Twenty-Four

How had it all gone wrong? Her brother lay in the hospital, unconscious, death looming. Unable to lift a finger. Unable to breathe a word. Unable to open his eyes and accuse. Clinging to life by the slenderest thread, but clinging.

Cling. Keep clinging.

He could live, that was what Ella had kept repeating all afternoon. Like Phineas Gage in America, who had taken a railroad spike through the skull and lived to tell about it. Like countless men in war. On and on Ella had gone, even dragging out some random book to show her the standard procedure for treating a bullet wound to the head—a procedure the medics wouldn’t bother with if survival weren’t possible.

But Stella cared little for whether the silver coin even now bound to the wound on Geoff’s skull would keep infection at bay. The how didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he lived. He had survived the operation to remove the bullet, so perhaps there was hope. There must be hope.

“Oh, Geoffrey,” Father mumbled, his voice barely piercing the shadows that clung to the room. “Why? Why you, son? Not that I would have wished such a thing on His Grace, but why did you have to be there?”

Why indeed? Stella pressed her fingers to her eyes to try to make the images go away. It had all gone so wrong. Never, as the plan formulated, had it occurred to her that someone else might arrive to intervene. An oversight. A grave one.

No, not grave. Don’t think about dying. Pull through, Geoff. Pull through.

Father looked up, and their gazes tangled. He sighed. “You ought to head home, Stella. I’ll stay here with your brother. The duke said there would be a carriage waiting for us.”

The duke. Eyes sliding shut, she shook her head. It had all gone so terribly wrong. That first miss . . . but he had acted so quickly. He’d pushed Rowena down, out of her sights, and the look on his face—not fear, not for himself. His every movement had been to protect her.

The rage had shifted, then. Turned, twisted.

She shouldn’t have pulled the trigger again. She’d known it the second she’d done it, had nearly let loose a scream of dismay. Killing him was never what she’d wanted. Rowena must be removed, yes, but she never should have let herself grow angry with Nottingham. Even if he had spoken words of love to the sniveling twit. Even if he had forgiven her betrayal. Even if he had barely so much as glanced at Stella in the last week, nor said how-do-you-do.

But she hadn’t meant for it to affect Geoff. Her father. Her family.

Geoff. Cling to hope. Cling to life. Fight. Fight!

Her eyes slid shut. Geoff had never been one to fight. Not in life—but for it, surely he would. He must. Just like all those other lucky men Ella had been so quick to find examples of.

Because if he didn’t . . . She muffled a sob with her fist. He shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t her fault he’d come running up as he’d done. She hadn’t meant to hit him. Hadn’t even seen him there, not through the rage that had greyed out her vision. But it hadn’t been aimed at him, not at Geoff.

“Stella. My dear, please. It’s growing late. Go home. Update the Nottinghams and your grandmother.”

Stella grimaced. Grandmum would spend the evening fretting and lecturing, berating Stella for not being at her brother’s side, for being in the manor with Ella instead of among her own. And she wouldn’t be able to retort, would she, and say she hadn’t been with Ella?

Because it was even more her fault than Grandmum could know. Than anyone could know. Because if they did, if they ever found out . . . if they somehow found the pistol she’d stashed in the shrubbery and not yet had time to fetch . . . She buried her face in her hands. She could be arrested. Go to prison, all hope of a life with Nottingham gone. All hope of any life gone. And if Geoff died—but he mustn’t. He mustn’t. “Please, Father. Just let me stay here.”

“Stella.” He sighed, sounding so very old. “Geoffrey wouldn’t want you to neglect yourself, or for your grandmother to be kept waiting for news. Eat. Rest. One of us should, and Geoff would want—”

“Will you stop it?” She lurched to her feet, spun away but then back to face him, her back to the door. Her brother had a private room solely because Nottingham had insisted on it. Otherwise they’d be in the ward with all the other patients. “Stop talking about what Geoff would want, as if he were the perfect, selfless child. He wasn’t, you know. He was— Isn’t, I mean. He isn’t.”

