orders. As Dermott was carried to his carriage, his eyes came open. 'Lonsdale?' he croaked.
'A bullet through his heart. He deserved a slower death,' Devon gruffly added.
'Send a note to Molly.' Dermott's voice was a wisp of sound. 'Tell her I'm fine.'
Shelby had tears in his eyes as he penned the note at Lamb's Inn, where Dermott had been taken. The surgeon was operating now, the parlor having been put into service as an operating room. The doctor was trying to remove the ball and shot from Dermott's wounds before he bled to death. The pistol ball in his back had taken some of the shirting with it, and the bits of fabric were causing trouble. The metal shot in the ribs had proved impossible to locate. Not a hopeful sign when they were in a race against time.
Following orders, Shelby wrote the lie to Molly. The earl had killed Lonsdale and he was unscathed. Shelby knew for whom the note was intended, and had he dared, he would have sent for Miss Leslie so she might see Bathurst before he died. But Shelby was loyal in all things to his master, and even if this turned out to be the earl's last request, he would honor it.
Once his task was completed and the note dispatched, Shelby returned to the parlor where Dermott lay.
He stood frozen in the doorway, shocked at the gruesome sight. The parlor had become a charnel house, blood puddling on the floor as it dripped from the dining table where Dermott lay on his stomach, motionless as a corpse. Panicked at the appalling sight, Shelby wondered how the earl could possibly survive such a loss of blood. His powerful body was mangled, torn apart, and so utterly still, the secretary debated whether he should send for another surgeon. Was there time? Or would Bathurst die before another doctor could arrive?
But Dermott had particularly chosen Dr. McTavert, Shelby reminded himself. If the earl had faith in him, so must he. Gingerly stepping around the bloody footprints leading from the door, he entered the room.
Somehow Dermott's strong heart continued to beat through the long ordeal, until at last the surgeon picked the final bits of linen and metal from the back wound with a soft prayer of gratitude. The shattered ribs posed greater problems over and above the damaged bones, for the ball hadn't been found and he didn't dare probe any deeper for fear of touching Dermott's heart. Wherever that piece of metal had disappeared, so must it remain. And pray God it didn't fester. Gunshot wounds were highly susceptible to infection.
'Is there anyone we should call?' he asked at the end when the wounds had been bandaged and Dermott had been moved into a bed.
'Only his mother, and she's indisposed,' Shelby replied. 'Will Lord Bathurst live?'
The surgeon didn't answer for so long, Shelby was sorry he'd asked.
'Under normal circumstances a man wouldn't. But the earl's still alive when I hadn't thought he'd survive this long.' The doctor surveyed Dermott's small party, devoid of Devon, who had been sent to London to confer with Dermott's lawyers in the event of his death. 'I'll stay with him as long as you wish,' Dr. McTavert added. 'But the earl shouldn't be moved.'
'We'll all stay,' Shelby declared. 'Charles, see that the surgeon has a room and dinner. I'll remain with the earl. And thank you, sir, for your great skill.' The earl had always called McTavert one of London's best, not the most fashionable, but the most competent, and today he'd lived up to his reputation.
The tall, sandy-haired Scotsman acknowledged the praise by saying, 'I'd best wait a few days before accepting your thanks, Shelby. We've a way to go yet. I'll be back to check on Bathurst as soon as I clean up.'
'Very good, sir. And if you need any messages sent to London, give Charles their direction.'
And once the doctor left, Shelby began writing a carefully worded letter to the earl's mother.
Isabella had returned to Molly's from Green Abbey, and the two women had been sitting together in the blue saloon since then, nervously awaiting news.
'If he said he'd send a note, he will,' Molly declared, as she had countless times already.
'How can he if he's dead?'
'Please, dear, you mustn't think the worst,' Molly pacified, as she'd done since Isabella had returned. 'Dermott is an excellent shot. He's been involved in duels before. No one can outshoot him.'
