Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
Arough, wet cloth on her face. Warm air blowing on her. More of the roughness and wetness.
She opened her left eye. Her right eye wouldn’t open. Dust motes floating in the air above her. A long, angular brown thing with big, intelligent eyes moved into her field of view and licked her.
A horse’s head.
Something very heavy was lying on her. She moved her left arm slightly. She was so sticky. She turned her head to the side to see where she was and was pierced with agonizing pain. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, it seemed much, much later. There was a horrible sound. A screeching or screaming or howling, she couldn’t tell. She was lying in a man’s lap, and he was holding her. He was where the sound was coming from. She wanted to tell him to be quiet.
It was night. A room. A bed. There were many candles. Low voices. A woman’s voice. A man’s voice. A low rumble.
That rumble. She raised her head slightly.
The woman’s voice. “She’s opened her eyes again.”
A man’s face next to her. Dark-red hair. Concerned green eyes. Wrong man.
“My lady, can ye speak?”
Not the right man. Where was he?
“Harry.” Yes. Yes. That velvet, sandy voice was right.
A large shadow, getting closer. She lifted her left hand and scrabbled at the shadow. Finally, she grasped a small fold in the fabric of his waistcoat and tugged. He bent over. Jaw, neck, a pulse. She turned her head slightly. Warm. She inhaled. Cinnamon.
Him.
He waited, hovering. His ear was by her mouth.
She took a deep breath. Pain. She tried to lick her lips. Cracked.
“Tommy,” she croaked.
Before she went unconscious again, she felt several small splashes of hot water fall on her face from above.
Thomas and Dr. Andrews were closeted in the library.
“’Tis too soon to be sure of anything. But she was conscious. She said yer name. These are good signs, my lord,” Dr. Andrews said.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Thomas felt hollow.
“I will examine yer nephew’s body more closely, but it looks like he died from a stab wound to the heart, with the knife entering just below the breastbone. I believe almost all the blood we found is his.”
Dr. Andrews took a bundle from his pocket. It was a handkerchief wrapped around something small. He unfolded the handkerchief, and a narrow brown object lay there.
“One of the grooms found this on the stable floor, crusted into the blood. ’Twas open, he said.”
Thomas picked up the object. He scraped it with a thumbnail. The dried blood flaked off and showed an opalescent white. Mother of pearl.
The doctor cleared his throat. “’Twas on a chain with two keys. I took the liberty of removing the knife from the chain and entrusting the chain and the keys to Smythe. I suggest ye keep that until we can talk to Harry. I mean, Lady Drake.”
“Yes.”
“Ye ken, my lord, ’twould take someone with a thorough understanding of anatomy to kill someone with one blow from so small a knife.”
Thomas said bitterly, “Or someone clever who understood angles and forces.”
“Nae, nae, ye misunderstand me,” said the doctor hastily. “I meant someone like me, a physician, or perhaps a trained killer, a mercenary, an assassin. I have heard rumors of gambling debts? Perhaps some cheating. Some ruthless enemies made. Perhaps?”
Thomas thought. “Perhaps.”
“A despicable man is hired to find yer nephew, intending to get payment of a debt. He comes to the country and finds Mr. Drake. He threatens him. Mr. Drake says he willnae pay. Lady Drake comes upon the two in the stables and fearlessly tries to intervene. She is knocked unconscious by a blow to the head. The assassin stabs Mr. Drake and runs off.”
“But Harry’s dress . . . my nephew’s trousers . . .”
“I think if anyone asks, ye will find the grooms and the stable boys will swear they came upon my lady fully dressed. Mr. Drake, as well. And nae weapon was found.”
“I think,” said Thomas slowly. “I think it is as you said.”
“I will alert the magistrate there is a mercenary assassin abroad in the countryside, and he has killed yer nephew for his gambling debts.”
Thomas hung his head. “Thank you, Alasdair.”
“Ye have nae asked if Lady Drake sustained any injuries besides those to her head and face and the rebreaking of the bones in her right hand.”
Thomas shook his head.
“As her husband, ye should ken—”
“No.”
“’Tis incumbent upon me to inform ye—”
“No!” Thomas roared.
Silence. The clock counted off the strokes of eleven.
“At this moment, Dr. Andrews, Harry is alive,” Thomas said in a strained voice. “That is all I care for. If Harry wakes up and is of a mind to . . . to . . . tell me what my nephew did, then that is different—"
“When Harry wakes up, my lord.”
“Yes, when. Right now, the only thing keeping me sane is that her heart beats, her lungs fill. Harry may care about other things. But, at this moment, I cannot bring myself to care about anything besides that.”
A rap at the library door from Whitson. “Begging your pardon, my lord, Doctor. Smythe says to come at once because—”
Thomas tore out of the library with the doctor close behind him.
“—her ladyship is awake,” Whitson finished.
Harry was awake. Very awake. Sitting up in bed and thirstily drinking water.
“But that’s not what happened.” Harry finished her cup of water and looked at Thomas and Alasdair.
She wanted another cup of water, but Thomas had sent Smythe out of the room.
“Phillip pushed me down, and I stabbed him, and he hit me with a horseshoe. Or he hit me with a horseshoe, and I stabbed him. I’m not sure which. ”
“My lady,” Dr. Andrews said gently, “maybe yer mind has been confused greatly by yer injury.”
Harry did feel sluggish. And she hurt in many places. However, the doctor and Thomas were wrong.
“Alasdair, I’m not that confused.”
Thomas sat down on the edge of her bed and took her left hand.
“Harry, you were in the right. No matter what you or he . . . did, I know you were in the right. What we—what Alasdair and I want you to do now is to lie.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “Why didn’t you say that?”
The doctor went home, promising to look in first thing tomorrow. Smythe brought Harry some more water and then went down to have a very late dinner at Harry’s insistence. And Harry said the nurse who had just arrived from Tavishbourn should stay out for now.
She wanted to be with her husband. Just him.
Thomas sat on the edge of the bed, holding Harry’s left hand. Even though it was her only good hand, she would let him hold it all night.
“I’m sorry, Lord Drake.”
“What are you sorry for, Harry?” His voice was even, but she thought she could hear some bitterness there.
“Phillip is dead. And you and I and Alasdair, we three will always know I killed him.”
“You were protecting yourself.”
“I could have stabbed him somewhere else. The blade is short. Almost anywhere else on his body, save his neck, would not have killed him. Dr. Andrews could have saved him.”
“But if you hadn’t killed him, he could have gone on hurting you.”
Harry stared up at the canopy of the bed. “All right, well, then I’m not sorry.”
“Good,” said Thomas.
“Good,” said Harry and looked him in the eyes. “And he didn’t rape me. He was going to, but he didn’t quite . . . get to it, I think.”
“I’m glad for you, Harry.”
“I wasn’t frightened of it. But I thought it likely that if he raped me, you would kill him, and that’s what frightened me. That you would hang for killing your nephew.”
“Yes,” Thomas said and looked away from her. “Yes, I would have killed him.”
“My killing him before he raped me seemed like a much better plan than your hanging. You see, I really can’t do without you.”
Thomas began to sob.
She let go of his hand and used her good left arm to pull him down and put his head in her lap. She touched his hair lightly and clucked her tongue in imitation of her stepmother.
She concluded he wept for Phillip.
How he must hate me.