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How dare Townley have smeared his name and painted him out to be hypocrite. He’d better hope that he never saw her again. She might kill him with her bare hands. “That man from London who was with the soldiers”—she began, and then stopped. Perhaps it was best if she left Townley’s name out of it.

“Gone, your grace. They marched away north from Oswestry, and have not been seen since then.”

The next day the London doctor, whose illustrious clientele also included the Duke of Clarence, arrived in a carriage and eight. He rushed to the sickroom and examined West—lifting his eyelids, taking his pulses, and checking the bandaged gunshot as she hovered in the corner trying not to betray her anxiety. Finally, he nodded to her. She followed him out into the corridor.

“I am most grateful to you for coming so quickly. I am certain that the duke will be grateful too, when he”—she almost lost her composure, and had to stop speaking for a moment. She swallowed hard. “When he… is able to speak for himself again.”

“I am most honored that you have placed your confidence in me, your grace.” The London doctor bowed deeply. “It is fortunate that your local surgeon has experience treating serious injuries. And of course, the duke is young and strong. We must put our faith in providence now. We will know better in the coming days, I hope.”

“But he… but you said that he has a fever. Is there nothing that can be done?”

“A fever is quite normal after such an injury, your grace. Indeed, it is an indication of strength in the body. Unlike some members of my profession, I do not see every fever as evidence that bloodletting is required. Certainly, in the duke’s case—when there has already been substantial loss of blood—it would do more harm than good.”

“Oh! No. That is not what I…” Pomona realized that she was pacing, and forced herself to stand still. It was simply that when she stopped—whenever she closed her eyes, or even sat down—she saw the same dreadful scenes: West losing consciousness. The wound in his shoulder. West being carried to the carriage.

“Now, you must rest, Lady March.” Dr. Farnham had close-cropped hair and large dark eyes that gave him an appearance of great sympathy. “Please, allow me to prepare a sleeping draught for you. Remember that we have every reason for hope. The wound itself is remarkably clean. It is only the loss of blood that—. Well. As I say, I believe that we shall have a much better idea of his prospects in the morning.”

Pomona was so exhausted that everything around her had taken on an air of unreality. Her maid helped her into and out of a steaming bath. The duchess’s rooms were more old-fashioned than the duke’s recently-decorated suite, but the crisp linens on the bed smelled of soap and lavender. Under normal circumstances they would have been comforting. But now nothing was comforting.

She drank the draught Dr. Farnham had sent up. Her head began to swim. She put her head on the pillow, and knew no more.

Pomona came back to consciousness to the sound of many clocks striking the hour. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Was this Lady Theodosia’s house? Was she in Venice?

Then she realized—and the terror of it all struck her like a physical blow. Any lingering effect of the sleeping draught vanished. She sat up, instantly nauseated with fear. How many chimes had she heard? She hadn't been awake enough to be certain, but she thought that it might have been four or five.

And perhaps it was only the last echoes of the chimes still ringing in her ears, but there seemed to be a charge in the air. Something had happened. She felt it. She put her feet out of bed, feeling around for her slippers, and then gave up and hurried to the door barefoot, tugging her wrapper around her as she went. Her heart was pounding with dread.

The duke’s suite of rooms was at the opposite end of a long, carpeted corridor. All was silent in the house. She told herself that the silence was a good sign. If… anything bad had happened, there would be sounds of alarm, a disturbance, candles being lit, servants running, the doctor rushing to West’s bedside…

She pushed open the door and hurried inside. Dr. Farnham had ordered a fire, and the room was warm. The massive four poster bed was dimly silhouetted against the red light. As her eyes adjusted, she looked for the dark shape of West’s head against the snowy pillows where he’d been propped.

It wasn’t there.

Chapter Twenty-Five

There was a faint sound. She whirled around. West was standing there, his white night rail pulled down just as the doctor had left it, revealing his freshly bandaged shoulder and bare arm.

She couldn’t help it. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

“Good God.” His voice was a croak. “Do I look that bad?”

“West! How can you… Why are you… What are you… You ought not to be out of bed!”

He swayed on his feet. “I should like some water.”

She rushed to a side table that held a tray crowded with medicine bottles, found the pitcher and poured him a glass, her hands shaking. When she turned around he’d vanished again. “West?”

He was in the gloom by the massive bay window. With difficulty he pulled back a heavy velvet curtain and began wrestling with the window latch.

“Stop!” She hurried across to him. “Here! Go back to bed!”

“Thank you.” He drank the water in a single gulp and cleared his throat. “Is there more?”

“Yes. Please go back to bed.”

“It is cursed hot in here. My head is pounding, and my arm hurts like the devil. Cannot this window be opened?”

“Stop it, West! Lie down. I will open the window.” She rushed back to the nightstand, poured another glass of water, and handed it to him. He tossed it back and frowned thoughtfully. “I have had the most dreadful dreams. Is it really you?”