As Max lifted Abby out of the coach, she barely stirred in his arms. A goose egg marred the tangle of cinnamon hair on the side of her head. With her eyes closed, she looked young and vulnerable, and her pale stillness caused a clutch of fear in his chest.
He carried her up to the portico, where a footman threw open the door and admitted them into the entrance hall. The servant gawked at Max’s burden, then thrust out his arms. “Your Grace! If I may assist—”
Max aimed a black look at him. The fellow shrank back and deferred to Finchley for direction.
The butler’s grizzled brows arched in alarm. “What’s this? I knew that demon beast would toss her when Dawkins said she’d gone out on Brimstone! ’Tis just the same as what happened to her mother!”
“It wasn’t Brimstone,” Max growled. “Send someone to fetch Mrs. Jeffries. And show the doctor up to Miss Linton’s chamber at once.”
The man had driven his gig closely behind the ducal coach. Max always engaged a top-notch London physician to attend these prizefights. Inevitably, there were injuries that required immediate treatment, stitching wounds, applying ointments, bandaging limbs.
England’s champion deserved cosseting. But today, Max hadn’t spared a thought for Goliath’s welfare—especially as he’d been the culprit who’d bashed Abby in the side of the head with his elbow, accidental though it had been.
His footsteps echoing sharply on the marble, he mounted the grand staircase, while Gwen and Miss Perkins trudged after him with all the enthusiasm of condemned prisoners on their way to the gallows. Let them stew. If not for their misbehavior, Abby wouldn’t be in such a predicament.
Her niece dashed ahead to fling open the door to Abby’s chamber, which was located directly across the corridor from his sister’s suite of rooms. He waited a moment while Gwen pulled back the coverlet of the four-poster. Ever so gently, he laid his precious burden down on the bed and arranged a feather pillow beneath her head.
Unable to resist, he cupped her face. “Abby.”
Her lashes fluttered open. Confusion hazed those blue eyes, and she rubbed her cheek against his hand like a kitten seeking a cuddle. “Max? Why are you in my bedchamber? You know that we mustn’t—”
He hastened to put his finger over those beautiful lips. Good God, speaking of cats, she’d almost let one out of the bag. Gwen and Miss Perkins already had been staring goggle-eyed at the two of them in the coach. He could only imagine what they must be thinking to see him on such intimate terms with the governess.
“Ah, here’s the physician,” he said in relief. “Come in, Dr. Woodhull. I’m afraid Miss Linton doesn’t look any better.”
A middle-aged man with an air of quiet competence, Woodhull carried a leather satchel, which he placed on a table. “That’s only to be expected after the jostling of the coach. Now that she’s snug in bed, we should see an improvement—at least by tomorrow.” Middling in stature, he came to peer up into Max’s face. “You’ll want to put a slab of raw beefsteak on that eye, Your Grace. It’s beginning to blacken and swell.”
Max had completely forgotten the injury he’d sustained while snatching Abby from the jaws of death. “Never mind me. Miss Linton was babbling nonsense just now.”
“A bit of befuddlement is normal in these cases. I’ll examine her again just to be certain. But chances are, she’ll be right as rain within a week or two.”
“A week or two!” Miss Perkins blurted out. “Oh, no! Is it that bad, then?”
“Time is the best healer for knocks on the head,” Woodhull advised. “The brain has been jolted, and it can be dangerous to rush the recovery.”
Miss Perkins parted her lips as if to ask more questions, and his sister appeared on the verge of tears again, so Max hustled them both out of the bedchamber. “Go,” he ordered. “I’ll speak to you two shortly.”
Shamefaced, they disappeared into Gwen’s rooms. Not a minute later, Mrs. Jeffries came scurrying down the corridor, the ring of keys jangling at her waist. Flustered, she bobbed a curtsy. “Your Grace! I came as soon as I heard! How is Miss Abby?”
“Go in and see for yourself. The doctor is examining her now.”
The door closed behind her, leaving Max alone to pace like a caged lion out in the ornate corridor. He wanted nothing more than to stride into the bedroom, to hear any diagnosis the instant it was rendered, and to learn what treatments were ordered. And why shouldn’t he? This was his house, by God!
His fingers were actually curling around the knob when sanity restored his good sense. He had no right. Abby was his servant, not his wife. Though he would change her status in an instant if only he had the power to convince her of his constancy.
