Chapter Seven
Embleton House
Quarter past six in the evening
“Is this why you summoned me? For pity’s sake, Mother. I did not kill Stella. Matthew believes me. Even the runner believes me. Her maid saw me leave while Stella continued to screech at me. There are people who saw me after. Why can you not believe me?”
His mother paced before the receiving room fireplace, her black bombazine-and-tulle skirts sounding like a dog shaking rain from its coat.
She thumped her fan against her palm, blithely ignoring the precarious hold her black-feathered bonnet had on the crown of her head.
She had returned from the park in a full bristle, demanding to see him, and ranting about the world, the ton, and her sons in particular.
Clearly, many of the pins had slowly worked loose from her hair, and now the bonnet ticked back and forth on her head as she strode, wobbling horribly whenever she changed directions.
“It is not about belief—”
Although Matthew had summoned their physician, he had not yet arrived when the duchess had demanded his presence. Even Howe had appeared cowed by the message as he helped Mark become more presentable. No one argued with Phyllida Rydell.
Except her second son, who now mumbled obscenities under his breath as he struggled to remain still, as every fiber of his being had begun to ache in earnest. He had barely made it down the stairs before collapsing into the chair. “It is for me.”
“It is about the appearance of the thing.” Phyllida pivoted, still giving the fan a good thrumming.
“The rumors shredded through the park today like a wildfire, reaching me before I was ten feet inside the gate. I heard the rumor at least four more times before I could wend my way out, and Lady Cowper even hinted that we might be banned as a family from Almack’s. ”
“Would that be so bad—”
Phyllida stopped short, glaring at him. “You may have abandoned society—”
“In truth, I have not—”
“But you have a sister—”
“I doubt that Daphne will want—”
“And your brothers may be off to war or school or out into the country, but they all still need wives. Respectable wives.”
Matthew appeared in the doorframe of the room, pointing over his shoulder, a quizzical look on his face. “Stephens said you still have not rung for . . .” He looked from his mother to Mark. “Why are you out of bed? What has happened?”
Mark took a deep breath, then coughed, tugging at his shirt collar.
Howe had not been able to persuade him to accept a cravat, as he was barely able to don trousers and a shirt with the valet’s aid.
“Command appearance. The ton is convinced I killed Stella.” He coughed again, and his vision blurred, a ring of black appearing at the edges. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Matthew’s voice held a note of confusion. “That was quick. How did they—ah, the servants. From Miss Ashley’s maid to the drawing rooms of Mayfair.”
“Are you surprised?” Phyllida snapped. “This could ruin us.”
“She was alive when he left her, and he has an alibi. He was somewhere else when she died.”
Phyllida huffed. “A brawl in the Rookeries.” The fan slapped her palm. “That’s no alibi. Those people would say anything for a halfpenny. No one would believe them.”
Mark grabbed a breath. “Possibly because a ha’penny would put bread on their table for a week.”
Phyllida’s glare deepened. “Please do not tell me you have added ‘reformer’ to your list of iniquities.”
Matthew stepped closer to Mark. “You looked like hell this morning. Now you look worse.”
“A good scolding from Mummy always takes the wind from my sails.”
The room fell silent, and Mark shuddered, a flash of chill seizing him. He slumped against the back of the chair as breathing became an issue. “I really do not—” He broke off, gasping as a roar of pain shot across his sternum.
Matthew swept into action, bellowing out the door for Stephens. Then he stepped to Mark’s chair and slid an arm behind his shoulders. Pain speared down his back, and Mark gasped again. “That’s probably not—”
“The doctor is on his way.”
Mark heard rather than saw his mother leave.
“Can you stand? We must get you back upstairs.”
Taking a deeper breath and trying to push through the pain, Mark put weight on his legs and pressed up from the chair.
The deep pain in his back and side shot a sudden weakness down his hips, as the dark ring around his vision expanded.
His voice vanished into a hiss as his knees buckled, and the world turned black.
Then darkness gave way to a riot of color.
Uniforms, crimson and navy. An azure sky, blotched by smoke, black, gray, and white.
The gold of roiling flames. The march seemed interminable.
Endless columns of French soldiers stretched before them, but they never moved closer.
