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His voice was calm. But she knew him so well that she could sense that something was wrong. She risked a sideways glance at him. His face was pale, and he was holding himself stiffly. And why was his coat buttoned that way?

The crowd was so silent that she could hear the hiss of torches burning lower. Townley’s mouth worked. “Very well. I… I spoke out of… er, Lady March… I regret my…” He broke off. “Well.” He cleared his throat.

West raised an eyebrow. “Try again, sir.”

Townley’s lips tightened and he drew in a sharp breath through flaring nostrils. “I withdraw my remarks about Lady March. And I... I apologize.”

Colonel Brown had been staring at Townley with an expression of undisguised contempt. A long moment passed. Then he wheeled his horse about to face the soldiers. “Company! Form hup!”

There was a metallic hiss of rapiers being sheathed. Horses snorted and iron shod hooves rang on the cobblestones. “What about the boy?” demanded Townley.

Nobody answered. A moment later, spurs and bits jingling, the soldiers began to trot past him. “What about the boy?” he shouted. Barked orders echoed off the buildings. A few minutes later, the entire company was gone.

Townley glared at Pomona. The hatred in his face made her shiver. Then he looked away, snorted contemptuously, took a silver flask from inside his coat, took a swig from it, and rode after the soldiers.

Was he actually gone? Before she could even comprehend it, someone grabbed her hand. “Thank you, your grace! Thank you!” One of the village women clasped West’s hand as well.

He winced, as though her grasp hurt him, but his voice was steady. “I shall be very grateful, Mrs. Powell, if you could have Mr. Eaton send his bill up to me.”

“Yes, your grace! Thank you again, your graces!”

“Three cheers for the duke!” cried someone.

“Aye, aye!” several people shouted back. But most of the villagers were already leaving. And Pomona certainly didn't blame them. The tension had seemed to go on forever. She'd been tired before, but now that the confrontation was over she realized that she was exhausted. And she still couldn't understand why nobody had seemed interested in Townley's revelation about her book. She turned to West. “When I saw Townley, I—I was so frightened. Yet you did it. And the boy is safe, and…”

Something was wrong. He was swaying in his saddle. “Darling?”

His eyes met hers, and he managed a smile. But an intake of breath hissed through his teeth as the smile turned into a wince. “I do not wish to alarm you. But I... I have been shot.”

One of the grooms lunged forward. “Your grace!”

West’s eyes had closed and he was slipping from his saddle. The man managed to catch him just in time.

And after that everything became a blur of fear and shouting.

They’d rushed West into the public house and laid him on a wooden table. The local surgeon had come at a run and cut his jacket off. Pomona had thought that she might be sick at the sight of all the blood and the gory mess that had been West’s shoulder.

The surgeon managed to dig the ball out. It had come from a dueling pistol, he said. The assistant groom was quite certain that whoever had made the shot could only have fired from one of the upper windows of the public house. And the innkeeper said that the gentleman from London had been holding Ewan Pitman upstairs.

So it was easy enough to guess who'd shot West. But nobody would ever be able to prove it. And anyway, nothing would ever matter again, if West did not live.

One of the grooms rode straight for London to fetch a famous doctor that the surgeon—Mr. Eaton—recommended. The other rode for the castle and returned with the carriage. West was insensible as they carried him out and settled him in it. And then, as they’d driven slowly up the village high, trying not to jostle him, the people had come out and stood along the sides of the road. Bareheaded and silent, they’d held their hats over their hearts.

Pomona, in the carriage with West as the first light of dawn crept over the hills, had tried not to make a sound as she’d sobbed. It had been too much like a funeral procession. She couldn’t bear to think of it now. And yet, it kept replaying in her mind.

They’d laid him in the massive tester bed in the palatial blue and gold bedroom. She’d sat with him for hours, and then for days. Sometimes he seemed almost conscious, and at those times she was able to get him to take a sip or two of the beef tea that the cook kept sending up.

“He was already exhausted before this happened. He would not even rest his leg.” The surgeon, Captain Eaton, was a blunt-spoken former military man who’d settled here after the war.

“His leg? What about his leg?”

“He injured it. In Clee Pit, in the mine. Trying to dig the boys out.”

“He was… in the mine?” Pomona was stunned.

“Yes, your grace. Bray tells me that he was one of the last men out. He himself has not spoken of it. But he is lucky that he did not shatter his kneecap.”

Pomona gazed at West’s profile. No wonder he’d seemed so anguished and exhausted when she’d arrived. He’d risked his life to try to save the children. Before they’d left for the village, he’d started to tell her that there was something that he could have prevented. He’d blamed himself.