CHAPTER 14

They arrived at River’s End late that afternoon on the wings of a sudden and fearsome thunderstorm that seemed evilly intent on chasing them out of Savannah and into the surrounding jungle of the sandy, swampy lowlands. An ill wind, the storm’s precursor, circled around the horses’ hooves and the carriages’ wheels, frightening the animals and the occupants alike as it rose up in great swirls, like so many taunting spirits, threatening to tear away bowler hats and bonnets alike. The pines and the oaks and the cypress trees swayed hypnotically back and forth as branches and needles and leaves crackled with a secret language all their own.

What had first been white and scudding clouds quickly became black and gray bruises on the darkening sky, as though the rolling grumbles of thunder had struck them with fists and they bled warm rain upon the earth and the two struggling landaus. A shard of lightning crackling overhead in horizontal patterns reminded Victoria of the blood veins in an old person’s hands.

The soaked drivers, Zebediah and his brother, Otis, knew to direct the horses around to the side of the plantation home to the covered port where the passengers could alight safely from the landaus and proceed directly into the house itself. Welcoming Victoria, her husband, and their entourage into the small receiving room were the elderly, dignified butler named Virgil and two young, wide-eyed maids. The scene was a chaotic symphony of rain pounding on the roof, frightened horses neighing, anxious drivers calling out to the animals to calm them, the acrid scent of the lightning, the smell of the rich earth, and the happy cries of relief and greeting from the Redmonds to their arriving family.

Victoria’s mother, father, and brother stayed in the background, more toward the hallway behind them than in the actual fray of the arrival. Capes and coats and hats and bonnets, all of them dripping with rain, were shed and handed over to the servants, who also greeted the party of six cheerfully and with relief. “Welcome home, Miz Victoria,” Virgil said, bowing creakily and speaking slowly as he always had. “We shore enough thought we’d lose you to this here devil storm. I prayed and prayed and now I can thank the Lord you done made it through.”

Smiling, happy to see the old man, and more happy than she would admit to be back at River’s End, Victoria patted his arm affectionately and then, at his insistent urging, handed him her long and dripping cape. “Oh, Virgil, that water is dripping all over you and will ruin your nice suit of clothes.”

“Don’t pay that no never-mind. I’ll dry out, shore enough, Miz Victoria.”

“If you insist. But it’s good to be here, and I thank you for your prayers.” She smiled after him as he moved to Spencer, bowed formally, and held out his hand for his cape.

“Oh, my stars, look at y’all,” Catherine Redmond fussed worriedly in the background. Victoria turned, pointedly looking past her brother—she found it so hard to understand him or forgive him—to see her parents standing next to each other. Her mother craned her neck to look everyone over. Not an easy thing to do with the cramped, square room being so crowded. After all, the three River’s End servants, Victoria, Spencer, Hornsby, Mr. Milton, Rosanna, and Tillie were all wedged into it. “Why are you so wet? Didn’t Zebediah and Otis put the hoods up on the landaus for you?”

On the way here, Victoria had told Spencer her mother would fuss about these very things. She now exchanged a look with her husband before answering her mother. “Of course they did, Mama. It’s just that the storm came up so quickly. We were one minute in sunshine and the next in a terrifying downpour. Fortunately, Rosanna and Hornsby had packed well and were prepared with our capes at the first sign of bad weather. Still, in our rush to get the hoods up on the landaus and our capes unpacked and actually on us all, we were soaked.”

“You poor things, I can believe it. You’re the very embodiment of drowned rats. This weather, I swan, I never saw the like. I told your father you’d all be struck dead by lightning before you ever got here.”

“We thought so ourselves a few times,” Victoria assured her. She’d feared this next meeting would be awkward, given how she had left angry less than a week ago with Spencer and Edward in tow. But so far, thanks in large part to her mother’s chattering and fussing over them, so good.

“Now, where’s that nice young Earl of Roxley? Why isn’t he with you? I have a room already made up for him. And more than one female heart will be broken if he doesn’t attend the barbecue tomorrow afternoon.”

