Chapter 28
Chapter
Flat on his back, Charles tried to recover the breath knocked from his lungs, fighting against the pressure cinching his rib cage.
Against the panic that swelled with every frantic heartbeat.
Against the darkness flashing across his vision.
But his body wouldn’t obey his mental commands.
Instead, it warred against him as he wheezed, desperate for air.
Desperate to help.
Someone had attacked Reverie. She’d screamed his name, but he’d been struck down before he could reach her. Margaret’s cry echoed in his mind over and over. Where was she? What if she was hurt? He needed to find her. He needed to get up, but . . . which way was up?
Light splashed over Charles, and he squinted at the overwhelming brightness.
“Mr. Noble, are you all right?”
The familiar voice wrenched a gasp from his chest. She was okay. Thank God, she was okay. Soft hands gathered Charles’ shuddering fists and nestled them between warm palms. Lady Margaret’s face appeared in his line of sight. Holding his hands. Holding his gaze.
“Mr. Noble . . . what can you feel?”
Nothing. Everything. Too much.
“Tell me one thing you can feel.”
Charles shut his eyes, blocking out the too-muchness. “Hands.” His eyes opened, gaze fixing on the thumb stroking his knuckles in a soothing rhythm. “I f-feel y-your hands.”
“Good, Mr. Noble. Now what can you see?”
“L-light.” Reflecting off the golden flecks in her green eyes.
“And what can you hear?”
Charles felt his breathing adjust to match the tempo of Margaret’s thumb as it glided steadily across his skin. He swallowed. “Your voice.” Tender and reassuring.
“That’s right. Now, inhale to a count of four, hold the breath for a four count, and then exhale slowly, to a count of six. Then tell me what you smell.”
Like a musician following the directions of a conductor, Charles did as he was bid. “Machine oil . . . lily of the valley.” The two scents he’d come to associate with Reverie.
Charles heaved a sigh unbroken by tremors. The suffocating weight in his chest had abated, and his heartbeat, though still rapid, was starting to normalize.
“Can you hand me the keys, Mr. Noble?”
Retrieving the keys from his trouser pocket with an unsteady hand, he surrendered them to Lady Margaret, and she smiled at him. “I’ll be right back. Just lie still and keep breathing.”
Charles nodded, triggering a throb in the back of his skull.
He groaned. He must’ve hit his head on something when he fell.
Keys jangled in the hallway, and then a trio of voices talked over one another in rapid succession: Attacker fled .
. . not long . . . hurry. Pounding footsteps drifted off and away, and then Lady Margaret was with him once more.
“Let’s see if we can get you upright. Careful now.”
Kneeling beside him on the floor, Lady Margaret aided him into a seated position.
The room spun, and she guided him to lean back against a cold metal surface.
A file cabinet? Charles shut his eyes, but he could feel Lady Margaret’s keen gaze.
She pressed a cloth to the back of his head.
“How frequently do you have attacks of panic?”
While her tone was without judgment, Charles was mortified all the same.
How could he face her after this? Not only had he failed to protect her, he’d failed to keep the panic from overpowering him.
He ought to be more resilient. Ought to have more control of his faculties.
A grown man shouldn’t be so easily overwhelmed by intangible emotion.
So easily overcome by a pain that was all in his mind. A pain that wasn’t even real.
“I used to have them too.”
Charles opened his eyes and gaped, slack-jawed. “You d-did?”
The green pools of Lady Margaret’s eyes shone with palpable sympathy as she nodded. “Right after my accident. When I was bedridden and unsure if I’d ever be able to move again. The attacks used to waken me in the night, jarring me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I don’t experience them much anymore.”
“I’ve experienced them as long as I can remember, but they got worse after . . .”
“Your father’s stroke.” Lady Margaret finished the thought he could not.
Charles’ stomach churned as acrid memories rose to his tongue like bile.
“I thought he had a migraine. My father was having a stroke and I sent him to bed to sleep it off. And then I . . . I just left—” He choked on sob.
“I left him alone. To attend a rehearsal at Royal Albert Hall. If I hadn’t chanced to come home early—if I’d not summoned the doctors when I did—we’d have lost him.
All because I l-left to rehearse for a s-s-stupid concert. ”
A hinge creaked, and Lady Oakland appeared in the doorway, pistols drawn. “We lost him, Maggie.” With a frustrated huff, she holstered her weapons. “The cowardly varmint’s gone.”