Stalking down to the end of the passage and back, he relived the nightmarish scene of watching her tumble into the ring. Nothing had ever struck such terror into his heart. Such accidents did occur from time to time as the spectators surged against the ropes. They usually happened on the edge of the arena, though, and the fellow could scramble out safely.
Never before had Max seen someone pitched straight in between the two combatants. And certainly not a woman!
The time it had taken him to reach Abby had seemed an eternity, though it couldn’t have been more than a second or two. He recalled shouting, then plunging into the midst of flailing limbs, even as the pugilists belatedly sprang apart. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done.
He gingerly touched his swollen eye. Would that he might change places with her and be the one with the brain injury!
A footman came trotting down the corridor with a collection of jars and bottles rattling on a silver tray. “Your Grace, Mrs. Jeffries requested me to deliver her balms and medications.”
Max rapped on the door. As the servant was admitted, Max craned his neck for a glimpse into the sickroom. But the doctor was on his way out and blocked any such view.
Leather bag in hand, Woodhull quietly shut the door. “You’ll be pleased to know that our patient responded well to my tests of cognitive function. Mrs. Jeffries has offered to sit with her.” He chuckled. “Such a fussbudget the woman is, but that is to be expected, I suppose! I would venture to guess that Miss Linton is a great favorite with the staff.”
“She’ll recover, then?”
“I’ve no reason to believe otherwise. It’s nothing that a week or two of rest and a light diet won’t cure. I’ve left a tonic to rebuild her strength, and it seems Mrs. Jeffries already has a supply of her own restoratives.”
“You’ll stay the night,” Max commanded.
“Shall I not return to the arena, then?”
“No. Goliath will be brought back here. You may tend him later.”
Woodhull bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace. Now, if you might direct me to a place where I shall await your summons.”
He was dispatched to a downstairs parlor with the footman as guide.
Max lingered for a moment outside Abby’s closed door. He was sorely tempted to keep watch at her bedside and damn anyone who questioned his right to do so. But that would cast an aspersion on her character, and he’d blacken his other eye before he would cause her further harm.
Besides, there were other matters that must be settled.
He rapped sharply on his sister’s door, and Gwen peeped out. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, but he steeled himself against sympathy. “You and Miss Perkins will accompany me to my study at once.”
She gulped and nodded, disappearing for a few moments before emerging with Abby’s niece in tow. Both girls looked suitably downcast. Knowing that his silence would intensify their dire imaginings of the ghastly fate that awaited them, he didn’t speak another word while leading the way along the corridor and down a side staircase.
Upon reaching the ground floor, he heard the approach of voices. The party of his friends came around a corner, a dispirited air clinging to them.
Ambrose called out, “Ho, there, Rothwell. Of all the ill luck, Goliath has lost the match!”
“It happened not ten minutes after you departed,” Pettibone added, escorting Mrs. Chalmers. “England’s champ went down with a thud like the fall of a mighty oak. We all lost a tidy bundle on him.”
Preoccupied with thoughts of Abby, Max took the news with forbearance. “He was set off his stride by the accident, perhaps. Though I’m inclined to think Wolfman was the better fighter and deserved to win the purse.”
Elise rushed forward to clutch at Max’s arm. “My lord duke, your poor eye! It is turned a most putrid shade of black. You must be in horrid pain!”
“Bah, he’s made of sterner stuff than that,” Ambrose said. “The real question is, how does Miss Linton fare? I’ve been in a torment over it!”
Recalling Ambrose’s flirtation with her, Max frowned balefully at his friend. “She should recover fully, although the doctor prescribed a week or more of bedrest. You won’t be seeing her again before we leave here.”
“Come with me, dear Rothwell,” Elise coaxed. “I’ll ring for a cold compress for your eye.”
Valerie stepped out from behind him. “How cool you are, Lady Desmond, when you know full well that the duke would be perfectly unharmed if not for your treachery. And my aunt would not now be lying upon her sickbed!”
Max swung toward Abby’s niece. “What do you mean?”
“I saw her push Aunt Abby. Lady Desmond deliberately shoved her into the arena!”
“Oh, hush, you little brat,” Elise told Valerie. “You’re trying to divert Rothwell from his anger at your own misbehavior!”