Before Victoria could answer, she felt Spencer take her elbow. Smiling down at her, but looking resolute, he threaded her safely through the crush of people and over to her family. As he walked, the other people parted, just as when he talked, everyone else quieted. The mark of a leader, Victoria knew. People treated her father the same way.

When they stood in front of the elder Redmonds and Jefferson, who had yet to say a word, Spencer said: “My cousin will be along, Mrs. Redmond. He had a social call to pay before he left Savannah, but I’m certain this weather has delayed him. I am, of course, assuming the Earl of Roxley has the sense to stay in out of the rain. But he may not have and could arrive momentarily, to no one’s surprise. Just as we have, come to think of it.”

Murmurs of laughter greeted his words, and then they all stood there, quietly, awkwardly, Victoria and Spencer facing her equally uncomfortable family. Victoria’s expression and her mood fell. Now that she faced them, she couldn’t find the right words and didn’t know what to say, what to do. Her father’s expression showed a certain amount of proud reticence tinged with a yearning. Jeff’s expression, oddly, mirrored his father’s. And her mother looked wide-eyed with tears rushing to them.

Though her heart pounded with apprehension, Victoria could hear behind her the nervous shuffling of feet and a few sniffles and a low cough. The poor servants and Mr. Milton. How awful this must be for them, too.

Into the tension-filled silence, Spencer said, in that wonderfully melodic and formal voice of his: “Forgive me my lack of manners. Perhaps you have not met my wife? Mr. and Mrs. Redmond, may I introduce you to the Tenth Duchess of Moreland, among her many other and lesser titles, more than half of which I feel certain she herself is not aware and could not therefore recite? Nevertheless, I present to you Her Grace Victoria Sofia Redmond Whitfield. You may know her as your only daughter. And you, sir”—he turned to Jefferson—“have the equal pleasure of knowing her as your younger sister.”

For a moment, stunned silence held sway between Victoria and her family. But then, as one, they burst into laughter, and the tension was broken. Victoria surged forward to be enfolded in their embrace. As they kissed each other and hugged and cried, Victoria knew in that wonderful, noisy, rain-dripping, shining moment that she loved, with all her heart, John Spencer Whitfield, the Tenth Duke of Moreland, among his many other and lesser titles, all of which she felt certain he was aware and could recite.

*   *   *

Suitably dried off and his suit of clothing changed, Spencer stood in the billiard room on the first floor. He held a fine whisky in one hand and a finely crafted cue stick in his other. A very mellow cigar was clamped between his teeth as he squinted through its smoke to watch Jefferson Redmond, across the table from him, consider his next shot from all angles.

“The women tossed you out, did they, Your Grace?” Isaac Redmond asked cheerfully. A crystal glass of whisky in his hand and a cigar held between two fingers of his other hand, he sat in a big brown leather chair to Spencer’s right.

Spencer shifted his grip on his whisky so he could also hold the cigar with the same hand. He exhaled the smoke and said: “Most certainly they did, Mr. Redmond. I barely had time to dry off and change my clothes before I was summarily dismissed.”

“I’m not surprised. Not much feminine company out here for Catherine, so she’s sorely missed her time with our Victoria.”

Spencer barely bit back a correction. She was his Victoria now. He knew it was foolish to think such a thing. She was, of course, still this man’s daughter. But a powerful sense of possessiveness over her had seized Spencer earlier in Savannah, given all the danger she was in. Once he had his responses under control, Spencer politely said: “I can fully understand how Mrs. Redmond feels. Anyone who knows Victoria would rue every moment spent away from her.”

“Glad to hear you say that.”

A note in the older man’s voice implied he was, instead, surprised to hear Spencer say that. Spencer very coolly looked from his father-in-law to his brother-in-law across the billiard table from him. Jefferson raised his eyebrows and gave a subtle shake of his head. Spencer could not interpret the younger man’s meaning. Commiseration? Warning? Arrogance? He redirected his attention to Mr. Redmond, bluntly asking: “What else would you expect me to say, Mr. Redmond?”