Father rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head in his hand, as if merely talking to her wearied him. “I never said nor thought your brother was perfect. But will you really argue with me right now about whether or not he’s always wanted the best for you? For all those he cares about?”

Of course not. Sainted Geoff, always putting everyone else first. How was anyone to compare to him? To live up to the standard he set? But he wasn’t so perfect. He wasn’t. “He resented the duke, did you know that? Resented him for his faith, when he’d never studied as Geoff had. Is that what a perfect child would do? Hate someone for being good?”

Father didn’t jerk to attention, didn’t gasp, didn’t so much as blink. He just sighed again. “Please, Stella. He had his emotions firmly in hand, he spent hours on his knees to keep his focus where it belonged. He did not begrudge what the duke had. He only wanted to have such faith too. And he confided in me just this morning—”

His voice broke, but he sniffled and smoothed out his features again. “Just this morning he said he could see how His Grace needed such faith to get through these times. How relieved he was to realize it has aided him and Her Grace as they’ve fallen in love.”

“No!” She didn’t mean to scream it, but a whisper wouldn’t have been ardent enough. Nothing would be ardent enough, but it helped to grab the nearest thing at hand—a clipboard—and fling it to the floor. “No. He doesn’t love her. He can’t love her, they aren’t meant for each other. It was all a mistake, all a terrible mistake. They shouldn’t have wed. It was a mistake. A mistake! I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t . . . I love him. That’s all that matters. Love. All is fair, as they say, in love.”

Father’s brows had knit, drawing lines in his face that had already deepened in the past few hours. They made him look as ancient as Grandmum, as doddering. As if he even remembered what it meant to be in love—if he’d ever known. No doubt he’d married Mother simply because she was an appropriate choice. Propriety—it was all he ever cared about.

“Stella.” Father shook his head. “Lower your voice, I beg you. Sit down. And please don’t say such things. You don’t love him—”

“I do! Who are you to tell me my heart?”

His visage went fierce. “Your father—that’s who. Though heaven knows you always resented being born to the steward instead of the lord. And that’s all this talk is about—you wanting the life of a lady.”

“It is not what it’s about! I wouldn’t care if he was a stable hand or a miller or a . . . a pickpocket. I love him, and he ought to be married to me, not that spineless Highland goat!”

Father washed pale, and his eyes went large. “She doesn’t mean it, Your Grace. She is . . . It’s just a tasteless jest.”

Something inside went from sparking and hot to cold as a stone. Slowly, Stella turned. And there, staring at her as if she were a stranger speaking Swahili, stood Nottingham. His hand was still on the knob she hadn’t heard him turn, and he had frozen in the doorway.

At least the she-goat wasn’t with him. Stella lifted her chin and refused to let any embarrassment creep in. What had she to be ashamed of? She was every bit the lady Rowena was. Perhaps she hadn’t been born to a nobleman, but her family was as fine as those moody Kinnairds—better, really. And she at least knew how to conduct herself in society. How to stand without cowering. How to greet lords and ladies without stuttering or lapsing into an incomprehensible accent.

She met his stare, though she nearly took a step back at the look in his eyes. Horror was the only word to describe it. Horror, at her! His old friend. The girl he had teased all their lives. Had flirted with long before Rowena ever entered the picture. Had said time and again would steal some nobleman’s heart—and who could he have meant but himself? Why would he have given her that book, that inscription?

Forcing a swallow, she drew in a breath. “I’ll not apologize for my heart, sir.” There, see? Even now, she could speak without trembling, without quaking. She could hold herself erect. Not like her. “I’m only sorry I didn’t confess my feelings long ago, before you were forced into this awful marriage.”

He slid inside, pulling the door shut behind him. “I wasn’t forced into anything.”

