grace's estate," he said. "We'll be taking our carriage to the hospital."
Moments later, he and Grace climbed into the coach. The ride was short but silent. Grace stared out the window, eyes shining with worry, while Nathaniel sat forward, fists clenched against his knees.
Please, God. Please let her live.
The carriage halted outside St. Bartholomew's—London's oldest hospital, grim and grey as a lamplighter moved from lamp to lamp, bringing the gaslights to life. A footman helped Grace down. Nathaniel took her arm as they hurried up the steps.
Inside, the air smelled of medicinal tinctures, the cloying sweetness of laudanum, and the pervasive undertone of illness clinging to the ancient stone walls. A nurse in uniform greeted them just inside the door. Before Nathaniel could speak, she nodded toward the corridor ahead.
"He's already here," she said. "The Duke of Winterset. A physician is with him now."
They moved quickly down the hall. Another nurse stepped aside as they reached a small receiving room.
Jasper stood inside—pale and visibly shaken. His coat had been discarded, his cravat loosened, and his hair slightly mussed, as though he'd run his hands through it a dozen times. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his hands trembled faintly.
A physician was speaking in low tones.
Jasper turned as they entered.
"She's alive," he said at once. "Still unconscious, but alive."
Nathaniel crossed to him at once and gripped his shoulder.
"What happened?" Grace asked, her voice trembling.
"The carriage overturned near Grosvenor Square after one of the horses took fright," the physician said soberly.
"Her Grace was thrown hard against the door before the coach toppled.
She has a broken collarbone, two cracked ribs, and a cut just above her temple.
But it's the blow to her head that concerns us most. She has not yet regained consciousness, and we cannot know the full extent until she wakes. "
"And when might that be?" Nathaniel asked hoarsely.
The man shook his head. "Hours. Or days. There's no way to say."
Grace sank slowly into a nearby chair, her fingers trembling in her lap.
"She was alone," Jasper whispered. "She didn't even want to go. I sent her—"
"You sent her because she needed rest," Nathaniel said firmly. "It was the right thing."
Just then, the door creaked open. A nurse appeared.
"She's been moved to a quieter ward," the nurse said with care. "His Grace may keep her company now, if he wishes. When Her Grace comes to, it's likely you'll be able to see her."
Jasper straightened at once.
"We'll stay," Grace said quietly. "As long as you need."
Jasper nodded slowly. His eyes looked hollow, but there was a determined set to his jaw now.
"She'll want to see you both when she wakes," he said softly. "I'll return soon to tell you how she is. If they'll permit it, perhaps you can visit then."
They watched him follow the nurse down the darkened corridor, vanishing into the hush of the long ward.
Nathaniel and Grace, the Duke and Duchess of Everly, remained seated in silence, the weight of the world pressing on their shoulders.
Abigail was so very loved. To know her was to love her. She was kind and warm and strong—and in recent weeks, she'd begun to smile again. Laugh again. The shadows that had haunted her had begun to lift under Jasper's quiet tenderness.
And now she lay broken.
They could not imagine a world without her in it.
They bowed their heads in the flickering candlelight, their prayers silent but fervent pleading that when Abigail awoke, she would still be herself.
Unharmed. Unshaken. Whole.