Isaac Redmond sent Spencer a look … perhaps of mild disbelief … as he secured his cigar in an ashtray on a table to his right and also set his whisky down. With great nonchalance, the older man reached down to fondle the ears of the big rawboned hound dog named Neville, who had flopped at his feet. Earlier, the dog had sniffed at Spencer’s pants leg and then raised his intelligent eyes to look him over. Spencer had immediately squatted down and held out a hand to the dog. The keen hunter had politely sniffed at Spencer, and then grinned and wagged his tail.

Evidently, the dog’s reaction was a huge social triumph, or so Isaac Redmond had told him. It seemed Neville didn’t like too many people, but he certainly seemed to like him, and that was good. Spencer was further told the dog liked Victoria best of all. Privately, Spencer had assured himself he knew exactly how the dog felt. He liked Victoria best of all, too.

His expression friendly but not reaching his eyes, Mr. Redmond sat back in his chair, retrieved his drink, and took a sip. “I don’t know exactly what I expected you to say, Your Grace. I just know what Victoria said the day you and your entourage came riding up the drive to River’s End.”

“And what was that?” Guilt assailed Spencer. He could only imagine what she’d said.

“My daughter said you had no idea she was gone. She also said she was surprised to find you cared enough about her to come after her.”

“I see.” What else could he say?

Mr. Redmond carefully set his whisky glass down again, making his actions seem those of a man who believed he would need both hands free for a physical confrontation. “And I still do not know, Your Grace, why she came home after only two months of married life in England. Not really, I mean.”

“What reason did she give you for her … visit here?”

“My daughter said she was homesick.”

“Which you don’t believe.”

“I do. Who wouldn’t miss a place as beautiful as our great state of Georgia? And who wouldn’t want to spend all her life in Savannah, in particular? However, there’s more to this story. A father knows these things about his children. You’ll know what I mean one day when you’re a father, Your Grace.”

“Indeed, I shall.” Spencer’s heart gave a wrenching thump as he thought of the baby Victoria carried even now. Under normal circumstances, this would have been the perfect moment to break the wonderful news of an impending birth. However, his and Victoria’s were a far cry from the normal circumstances.

“Am I to take it then, sir,” Mr. Redmond persisted, “that you are not going to tell me, either, why my daughter is here?”

Spencer grew weary of this relentless questioning. Time for someone else besides him to be discomfited. Though he addressed Victoria’s father, Spencer locked onto Jefferson Redmond’s gaze across the width of the billiard table that squatted between them. “I assure you, Mr. Redmond, that your daughter’s return to River’s End had nothing to do with me. Or my treatment—or mistreatment—of her, which I believe is the implication here.”

Isaac Redmond sat forward and slapped his own leg. “I knew it! So you didn’t have her locked away in a tower somewhere, a prisoner against her will?”

Jefferson Redmond, and his steadily reddening face, was forgotten. Spencer shot his father-in-law a stunned look. “What the devil? Locked away in a tower? A prisoner? Victoria said that?”

“As much as. She implied she had no freedom of movement.”

Again, what could Spencer say? “I see.”

“I told her I had a hard time believing that, given your reputation and my own dealings with you.”

“Thank you for your trust in me, Mr. Redmond.”

“However,” the older man said, giving pointed emphasis to the word, “I assured her mother that should a man mistreat my daughter, Your Grace, I’d have no qualms with regard to taking him to hand.”

Spencer bowed slightly in acknowledgment of the warning in Isaac Redmond’s voice. “We understand each other, Mr. Redmond. I can assure you that Victoria has no reason to fear me. And I assure you I feel the very same way you do with regard to her being mistreated.” Spencer again arrowed a glance the way of her brother. “Should a man—any man, for any reason—threaten or harm my wife, he will answer to me. And it will be the last thing he remembers doing before he leaves this mortal coil.”

“Well said, sir.” This was from Isaac Redmond. Spencer looked his way and saw the man had visibly relaxed in his chair.