Just marching, churning the ground, firing endless volleys, the ends of their rifles belching . . .
The blast came from his left, and the compression brought earth, debris, and body parts slamming into him.
His horse reared and he tumbled from its back, throwing out his arms and legs in attempt to brace for the impact of the ground.
He hit hard, agony shimmering through his limbs.
He called out to the faces that drifted through the smoke.
Officers. Family. People he cared about.
“Mark!”
The urgent voice pierced the fading cacophony of the battle. Mark stopped moving, stopped fighting, trying to hear, but the roar in his ears made everything sound muffled.
“Mark.” The voice held less insistence; more comfort. Reassurance. “You are safe. Mark. You are home.”
He stilled, although the feel of the grime beneath him, the slickness of blood on his skin, the constant pressure on his limbs held him in thrall. The battering sound of cannon echoed in his head, and pain shuddered through him in constant waves, rolling over him in an unceasing repetition.
Something cool and bitter touched his tongue.
“He did not want laudanum.”
Who was—?
“It will help with the pain.”
Another voice. But one he knew. A man . . .
“He is afraid of its—”
“It is a small dose.”
“So was the first one.”
“He will not come to rely on it. We will see to that.”
The bitterness passed over his tongue and down his throat.
“Is he always like this?”
“Almost every night. Not always this bad.”
Ah. That one was Matthew.
“Does he sleep at all?”
The care in the man’s voice soothed him.
The battlefield faded. The hard ground beneath him turned soft, and the pressure on his arms and legs became warm, calming.
Recognition settled into Mark’s mind as the fog of pain lifted.
Dr. Oakley. His own bed. Mark blinked, then squeezed his eyes shut against the light.
“Not much.” A pause. “Seldom.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
Another voice. A woman. Judith?
“He did not want you to wor—”
“Nonsense. I am his mother.”
Ah.
“Would you have treated him any differently?” Matthew’s voice almost sounded amused.
“Of course not. Do not be foolish. But he is my son.”
Amazing how her words softened as she spoke. Yet still his mother. Mark cleared his throat. “I can hear you.” His words sounded like boots on gravel.
A brief silence filled the room, and Mark opened his eyes. Slowly. Squinting.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Oakley laid a gentle hand on his wrist, fingers pressed against Mark’s pulse.
“Like I have been beaten raw by ruffians in the Rookeries.”
Matthew choked a laugh. “As you have.”
“So . . . not a dream.”
“You could only wish.”
“How long?”
His brother sat cautiously on the opposite side of the bed. “Just over four hours.”
“Ah. A nice nap.”
“You were unconscious at the start. Asleep later.” Dr. Oakley released his wrist. “You have at least two broken ribs and a great deal of internal bruising. You had a dislocated shoulder that apparently reset itself when your brother and your butler picked you up to bring you upstairs. They heard a rather ominous popping sound.”
Mark glanced at Matthew. “Thank you. I think.”
“Also a mild concussion, and possibly a crack in the bone around your left eye.”
“And I thought the headache was just from Mother.”
“Damn it,” Matthew muttered, as he stood again.
Mark tried to force a grin. “Would you expect any less?”
Dr. Oakley cleared his throat. “There may be some good news out of this.”
Mark swung his gaze back to the doctor.
“If the timing of events are as I’ve been led to believe, I can reassure the Bow Street Runner who is handling Miss Ashley’s case that you could have in no way killed her. I will insist he make that well known.”
Phyllida gasped, her hand covering her mouth.
Matthew’s voice was a low growl. “How can you be sure?”
“Because with the injuries he has sustained, whatever the cause, he would have not had the strength or physical ability to strangle a healthy woman. They called me in before she was transported to the morgue. Miss Ashley had been a patient of mine, as is her mother and daughter, and Bow Street wanted to spare her mother or her young housemaid the duty of identifying Miss Ashley. I saw her injuries, and now I have seen yours.”
Phyllida coughed. “An actress was your patient?”
Dr. Oakley nodded, then looked down at Mark, eyebrows arched.
Mark attempted a shrug, but it hurt too much. “I paid for it. I wanted her to have the best.”
Phyllida turned away, hand still pressed to her mouth. Matthew’s eyes gleamed with a question, and Mark merely nodded. Once. Then winced.