Dukes Are Forever Page 20

  “A message from London,” he repeated, looking from one woman to the other. “Which one of you is Katherine Benton?”

  “Me,” Kate whispered, sudden fear knotting her throat. She trembled. Something was terribly wrong. “What is it?”

  “The Countess of Tourney sent a message for you.” He pulled a note from his coat and handed it to her, then his tired eyes glanced past her into the dry warmth of the house. “I’ve been riding hard since yesterday morning, miss. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get some food and sleep before returning.”

  “Of course.” Kate stared at the note in her trembling hand and resisted the anxious urge to rip it open. “There’s stew in the kitchen and a bed for you upstairs. You can stable your horse in the barn.”

  “Thank you, miss.” He touched the brim of his hat with a polite nod and left to tend to his horse.

  Taking a deep, shaking breath, she stared down at the note, the cardstock heavy in her fingers, and her heart somersaulted with gathering dread, so hard her chest ached. What would Edward’s aunt want with her? She was nothing to the woman, certainly no one who rated a special messenger.

  “His Grace?” Mrs. Lutz asked nervously.

  “No,” she answered gravely, “her ladyship, the countess.”

  “Countess?” Awe laced her voice.

  So, special messages from the countess rarely traveled to Greymoor, and that realization only sickened her stomach even more. Unable to resist any longer, her fingers trembling, Kate broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Her eyes scanned the short message—

  Miss Benton,

  My nephew, Edward Westover, your guardian, was gravely wounded this morning, shot in a duel. Dr. Brandon is attending him, but he fears there is little that can be done. I beg you to keep him in your thoughts and prayers.

  Augusta Monvielle

  Countess of Tourney

  “Edward,” she whispered, the breath ripping from her lungs and her body flashing numb.

  She stared at the letter, not believing the message even as she read it over and over until the words blurred from the hot tears filling her eyes. Her heart squeezed so hard in her chest she winced at the sharp pain.

  Gravely wounded…Dear God, no—Edward was dying!

  Clutching the note to her breast as the room spun around her, she reached for the banister to keep from falling and forced herself to breathe. The thought of Edward wounded and covered with blood, crumpled on the ground in agony—Breathe! But her stomach lurched, and she pressed her hand hard to her mouth to keep from casting up her accounts as paralyzing fear and worry swirled inside her.

  Oh God, please let him be all right!

  And then the agony that pulsed through her so intensely she couldn’t breathe for the harshness of it squeezing around her heart gave way, replaced instantly by a flash of outrage. That damnably aggravating, maddening, arrogant, controlling man! He’d believed the worst of her, and because of that he’d banished her half a country away, where now she could do nothing to help him. The tears of fear clinging to her lashes turned to hot drops of restrained fury.

  “His Grace?” Mrs. Lutz prompted gently.

  Kate glanced up at Mrs. Lutz and swiped her hand hard across her eyes, then nodded.

  Confusion and deep worry wrinkled the old housekeeper’s face, and Kate’s heart panged sympathetically as she instantly realized how much Mrs. Lutz cared about Edward, how afraid she was for him. Just as much as she was.

  Resting her hand on the woman’s arm, Kate took a deep breath. “Edward’s been hurt—shot.” When the old woman only stared at her blankly, not understanding, Kate made a gun with her finger and thumb. “Edward…bang.”

  Mrs. Lutz crossed herself quickly. “Dead?”

  “No!” Kate cried out, horrified that she’d even dare utter such a thing. “No, he’s not!”

  If she denied it hard enough, then it wouldn’t come true—it couldn’t! Edward couldn’t die, not before she had the chance to see him again, not while he still hated her for loving him.

  As the old woman frowned, struggling to understand, Kate felt sorry for her for the first time since she’d arrived at Greymoor. “He’ll be fine,” she declared firmly, to reassure herself as much as Mrs. Lutz. “Good. Yes?”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Lutz squeezed her hand, and Kate gave a soft sob. The small gesture was the first friendly one she’d received from the woman, one that left Kate just as stunned as the news in the countess’s note.