But Victoria’s brother’s response was the exact opposite. He stood taller; tiny white lines bracketed his mouth. Too late, Spencer wondered if, in his haste to allay the father’s concerns, he had not alerted the son’s suspicions. Had he given too much away? Did Jefferson now understand that Spencer knew Victoria’s true reason for coming home? Did he suspect Spencer knew of Jefferson’s complicity in the abominable plot against his child? Spencer quickly replayed in his mind what he had said and could not find anything any loving husband would not have said under the same circumstances. He feared, however, he could not say as much for his challenging looks or the intonation in his voice.

“Jefferson, my boy, do you intend today to take that shot? You’ve considered it from every angle except from under the table.”

Jefferson set himself in motion around the table. “Sorry, Daddy. I had trouble concentrating with all the talk distracting me.”

Isaac Redmond raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Point taken, son.”

A silence, more companionable than antagonistic, settled over the men, leaving Spencer free now to contemplate how Victoria might be faring upstairs with her mother. The women were apparently still chattering away in the large and airy and richly decorated bedroom Mrs. Redmond had assigned him and Victoria. The suite of rooms boasted a sitting room and shared dressing room. Mrs. Redmond had been excitedly knocking on the door almost before he and Victoria—she in the dressing room with her lady’s maid, and he in the bedroom with Hornsby—had time to dry off and change.

He worried about Victoria. She had to be tired. She needed her rest but could hardly say why without giving a reason. For his part, and fortunately, the ride and the cooling air and the activity of getting the hoods up had cleared his head and his headache. As he watched Jefferson finally take his shot—successfully—and walk around the table to consider his next move, Spencer allowed his mind to stray upstairs to his wife. He pictured the two women getting in the way of that … what was her name? Rose Ann, wasn’t it? At any rate, his plump, proper, and gray-haired employee from Wetherington’s Point. He’d finally seen the woman in the course of packing up and leaving the house in Savannah. Not a young girl, at all.

Thinking of Savannah had Spencer directing his attention to the bank of tall, narrow windows directly across from where he stood. Outside he saw this end of the long and winding, oak-lined drive that led to the front door of River’s End. Worry on another level pushed its way to the forefront of Spencer’s thoughts. He leaned over to his left to the small table positioned there, where he set his emptied drink. The cigar followed suit, being placed in an ashtray. He straightened up and considered the weather outside.

The rain had lessened in intensity in the last hour from an all-out deluge to a nice, steady patter. The window he peered out of was open, as was one off to Spencer’s left. This arrangement provided a cross-ventilation current to draw the cigar smoke out and keep the air in the room fresh. Twilight was about to descend, he realized with a start. Where had the time gone? Interestingly enough, though the rain still fell, the sky was remarkably light. As if the sun were not going to go down without a fight. It was just as well that the day held, Spencer decided.

Edward and his escort, a large blond fellow by the name of Gibson or Gibbons or something like that, had not arrived yet. Spencer deemed it too early to be concerned and tried to convince himself that Edward had probably accepted an invitation to stay over in Savannah or had gone back to the Redmond House to wait out the storm, which may not have abated yet at that location. In either instance, Edward would be here tomorrow, all hail-fellow-well-met and full of sauce and vinegar. At least, he had better be.

His eyes narrowed, Spencer watched Jefferson Redmond—his opponent, he feared, in more ways than one—take his next shot and make it, too. Lucky bastard. For now. Still, “A difficult shot. Well done, Jefferson.”

Jefferson slowly straightened up and looked into Spencer’s eyes with blue ones so like Victoria’s. Spencer had time only to read a hesitance there, an uncertainty. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You can call me Spencer, you know. I am your brother-in-law.”

“I know … Your Grace.”

Spencer arched an eyebrow at the young man who had to be younger even than Edward. So this was how it was going to be.

Given the kidnappings and the murder and the threats and the blackmailing undercurrents that Spencer now knew marked his wife’s return to Savannah, he could not help but worry about Edward’s well-being. Not because he loved him, but because the boy’s mother did and would have Spencer drawn and quartered should something happen to her precious son. Not in any hurry to test that medieval death sentence, Spencer again assured himself he would kill his cousin himself, should he be so careless as to get himself, well, killed. Hearing himself, Spencer pronounced his worrying ridiculous. Of course, Edward was healthy and merely delayed by the weather.