“I am not! I will gladly endure my punishment, whatever it may be! But you won’t get away with hurting my aunt. She’s worth ten of you.”
White-hot anger seared Max. Judging by the way Abby had been propelled into the ring, it made perfect sense that she’d been pushed. He had assumed it to be accidental, though. Now, he could well imagine Elise perpetrating such a vile trick, for she had undoubtedly observed his partiality toward Abby.
Yet he also knew this accusation had earned Valerie an enemy. An accomplished gossip, Elise could cause trouble for the girl when she made her debut next spring. A few whispers in certain ears impugning Valerie for her shabby conduct in attending the prizefight could result in her being shunned by polite society.
He would not see Abby in despair over her niece being ostracized. Not when it was within his power to prevent it.
Leashing his fury, he addressed Valerie. “I will hear nothing more of this wild talk. Lady Desmond is my guest, and you will apologize to her at once.”
“I won’t!”
“You will, for you have promised to endure my punishment. Now make good on your vow.”
The mulish look remained on her pretty features. But she drew a breath and said grudgingly, “I spoke out of turn, your ladyship. I beg your pardon.”
Elise nodded with spiteful satisfaction. “See that you never tell such a falsehood about me again.”
Noting that Valerie looked about to explode, Max decided to postpone his stern lecture. “Girls, return upstairs and do not disturb Miss Linton. The rest of us shall repair to the drawing room for refreshments.”
The party had no sooner seated themselves and rung for a bottle of burgundy than Finchley appeared in the doorway to inquire if the duke would receive Mr. Clifford Linton and Mrs. Rosalind Perkins. The coincidence of their arrival surprised Max; he’d only just intended to sit down at the writing desk to dash off a note informing them of Abby’s injury.
In short order, the butler ushered Abby’s brother and sister into the drawing room. Clifford grimly strode forward to make his bow to Max, frowned at the bruised eye, then said without preamble, “Where is my sister? How badly was she injured?”
“Pray tell us,” Rosalind said, her face drawn with worry. “We have been terribly distraught!”
“She suffered a bump on her head, but she will make a full recovery. One of the best doctors in London has assured me of that.”
“I suppose you hired him for the prizefight,” Clifford said bitterly. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but I must question your judgment in allowing my sister to attend such an unseemly event!”
Though bristling at being castigated like a naughty child, Max made allowances for the man’s distress. “She wasn’t there at my invitation, sir. Rather, she went to rescue my sister and Miss Perkins, who, by the way, disobeyed my orders and lured Lady Gwen to the match.”
Rosalind gasped. “Are you certain of that?”
“Quite. Your daughter has admitted as much.”
“I insist that Valerie and Abby be fetched at once,” Clifford intoned. “They must both return home to my care.”
“I’m happy to summon your niece, but I’m afraid the doctor ordered that Miss Linton not be moved. I assure you, she’s being given every possible attention.”
“There’s nothing like a sister’s care, though,” Rosalind said. “May I see her?”
“She’s resting. You may return on the morrow.”
Max would not budge on the matter, so a footman was sent to fetch Valerie, who entered the drawing room with obvious trepidation. She looked woeful upon being told that her visit had come to an end, but seeing the stern scowls of her uncle and mother, uttered no complaint.
His friends spoke their good-byes to her, and Lord Ambrose bowed over her hand. “I beg leave to call upon you next spring in London, Miss Perkins. Perhaps you will consent to stand up with me for a dance.”
A hint of spirit returned to Valerie in the form of a wobbly smile. “I would be honored, sir.”
Max escorted them downstairs to the entrance hall in order to make an inquiry out of earshot of his friends. “May I ask how you discovered so swiftly that your sister had been injured?”
“Why, a groom rode straight from the match to notify us,” Rosalind said. “We believed that you had sent him.”
Watching them depart in their carriage, Max had a strong suspicion that Elise had dispatched that messenger. She had shoved Abby into the ring. Then, guessing that Abby’s family would insist on her returning home, Elise had seized the chance to oust her from his house.
He clenched his jaw. Elise soon would discover that she herself was the one banished from his sight. He intended to make certain that she would never trouble Abby again.
Yet he could not escape a measure of guilt himself. He had invited into his home a woman so spiteful and devious that she had nearly killed Abby. And for that he could not readily forgive himself.