  Then the old housekeeper returned to her chair, picked up her Bible, and began to pray for Edward.

  Kate looked down at the note, still clutched so tightly in her hand that the paper had crumpled in her fist. Nothing in Augusta’s message suggested that the countess wanted Kate to come to London and be by Edward’s side, but that was exactly where she wanted to be. Where she needed to be.

  She knew what she had to do.

  And nothing was going to stop her.

  Her heart racing anxiously, Kate waited just long enough to make certain that Mrs. Lutz was deep in her prayers before slipping unseen downstairs to the kitchen, where the messenger’s wet slicker and hat were laid across a chair in front of the stove to dry. Without hesitating, she pulled them on, then silently slipped out the kitchen door.

  Within minutes, she’d saddled the horse in the dark barn. The animal blew out a tired snort and shook at the saddle that once again weighted his back.

  “I’m sorry, pretty. I know you want to rest, but I don’t have a choice. You’re the only horse here.” Biting her lip guiltily, she brushed her hand over its soft muzzle. “If I promise not to make you gallop, will you be a good boy for me? Just a few miles to the next village, where I’ll make certain you get lots of oats and hay.”

  The horse pawed at the ground. Taking that as much of a consent as she was going to get, she stepped into the stirrup and climbed into the saddle, sitting astride.

  With a prayer, she clucked her tongue softly and sent the horse toward the village, where she could catch the mail coach and, one way or another, eventually make her way to London.

  And to Edward.

  * * *

  The butler frowned irritably with no intention of stepping aside to let Kate pass into the front hall of Strathmore House.

  “Keep your voice down!” he scolded. “Midnight has struck.”

  “Please, let me in,” Kate pleaded from the front portico. “I’m Katherine Benton.” When his blank expression showed no recognition, she repeated slowly, “Kate Benton,” adding hesitantly, “Strathmore’s ward.”

  He scowled in disbelief. “No proper young lady would be out in the night alone at this hour, pounding on doors and demanding admittance—and certainly not looking like that!”

  He nodded toward the messenger’s rain-soaked coat and hat she still wore over the muddy shoes and dirty black dress beneath.

  Oh, she knew she looked shameful—and judging from the way he wrinkled his nose, she most likely smelled even worse—but she’d been too worried to stop or freshen her appearance since leaving Greymoor two nights ago. Knowing she wouldn’t have been able to sleep, not when her worried mind kept spinning back to Edward, she’d simply kept going, at first riding through the night on the horse, then as fast as the mail coach could take her when she’d finally caught up with it.

  She wasn’t naïve. Edward believed the worst of her, and in that Kate doubted she could ever forgive him. But she couldn’t bear the thought that Edward might die still hating her.

  “Please, I need to see His Grace!”

  The butler began to close the door. “Good night!”

  Tears of exhaustion gathered in her eyes. To come so close, knowing Edward was lying just upstairs—she might as well have still been in the middle of the moors if she let the door close on her. No, she was not leaving!

  With a quick step forward, she jammed herself into the doorframe. The butler would have to cut her in two to seal her out now.

  “Her ladyship, the countess,” s
he blurted out frantically, “sent a message to me.” Her fingers dug into her pocket after the note. “I came as quickly as I could.” When he glowered at her in disbelief, she gave a soft cry of frustration and shoved the message at him. “Please! Tell her I’m here.” A stab of desperate fear sickened her. “I need to see Strathmore. I have to…”

  “Miss! Her ladyship is not receiving—”

  “Kingsley,” a female voice called out from the stairs. “What on earth is the matter down there?”

  A slender woman in her mid-fifties appeared on the bottom step of the sweeping marble stairs. Despite the events of the past few days and the late hour, she appeared alert and imposing, impossibly regal in a dark lavender dress and matching cashmere wrap, her gold-gray hair swept up high. She stared coldly at Kate, still wedged stubbornly into the doorway. His aunt Augusta. There was no mistaking the family resemblance.

  “Apologies for disturbing you, m’ lady.” Kingsley stepped back from the door and inclined his head. “This woman is refusing to leave.”

