Chapter 17
T heo awoke in what, under other circumstances – namely, those in which his ribs not been thoroughly bruised by Benedict’s fists, his side perforated by Miss Charlotte and the entire matter inelegantly stitched by a physician of dubious professional constitution – might have been considered a very fine bed indeed.
The sort of bed, in fact, in which a gentleman of his former habits might reasonably expect to find a discarded stocking hanging from the bedpost, and a young lady of regrettable judgement slumbering contentedly at his side.
Alas, on this occasion, there was neither stocking nor slumbering beauty to be found – and, most disappointingly of all, the bed did not belong to Miss Henrietta Tolliver.
Not that he had ever seen Hetty’s bed, of course – but he was imagining it now rather more than was strictly necessary.
At present, however, he could not quite determine whether he remained among the living or had been unceremoniously conveyed to the next world. The ceiling above him was painted with pale blue clouds and a great many plump cherubs, all of whom appeared to be judging him with insipid stares .
Theo let out a cracked and croaking breath. “Ah, heaven. How odd.”
A voice shrieked from beyond the door: “I said white lilies, not cream! Is this to be a wedding or a dairy market?”
Theo winced. “Hell, then,” he amended grimly, recognising Lady Tolliver’s tones with tragic clarity.
The door burst open an instant later, and Lottie swept in with alarming cheer, balancing a tray upon which several unpromising items appeared to be congealing. “Oh excellent, you are awake at last, Lord Langley. You did not die! Not yet, at any rate.”
Theo turned his head, slowly and with considerable personal sacrifice, to cast a wary eye at the tray. “Ought I to be alarmed that you felt the need to qualify it?”
Lottie looked genuinely affronted. “It was meant as encouragement.”
“Mm.”
“I brought you toast,” she added with pride, setting the tray down upon the bedside table with a clatter that sent a jolt of agony through his side. “I took a bite, naturally, to ensure it was not poisoned.”
“How very considerate.”
She stood back and clasped her hands behind her back, rocking upon her heels in the manner of one attempting to look innocent by force of posture alone. “I also endeavoured to fluff your pillows,” she continued, “but you emitted a dreadful groaning sound, so I concluded it best to desist.”
“That was, in all likelihood, the correct decision. ”
“I am sorry for accidentally shooting you,” she went on. “Truly I am. I did attempt to procure brandy for you in lieu of tea, but Mama caught me in the pantry and declared that, should I be found smuggling spirits again, I should be sentenced to needlepoint for a fortnight.”
Theo closed his eyes briefly. “A punishment which, I daresay, may prove more ruinous than the bullet.”
“Indeed,” Lottie said, with feeling.
“Let us hope your marksmanship improves faster than your embroidery.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Still, I feel I ought to be allowed to assist in some meaningful capacity. I feel awfully responsible.”
“You are awfully responsible.”
“Yes, but quite by mistake.”
Theo sighed. “That does appear to be the theme of the week.”
There came a knock at the door, and Hetty entered a moment later, prompting Lottie to straighten at once and adopt an expression of unconvincing innocence.
Hetty took in the scene – the toast with a bite missing, the tepid tea, and Theo’s pained expression – and said flatly, “You have been in here scarcely three minutes. How, precisely, is it already a disaster?”
“I am being exceedingly nurturing,” Lottie replied, wounded. “Lord Langley even said so.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You were certainly thinking it.”
Hetty raised her brow. “Out. ”
Lottie sighed, gathered the tray with a great air of martyrdom and swept towards the door.
“I shall inform Mama you have rejected my ministrations, Lord Langley,” she added darkly.
“She shall say it is because of your humours.” And with that ominous pronouncement, she swept out – toast, teacup and all – leaving the chamber quiet once more.
Hetty remained by the doorway for a moment longer, before the click of the latch announced she had drawn the door shut behind her.
“Have you come to smother me with a pillow?” Theo asked hoarsely. “If so, do give me a moment’s warning. I should like to appear surprised.”
“You appear sufficiently near death without any assistance,” she replied coolly, moving to the window and drawing back the curtain with a brisk tug. “Between Benedict’s fists, Lottie’s bullet and your own idiocy, you have managed to bring yourself halfway to the grave without aid.”
“Charming bedside manner.”
“I am not your nurse,” she said sweetly, looking out to the morning.