Still, Spencer was glad the billiard room was located at the front of the large house and faced the oak-lined approach. This way, he could occasionally and surreptitiously glance outside to see if any riders approached.

*   *   *

Upstairs, Victoria pronounced herself content merely to listen without comment, except for the occasional murmur or nod of assent, to her mother’s worries about the weather and how it might affect tomorrow afternoon’s barbecue. Cathe-rine said over and over how excited she was about the coming social gathering of all of Savannah’s finest citizens. Why, there had not been a decent party in all of Savannah since the July Fourth celebration—or maybe there had been one, right before Victoria had shown up, traveling trunks, English maid, and all, on the front porch.

She makes me sound like an unwanted distant cousin come to take endless advantage of her hospitality, Victoria thought with wry amusement.

She reclined gratefully, tiredly, atop a fainting couch in the sitting room that complemented the guest bedroom she and Spencer had been assigned by her mother, much to Victoria’s surprise. She’d assumed they would be in her bedroom, but of course she now realized her narrow bed would never do for two people, especially not when one of them was as broad shouldered and as tall as Spencer. And she had to admit, she felt very pampered, indeed, to be put in this bedroom, the most elegant one after that of her parents.

Why, not too long ago, she’d barely been allowed to step one foot in this room, and now here she was, a guest in it. The notion of being a guest in her childhood home was a strange one to her but not unpleasantly so, she found, since Spencer was coupled with that designation.

In the background, behind her mother, Victoria could hear Rosanna in the bedroom itself as she opened and closed drawers, putting away Victoria’s belongings. She believed Hornsby was in there, also, taking care of Spencer’s things. He had to think this arrangement barbaric, given how separately husbands and wives of the peerage lived. Indeed, how separately she and Spencer had lived. To make matters worse, he and Rosanna despised each other, based solely, Victoria believed, on her and Spencer not getting on previously. Even now, their truce—hers and Spencer’s—was a delicate one. She hoped the cease-fire held with her maid and his valet, as well.

As her mother went through the guest list and benignly gossiped about every prominent household in Savannah, Victoria schooled her features into an interested expression but found her thoughts wandering downstairs to her husband. He’d said such wonderful things to her this afternoon in the parlor of the house in Savannah. Or had tried to, at any rate. That darned Edward, the scamp, kept interrupting.

She’d hoped Spencer would say more intimate things to her on the ride out to River’s End, but the weather had interrupted that. Well, darn if it wasn’t one thing or another contriving to keep her and her husband apart. Victoria heard her own warm thoughts about the man. Only yesterday she would not have indulged these. But so much had changed and kept changing with each passing day … or hour, even.

At any rate, she hoped Spencer felt stronger now than he had earlier in Savannah. The poor man shouldn’t have to endure a bout of billiards and drinks and cigar smoking with her father and Jefferson. Oh, dear, the scent of cigar smoke. It would make her so ill to smell it on him later. She hadn’t told him the effect it had on her. But even had she, what could he do? Ask her father not to smoke his afternoon cigar? Not without having to explain why. He’d had no choice, either, about the billiards. Why, being a big, strong man, she thought fondly, he’d rather pass out face-first on the table than say he couldn’t participate in such a manly pursuit because he’d been attacked twice in as many days, once by rough men and once by his tiny wife, and had been knocked unconscious and lost two days in bed.

Before she could feel too sorry for him, Victoria reminded herself that at least he would recover from his symptoms much quicker than she would hers. Worse, right now her mother’s delicate perfume was making Victoria queasy. What a twist that scents she had always enjoyed now sometimes made her ill. Victoria raised her hanky to her mouth, and swallowed thickly.

She did not dare get sick in front of her mother. How would she explain that? Oh, when did these symptoms disappear? Or did they at all? She wished so much she could ask her mother, but how could she without revealing her secret? The truth was she couldn’t say a thing before she knew what her and her baby’s fate would be. The nature of that decision would determine whether or not her announcement would be a joyous occasion or one fraught with more heartache for her family. Right now, with her mother so excited and her color high and her eyes sparkling, Victoria was loath to ruin her happy spirits.