  Kate slipped past him into the entry hall and dropped into an awkward curtsy, her body stiff and sore. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I couldn’t wait until morning—”

  “This house is closed to visitors.” Augusta cut her off with a wave of her hand. “Show her out, Kingsley.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He reached for Kate’s arm.

  She snatched herself free. “Edward—I have to see him!” She hurried across the foyer to Augusta and stared at her pleadingly, putting her hand up frantically to stop Kingsley from physically ejecting her. “Is he—” Her voice choked, unable to force herself to utter the word dead. “Better?”

  Augusta’s eyes flickered with recognition. “You must be Miss Benton.”

  Kate nodded. “I came as quickly as I could.”

  “That message was not intended as a summons. But now that you are here…” The countess swept her gaze over Kate, wrinkling her nose at the condition of her dress and hair—and certainly at the smell. “However, given that my nephew fought that duel over you, I doubt he will be happy to see you when he wakes.”

  Despite his aunt’s grim warning, her chest lightened with desperate hope. “Then—I’m not too late?”

  “Strathmore is alive.” A weary smile touched the countess’s lips.

  A wave of overwhelming relief swept through her, and hot tears stung at her eyes. “Oh, thank God…Is he here?” Glancing up the stairs, she hesitated only a moment before racing past Augusta. “Edward!”

  Reaching the second-floor landing, Kate saw a footman standing outside one of the doors at the end of the wide hall, and she ran toward the room. He was inside, she knew it!

  “Please, let me pass,” she pleaded, but she was prepared to shove the man aside and charge into the room if she had to.

  The footman glanced over her head at Augusta as the countess reached the top of the stairs. Augusta gave a nod of consent, and he stepped aside.

  Taking a deep breath to steel herself against what she might see, she entered slowly. Her gaze swept around the large room, moving over the pieces of large, heavy furniture and the wine-colored velvet and silk fabrics. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace, and the draperies on the tall windows were pulled to seal out the damp night.

  But it was the bed that commanded her attention—a massive piece, its four mahogany posts carved like grapevines spiraling toward the ceiling and reaching over twelve feet tall and nearly as wide. Gold ropes tied back the wine-colored drapes, and behind those, between black satin sheets shimmering in the firelight…

  “Edward,” she whispered.

  He lay propped against the pillows, bare from the waist up except for the large bandage marring the sculpted muscle where his shoulder met his chest. His eyes closed, he looked as if he was sleeping peacefully, but as she approached, she saw beads of perspiration dotting his forehead, his lips dry, his face pale.

  She sat on the chair beside the bed and reached for his hand. “Edward? It’s Kate. I’m here.” She tenderly brushed his damp hair away from his feverish forehead. “Can you hear me?”

  “Miss?” A surprised voice cut through the heavy silence. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She glanced up as a darkly dressed, gray-haired man rose from a chair in the corner. Obviously the physician keeping a nighttime vigil. Dismissing him quickly, her attention returned immediately to Edward.

  “Who are—”

  “Doctor, please.” She had no patience now for questions about herself. “Tell me, how is he? Truthfully.”

  He glanced at the countess, and Augusta nodded.

  “Not well, I’m afraid,” he answered gently. “He’s drifted in and out of consciousness for the past few days, and I’ve been doing my best to keep the fever down and his strength up.”

  She held her breath, needing to know the worst…“Has infection set in?”

  “There was tremendous blood loss, but the wound was clean. Fortunately, the surgeon was present—”

  Her eyes shot up and pinned him as dread clenched her belly. “Then you didn’t remove the bullet yourself?”

  His nose wrinkled in distaste at the thought of such bloody work. “I am a physician, miss!”

  “And I’m certain you do a remarkable job.” She smoothed his feathers with a forced smile. Her eyes dropped to Edward’s shoulder. “But I was wondering about the wound…Is that the original dressing?”

  “Of course,” he answered, as if humoring a child. “The wound has to heal uninterrupted until the sutures are removed tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Her chest tightened with quick worry. Four days under the original bandages and sutures—the standard medical treatment for bullet wounds. But common wisdom among country doctors said otherwise, to leave the sutures in place longer to give the flesh time to grow into itself.