It was a recurring conversation, for Isabella's anxieties continued despite Molly's attempts to console her. But as the morning progressed and they'd had no word, Molly, too, was becoming concerned. Although she took care to conceal her worry from Isabella, who was already white with fear.
'Maybe I should go to Bathurst House and inquire,' Isabella suggested as the hour neared ten.
'Not this early. They may not be back in town yet. If we don't hear anything by early afternoon though, I'll send a servant.'
'I couldn't stop him, Molly,' Isabella murmured, a feverish desperation in her tone. 'I wish I knew… why do men do such foolish things? My reputation isn't worth his
'Who knows why men do what they do? I've never understood their misplaced sense of honor,' Molly said with a sigh. 'Come, let's try to eat some breakfast. You haven't had a bite since yesterday.'
Isabella grimaced. 'I couldn't eat a thing.'
'Have a cup of tea. I want company, so you must oblige me.' Molly rarely spoke so severely to Isabella, nor was she hungry herself, but she needed to distract Isabella-however briefly-from her despair.
Shelby's note was delivered to them in the breakfast room, and after quickly perusing it, Molly handed it to Isabella with a broad smile. 'All our fears were for naught. Dermott is fine, as always. Dear boy.'
Snatching the page from Molly's hand, Isabella quickly scanned it as though needing confirmation for Molly's words. And then with a grand sigh, she settled back in her chair and felt as though life was worth living again. 'Thank God,' she softly said. 'Thank, thank, thank God…'
The first rumors reached the City early but didn't arrive in Grosvenor Place until evening. It was then that Joe heard the news of Bathurst's wounds from his brother, who had heard them from Devon's valet. Aware of all that transpired in the household, Joe knew the contents of Dermott's note to Molly and the probable reason that the truth had been withheld.
After informing Molly of his brother's report, they debated telling Isabella. Obviously, the earl hadn't wanted her to know. So the question was-did they do a disservice by telling her?
'How badly is Dermott hurt?' Molly asked. 'The degree of his wounds would make a difference.'
'He's not expected to live.' Joe's voice was hushed.
Molly, who had seen so much misery and thought herself immune, turned pale. 'Poor dear,' she whispered. But only seconds later, she pinned Joe with a challenging gaze. 'There has to be an explanation. Dermott's never wounded; he's the best shot in England.'
'Lonsdale fired early.'
'Damned cur. I hope he died a slow, painful death.' Her voice was pitiless.
'Apparently not, but you can be sure he's burning in hell.'
'Exactly the fate he deserves for what he's done! Lonsdale should burn in hell a thousand times over!'
'Why should Lonsdale burn in hell?' Isabella had just entered the room. 'Besides the obvious reasons, of course.' But the look of panic on Molly's face at her question struck her with terror. Lonsdale's death should have been a triumph for Dermott. Why had they gone silent? Why were they staring at her with such apprehension? 'What's going on?' she asked, scrutinizing Molly's pale face. Seized by dread at Molly's hesitation, tears sprang to Isabella's eyes. Furiously, she turned on Joe. 'Dammit,
Joe looked to Molly for guidance, and Isabella felt as though the world were collapsing around her.
'Joe heard a rumor that Dermott is wounded,' Molly reluctantly offered, trying to speak with calm. 'Don't immediately jump to conclusions. All gossip isn't true; most gossip isn't true, as you well know.'
'But you're ashen and Joe is afraid to talk to me, so please don't tell me everything is all right when it clearly isn't.' Isabella stood trembling with fear, her hands clenched at her sides to still the tremors, her gaze swiveling from one to the other as though she might be able to decipher their thoughts. 'I want to know where he is,' she whispered, her voice tight with horror. 'And don't tell me you don't know.'
'He was at Lamb's Inn,' Molly replied.
'Was?'
'Lord Devon drove back to the inn with Dermott's lawyers, and he was gone. Against his doctor's orders, the inn owner said.'
'Where did he go?'