Suddenly serious, her mother sat back on the delicate silk-covered chair positioned opposite Victoria’s. “Honey, are you feeling ill? Your color has gone suddenly pale.”

Pale, indeed. What Catherine Redmond couldn’t see but Victoria could, given that her mother’s back was to the opened door that led from the dressing room into the bedroom, was Rosanna. She had obviously heard Victoria’s mother’s comment and had bustled over to the doorway, her eyes wide with concern. Victoria warned her off by fluttering her hanky in the air, a gesture which also served to wave away Victoria’s mother’s concerns. Rosanna nodded and sharply turned around to re-enter the bedroom. Victoria heaved a sigh of relief … and felt her stomach turn over. Why did this have to happen now? She hadn’t been sick before in the afternoons, not even on the tossing and turning Atlantic Ocean crossing.

“Maybe you’re just tired from the drive out here.”

Victoria jumped on this explanation. “Yes, Mama. It was appalling and tiring. We were all just drenched, and the wind about took my bonnet.”

“You poor thing. Oh, I hope you’re not going to take sick, not after all my planning for tomorrow.” Her mother leaned in toward Victoria, innocently giving her a solid whiff of her lavender perfume, and felt her daughter’s forehead. “Well, you’re not feverish, thank the Lord.”

Victoria fought a gag. Oh, dear Lord, no, I can’t be ill, not now, not with Mama in here. But the truth was … she was going to be ill. Her breathing quickened and she broke out in a sweat.

“Victoria, what on earth—?”

Victoria swung her legs over the side of the couch and sat forward. “I’m sorry, Mama, but I think I’m going to be sick!”

“Sick? Why on earth would you be sick?”

“I don’t know,” she groaned, clamping a hand over her mouth.

“Rosanna!” Catherine Redmond cried. “Come here! Something is wrong with Victoria!”

Victoria jumped up quickly, intent on making a run for the nearest basin. But the second she stood, instead of being ill, she smacked into an invisible brick wall. Her muscles suddenly relaxed; blood drained from her head … and she felt herself losing her grip on consciousness. The next thing she knew, the carpet came up to meet her and—

*   *   *

Downstairs in the billiard room, behind closed doors, Spencer leaned over the table, about to make the shot that would end the game successfully in his favor. But before he could shoot, he heard a steady, somehow frantic-sounding drumming on the stairs, like that of running footsteps. Accompanying this was a keening, feminine cry. Instantly alert, Spencer straightened up and looked to his hosts.

“What’s that noise?” Jefferson said, looking as if he feared he’d heard a ghost instead of seen one.

“I’ll tell you what it is.” Looking thoroughly put out, Isaac Redmond jumped up from his chair—or meant to. He had forgotten about the sleeping dog, which he stepped on and made howl. The animal’s bellowing and skittering away from him upended the older man, knocking him back into his chair. “Damn it all to hell! I’m sorry, Neville, come here, boy.” The dog wouldn’t, and this irritated the elder Mr. Redmond further. “If that is that girl Tillie again, running down the stairs like I’ve told her a hundred times not to do, I’ll fire her—”

“Isaac! Isaac Redmond! Oh, dear God, come quickly! Spencer! Heaven help us! Something’s terribly wrong! Isaac! Victoria has fainted and fallen to the floor! Help! Come quick!”

“That’s your mother!” Isaac Redmond cried, staring at Jefferson. In the next instant, he gripped the leather chair’s arms and made ready to pull himself up. “See what’s the matter, Jefferson. Don’t simply stand there like a fool!”

Spencer was already in motion. His heart in his throat, his pulse racing, he had needed to hear nothing past Victoria has fainted and fallen to the floor. He shoved his cue stick into Jefferson’s startled hands, barked out a gruff “Here!” and loped for the closed door. Just as he reached for the doorknob, the door was thrown open from the other side by Catherine Redmond, who charged into the room. In that same instant, Neville raced out and down the hallway, bellowing as if he’d been scalded. Other voices from various parts of the house were raised in confused alarm. The sound of running feet converged on the billiard room.