“My nurse would not call me an idiot.”
“No,” she replied, turning to face him, “but I daresay she would think it. As, I believe, would every sensible person within a ten-mile radius of Mayfair.”
“You wound me.”
“Not nearly so efficiently as my sister. ”
Theo emitteda wheezing laugh that ended in a wince. “ Touché. You might do well to consider enrolling her in some sort of duelling society. She would serve us admirably. Might even turn a profit.”
Hetty crossed the room and seated herself in the chair beside his bed, folding her hands tightly in her lap. “For the record,” she said, after a moment, “I did attempt to persuade the household that the blame did not lie with you.”
“Indeed? Because it did not.”
She gave him a pointed look.
“Not entirely,” he amended.
She narrowed her eyes at him further.
“Oh, very well – it was mostly not my fault.”
She rolled her eyes. “I suppose it is rather too late to suggest we all simply agree never to speak of any of it again?”
Theo considered her. “Are you referring to the duel? Or our little fiction of an engagement? Or, dare I say it, to those two rather memorable kisses?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ideally, all of the above.”
“That is a great many things to forget. And I must confess, I possess an excellent memory where scandal is concerned.”
As if to underscore his remark with misplaced bravado, he made a valiant and very unwise attempt to sit upright.
He managed no more than a few inches before a groan escaped him and his hand flew to his side, pressing against the bandages.
A patch of red was already beginning to bloom through the linen of his shirt.
“Blast,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Hetty rose at once. “Do not move, you absolute idiot. ”
“I was merely – ”
“Attempting to expire again? Yes, I can see that. Must you do it upright? Lay down at once.”
Without waiting for leave, she bent beside him with her hands already at the hem of his shirt, brushing the linen aside to inspect the wound. Theo had the good sense to stop breathing as her fingers ran along his bare skin and over the crude stitching.
“The stitching has held,” she murmured, inspecting the binding with clinical detachment that belied the colour draining from her face. “Though how, I cannot say. The man stitched you as though he were darning a sock.”
“I thought I might bleed out fashionably,” he offered, because her face was so very close to him, and her hands were on his skin, and silence made the moment feel far too real.
“Do be serious,” she said, adjusting the edge of the bandage with uncharacteristic gentleness.
“I find seriousness most dreadfully overrated.”
“You are not to jest on this matter.”
He blinked, startled by the sudden change in her tone.
“It is not amusing,” she continued, more quietly now.
“I slept past sunrise. Lottie had already departed by the time I awoke, and when I realised – ” She faltered, drawing back, though her hand remained resting lightly against his ribs.
“I feared I should not reach you both in time. That I might find you – or Benedict – or perhaps both of you – stretched upon the grass like some absurdly tragic scene from a gothic romance.” Her voice dropped further.
“And then I arrived… only to find Lottie waving that dreadful pistol about as though it were a bonnet at a country fair – ” She paused again, her throat working.
“It was my hand,” she confessed at last.
Theo frowned. “I do not understand your meaning.”
“When the pistol discharged,” she said, without lifting her eyes. “It was my hand. I was trying to wrest it from Lottie. I thought I had hold of it. And then you – ” Her voice cracked. “You made that sound. That dreadful, strangled sound. And then you fell.”
Theo swallowed, wincing as pain clawed up his side. “Hetty – ”
“You were bleeding. On the ground. Because of me.”
He regarded her quietly. Her eyes remained fixed on the place where her hand hovered near the wound, though her fingers lay still, curled against his ribs. She was pale, drawn and quiet clearly ashamed.
He reached out, slowly and with no small amount of discomfort, placing his hand gently atop hers. “Hetty,” he said, as gently as breath would allow, “you were trying to stop it.”
“I failed.”
“Well – yes,” he allowed, with the barest trace of his usual levity. “Though in fairness, your record of successful duel interruptions has never been particularly impressive.”
She responded with a soft inhalation.
“And for what it is worth,” he added, “if I were to be shot by anyone… I believe I am rather glad it was you.”
She glared at him through glistening lashes. “That is, without question, the most idiotic thing you have ever said.”
“Give me time,” he said weakly. “I am grievously injured. One cannot expect coherence under such conditions. ”
She gave a choked laugh and then sighed. “I was frightened, Theo. You are my oldest friend, and my – ”
Theo waited, his heart suddenly, inexplicably still.