  More upsetting, though, was that the original dressing was still in place. The wound hadn’t been checked since the ball was removed.

  “May I see it?” She reached for the bandage on Edward’s chest.

  The doctor grabbed her arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Saving his life! She inhaled a calming breath. “You haven’t looked at the wound,” she explained as gently as possible despite the anxious fear gripping her chest like a vise. “It could be infected.”

  “I have been giving him medicines to keep the infections at bay.”

  She shook her head. “Dominique-Jean Larrey wrote in a paper last winter that leaving on the original dressings heightened the chances for infection—”

  “A surgeon,” he dismissed with a distasteful frown. “And French!”

  “Dr. Brandon,” the countess interrupted quietly, “would you give us a moment, please?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Despite his obvious irritation at having his medical expertise questioned, by a woman no less, he inclined his head politely and left the room.

  Augusta nodded her consent. “You may proceed, Miss Benton.”

  “Thank you,” Kate whispered gratefully to the countess.

  She turned back to the wound, trying to ignore the helpless way Edward looked as he lay so still. Her hands shook as she removed the bandage, carefully freeing it from the dried blood and flesh, which had started to congeal into the fabric. When it was finally removed it, she took a close, long look at the wound. Black sutures sewn haphazardly closed the gash where the surgeon dug to retrieve the ball, the skin bruised and swollen. Her heart burned at the sight. Such an ugly wound, so carelessly tended…

  But no sign of infection, and she heaved a heavy sigh. Oh, thank God, thank God!

  She reached for the cloth in the basin beside the bed, soaked it in the cool water, then touched it gently to the wound to cleanse it as best she could without disturbing the sutures. She wished she had a jar of her salve with her, although the sight of her country medicine might just give Dr. Brandon apoplexy.

  Augusta watched her closely. “You truly know what you are doing, then?”


  “Yes, I do.” She reached for the fresh bandages on the bedside table, put there no doubt in anticipation of the scheduled suture removal in the morning.

  “Strathmore said you kept medicines and tended to the villagers.”

  She carefully covered the wound. “So he spoke of me.”

  “Yes.”

  Unfavorably, Kate was certain, given the single-word response. But the countess had not yet removed her from the house, so his aunt most likely didn’t know everything. There was hope in that, at least.

  “When I received your note, I was so afraid…” Her voice died away. Then, physically shaking herself to fight back the exhaustion and emotion, she wrapped the shoulder to hold the new dressing in place and asked quietly, “What happened?”

  “A foolish duel.” Augusta scowled, her eyes glued to her nephew’s sallow face. “With Baronet Litchfield.”

  Not recognizing the name, Kate focused her attention on Edward and dipped the cloth in the basin’s cool water, then dabbed it against his feverish face. His skin was so hot, so pale, that worry churned in her gut.

  “Your former fiancé.”

  Her hand stilled in stunned surprise against Edward’s cheek. A fiancé? Impossible. “You’re mistaken, my lady.”

  “Five years ago, your father contracted your engagement to Baronet Litchfield—” When Kate’s mouth fell open, Augusta cut her off with a wave of her hand before she could protest her innocence. “Who accused Strathmore of thwarting your betrothal. I am certain he thought he’d be paid reparations, but the situation grew out of hand.”

  “I had no idea,” she whispered, guilt sickening her as she stared at Edward’s pale face. Anguish gripped like iron fingers around her heart that he would be hurt over her, and she forced herself to breathe. “I would never do anything to hurt him. I…” I love him.

  “Tell me, then, Miss Benton.” The countess’s eyes narrowed on her. “Are you here out of concern for my nephew or out of your desire to return to Brambly House?”

  Sudden outrage sparked through her. How could his aunt ask such a horrible question? “I came for Edward,” she bit out, but at the countess’s disbelieving expression, she shook her head and looked back at Edward. “You don’t believe me. Well, I don’t care one whit if you don’t!”