Chapter 41
“Summon the physician at once,” Jasper heard as he ran towards the upper passage. Whose voice was that? Morleigh’s? “Now. Wake the stables. Send the fastest rider.”
As he reached the landing, he saw a footman barking orders. “You heard His Grace. Dr Bell first, and if he is not at home, fetch Mr Partridge from the village. Go!”
Later, Jasper could not have said what he imagined upon hearing that first cry, only that every horror presented itself at once.
Had Charlotte been discovered and dragged forcibly from her room?
Had she tried the window and fallen? Had that cursed pistol gone off?
Had she, in some sudden, dreadful revulsion of their plan, decided that even escape was only another form of control?
Was she already dead? The thought struck him with such force that he nearly missed the last step.
He loved her. Good God, he loved her.
Loved her as one loves the thing that may yet destroy one; loved her as one loves breath after nearly drowning; loved her with such terror that by the time he reached the upper passage, he was half-mad with it.
Doors were opening everywhere.
“What has happened?” someone whispered.
Their hostess, Lady Malverne emerged from onto the landing with admirable composure.
“Back inside, if you please,” she said at once.
“There is nothing to be gained by crowding the passage. Mrs Dorling, your candle is dripping upon the carpet. Sir John, kindly put on a coat before you alarm the maids.”
Jasper scarcely heard her. He saw only the Tollivers’ chamber door standing open across from Charlotte’s room.
When his gaze found Charlotte—pale, dressed for travel, eyes enormous, alive—the relief hit him so hard he nearly staggered.
She ran to him without thought, crashing into his arms, which closed around her before he had any time to think of propriety, witnesses, America, ruin, or the duke who would murder him before breakfast. She was shaking so violently that all other considerations fell away.
“It’s Papa,” she said.
He looked over her head and saw the room beyond, where Lord Tolliver lay on the floor beside the bed, his nightshirt open at the throat. The Duke of Morleigh knelt beside him with his usual steadiness, issuing orders without once raising his voice.
Lady Tolliver knelt near her husband’s head, making small broken sounds that seemed all the more terrible for being nothing like her usual performances. “He said his chest,” she kept saying. “He said it was his chest. I thought it nerves.”
Lady Malverne moved along the passage behind Jasper, shepherding guests back. “Into your rooms, if you please. His Grace has the matter in hand.”
The doors reluctantly began to close.
Jasper stood in the corridor with Charlotte sobbing into his chest.
“Oh God,” she said, the words muffled against his waistcoat. “Oh God, Jasper. Papa. How could I? How could I even think to leave him?”
Jasper closed his eyes and held her tighter.
“How could I have packed my things?” she whispered. “He was across the corridor. He was just there. And I was going to—”
“Hush, now.”
Inside the chamber, Lord Tolliver groaned faintly.
Charlotte tore herself from Jasper’s arms at once and turned towards the door. “Papa?”
Morleigh glanced up. His eyes moved from her to Jasper, and in that brief look Jasper saw that the duke understood far too much. To his credit, Morleigh said nothing of it. “Do not crowd him,” he said instead. “But you may come here, Charlotte. Quietly.”
Jasper watched as she knelt beside her father, taking his limp hand in both of hers. He turned away, because there were some things a man had no right to watch too closely, even when they were breaking his own heart.
Lady Malverne approached him in the passage.
“Mr Deverell,” she said, with only the faintest glance at his greatcoat, his boots, and the hat still clutched in one hand. “You appear prepared for travel.”
Jasper looked down at himself. “I heard the cry.”
“Indeed.” Her eyes were sharp, though her voice remained mild. “Then be useful enough to justify your presence.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Stand there. Keep the guests back. If anyone attempts to enter, look aristocratic and immovable.”
“I am only the heir to an earl,” he said dryly.
“At midnight, in a crisis, that will suffice.” She swept away before he could answer.