Sending her gaze to the ceiling, Stella waved that off and pivoted. “You were—by her circumstances, if not her father. But that which is between us is stronger than—”

“Miss Abbott, there is nothing between us.” He looked at her as if she were a wild animal that might attack at any moment. As if he weren’t the one attacking, spitting out Miss Abbott like stones meant to build a wall between them. As if she weren’t his Stella-bell, hadn’t always been. “Aside from friendship. You have always been like a sister to me, but—”

“A sister?” She advanced on him, fisted her hands in his lapels. The closest she had been to him in a decade—but it wasn’t how she’d always imagined. He wasn’t gazing down at her with longing. He wasn’t pulling her closer. His hands gripped her wrists, but not to hold her there—to push her away. Something hot and desperate dug its claws into her chest. “Darling, please. Give me a chance. I’ll prove we’re meant to be together. You deserve better than her, some rag tossed aside by a Scottish laird. You deserve—”

“Stop.” He forced her back a step, forced his jacket from her grasp—and looked at her as he’d never done before. With a thundering anger. “It was you. It was you who told Lady Pratt about Kinnaird.”

She tugged against his grip, but he held her fast. “For all the good it did—she’s useless. I don’t know why you fear her.”

“Have you any idea what you’ve done?” Now he released her and stepped back as if she were a leper, that horror in his eyes again. “What you’ve brought upon us? Don’t you realize that that is most likely why your brother lies near death?”

“You think Lady Pratt did this?” And she should let him—she should. It would serve the woman right if they somehow pinned it on her. But those claws kept digging, her insides getting hotter. Bubbling, until the absurdity of it all came out in a wretched laugh that pierced the room a second before she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Stella.” Father appeared at her side, his face frozen in a mask of dismay. “Stella, what have you done?”

Why must he look at her like that, why must they both look at her like that? As if she were the one who had betrayed them. As if all this were her fault. She shook her head, and then shook it harder when it did nothing to make those bubbles stop overflowing. “Nothing.” Her voice didn’t sound right. Too high, too insistent. “I did nothing.”

But they stared at her, both of them. They stared, and their faces both screamed that she was a disappointment. That she was worthless. That she was riffraff. “It wasn’t my fault.” Couldn’t they see that? “I was only trying to undo a wrong. You shouldn’t have married her, Nottingham. Surely you know that. It was a mistake, and as soon as you’re free of her, you’ll thank me for it.”

The muscle in Nottingham’s jaw ticked. “I don’t want to be free of her, Miss Abbott. I love her.”

She winced at the blow. “No. No, you can’t. All those times you told me how beautiful I am, all the jesting about me marrying a nobleman—”

“Oh, Stella.” Father pressed a shaking hand to his forehead. “You knew they were just that—jests. You knew he was complimenting you as he does Lady Ella.”

Nottingham’s nostrils flared. “You thought . . . Miss Abbott, I am sorry if I misled you. I promise you, it never once occurred to me that you would take my words as anything but those of a brother.”

Misled her? Brother? She jerked her head to where Geoff lay in a stark white hospital bed. A silver coin over the hole in his skull, as if that could save his life. That life on the cusp of extinguishing. And Nottingham meant to tell her it was all for naught? That he didn’t even love her?

“No.” Now her voice was only a whisper nearly lost in the new shaking of her head. “All I’ve done to try to win you. All my hours of planning, and you expect an apology to make it better?” It all came boiling up, over.

She flew at him again, not really seeing anything but the fog. The same fog that had blinded her when she’d had him in her sights. Now she had only her fists and her nails, though she couldn’t seem to get any purchase with them. Her feet were stuck in a morass, vines gripping her waist. “No!” Struggle as she might, she could barely reach him. The hateful, traitorous man. “I wish I’d killed you! I should have aimed at you from the start rather than that worm of a wife you love so well! It should be you on that bed, not Geoff!”

The vines suddenly dropped, and she fell forward, her knees striking the cold tile floor.

“Stella.” Father. It had been his arms holding her back. Now he recoiled from her when she looked at him. “What . . . what are you saying?”

What? What had she said? No . . . no, she couldn’t have . . . A sob ripped its way past her lips. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“You just said you tried to kill the duchess.” Father’s voice shook. “Stella . . . why? Why would you throw your life away like this?”

What did he mean? “I haven’t. I was only . . . I didn’t mean to hit Geoff, Father. You must know that.”

He shook his head. “Is that supposed to console me? You tried to kill a duchess. A duke. You’ll be imprisoned—”

“No!” She looked to Nottingham, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. His was locked on Geoff. “You can’t turn me in. You can’t. I didn’t mean to hit him. I didn’t mean . . . It’s all a big mistake. You can’t. You can’t.”

Father’s face adopted the same somber lines he had worn at Mother’s funeral. “I’m sorry, Stella. But you’ve left us no choice.”

Brice squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t go away. Didn’t change. He pressed his palms to his temples, but the pressure didn’t ease. One of his best friends—his oldest friend—still lay near death . . . and it was still his fault.

Rowena’s hand rubbed circles on his back, just as he had done for her when she was the one reeling. Little comfort came. “I shouldn’t have . . . I don’t know. I never considered she would . . . What have I done, Wena? I’d thought it all in good fun. Innocent, harmless.”

“It was.” Her burr came through, melodious and comforting. “’Tisn’t yer fault how she took it, mo muirnín. I’ve heard the things ye’ve said to her. Ye did nothing wrong.”

Then how had it all turned into this? And how could Rowena now say there was nothing wrong with the way he’d always flirted and teased, when it had caused her such confusion? He shook his head and opened his eyes, though the sight of Ella, eyes red, curled up in a miserable ball in the corner of his sofa, did nothing to ease him. “Ella-bell?”

She shifted, looked to him. “I didn’t have the least suspicion, Brice. Shouldn’t I have? We spent all our days together these past months, and yet . . . she never breathed a word. Not a word, not about anything but the position awaiting her and the gentlemen she hoped to meet in Hertfordshire.”

He had no answer. They had all, it seemed, failed to see the disturbed depths of Stella Abbott. Though perhaps her father had at least had an inkling. He had expressed concern over her desires, hadn’t he?

And he had been the one to call the constable on his own child. To hold her still until Morris arrived, all the while watching over his other child in the hospital bed.

Lord, that poor father. Give him your succor. Save his son. I beg you. And Stella . . . I don’t know what to pray for Stella. She was dangerous, clearly. Somehow able to admit to an action without accepting any responsibility for it. Something, somewhere, had gone awry inside her. Heal her too, Father. He didn’t know how else to phrase it.

Rowena, perched on the arm of his chair, feathered her fingers through his hair. Funny how she’d been the calm one when he came home and broke the latest terrible news to everyone—including that she had been the one Stella had meant to kill at the start. While everyone else fell apart, himself included, she’d been the one to comfort and assure. He leaned in, rested his head against her side. “Perhaps we’ll wake up and find this whole day a bad dream.”

Rowena trailed her fingers down his neck. “No. But what we’ll find is that the Lord is still lord. He isn’t cruel or absent, He’s directing us. Even in this. He’s leading us to the place He needs us to be.”

Ella sniffed. “That sounds like something Geoff would say.”

“And so it is. Something he said to me that first night at Castle Kynn. I wasna so sure I believed him at the time. But I’ve seen the truth of it since. And truth doesna change at the next crisis.”

He wanted to pull her into his lap and hold her tight. He wanted to smile at how she’d grown. He wanted to cry at how her new strength had to be tested now, like this.

“He’ll recover. He will, I know it. Terrible as it seems, a head wound can be better than one to the chest or stomach.” Ella unfolded her legs and pushed herself to her feet. At once determined and so very sad. “I’ll leave you two to find what rest you can. Sorry to have intruded so long.”

“Ye’re no intrusion, Ella.”

But the knock at the door felt like one—because anyone knocking would be a news bearer. And he couldn’t fathom that any news to come would be good. Still, he had no choice but to bid, “Come in.”

Mrs. Granger stepped half in, her gaze settled on Rowena. “Pardon me, Your Graces, my lady. But there’s a visitor.”

Who, that the staff wouldn’t have turned them promptly away on a night like this? Brice drew in a deep breath, praying it was the Staffords, somehow knowing they’d need the support of friends. “Who is it?”

Her focus stayed latched on Rowena. “It’s your father, Your Grace.”