But none of this mattered to Spencer because the door had caught him squarely and vertically in the middle of his forehead and almost knocked him senseless. Losing his balance, he staggered back against a decorative sideboard that held the liquor service … and managed to upset that for his hosts. Crashing crystal and shattering glasses combined with the sudden strong smell of good Kentucky bourbon and the loud report of a silver tray hitting the hardwood floor.

But these sounds were secondary noise to Spencer over his own cry of pain, as he had, when he fell backward, jarred his kidneys against the edge of the hardwood furniture. And now, holding his forehead with both hands, he cursed roundly: “Son of a bitch! Will I make it through even one blasted day in this godforsaken swamp of a miserable city without someone trying to kill me? Damn! Damn the blue-blazing hell—”

Spencer bit back the rest of his tirade in order to keep from further insulting his hosts and their city and from killing, with his language alone, his horrified and apologetic mother-in-law.

“Oh, my word, Spencer, you poor man, I am so sorry. Here, let me see.” She reached up, almost on tiptoes, trying to feel his forehead—which was already swelling … he could feel it … with a lump. “I should have knocked first, but Victoria— Oh, my word, now you’re bleeding! Sit down, Spencer. Wait here.” Catherine Redmond whipped around to the congregated servants. “Virgil, send Zebediah after Dr. Hollis. Tell him there’s been an accident.”

But Spencer had no intention of sitting and waiting for anyone or of arguing the point. He pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and pressed it to his forehead as he raced out the door and around the wide-eyed staff, all of whom quickly cleared a path for him. Spencer heard running feet behind him, right on his heels. In the next instant his shirtsleeve was grabbed and he was nearly pulled off balance.

Not happy, he turned to face Jefferson Redmond, a man who matched Spencer’s height but not his breadth. “You’re covered in blood, Spencer. You can’t go up there like this. You’ll scare her to death.”

Spencer’s glare for his brother-in-law was a practiced, icy one that served as a warning. “How can I scare her if she’s fainted dead away? And I suggest, sir, that you unhand me.”

Jefferson immediately complied. “Fine, but we’re going with you.”

“Suit yourselves.” With that and the Redmonds on his heels, Spencer charged down the hall to the staircase and took the first riser. As he did, the dog Neville flew past him and up the stairs in a bullet-quick flash with his long toenails scratching at the polished wood of the stairs. Though momentarily startled, Spencer followed on the dog’s heels, taking the wide yet curving stairs two, three at a time. The hound quickly outdistanced him and disappeared around the landing. Of course he can go faster. He has four legs, the bloody cur, was Spencer’s uncharitable thought.

Just then, on a wide part of the stairs, Jefferson Redmond also pushed past Spencer and sprang as nimbly up the remaining ones as had the dog. Spencer did not even waste breath on cursing the younger man. But in another two stairs, Isaac Redmond’s polite “Pardon me, sir” as he hared by had Spencer narrowing his eyes at the white-haired man’s back. The last straw came when Mrs. Redmond nudged him with her hip and, skirts held high in both hands, tore up the steps like a woman half her age. “What the hell? Are the Redmonds descended from a herd of deer?”

“Language, Your Grace,” she chirped, not slowing down.

“Excuse me, madam, but I’ve suffered a head injury! I think I am allowed to curse!” Spencer called after her bouncing bottom. As slowly as he apparently was going, he felt certain that by the time he achieved the top of the stairs, Victoria would have already delivered the baby and it would itself be grown and married and the parent of three small children of its own.

Spencer renewed his efforts and his speed—or tried to. With one hand pressing the increasingly blood-soaked handkerchief to his forehead, he found his balance was off and he was forced to grip the banister and pull himself along. How many bloody stairs are there? Finally, he achieved the landing and its one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn … and stood there, staring disconsolately at the next flight up. “Son of a bitch.”

But, ever the trouper, he firmed his lips and his resolve, exhaled mightily, and attacked each tread with renewed vigor. He kept thinking—fearing—he would pass out, but he didn’t. Actually, he didn’t see how he could. With all the exerting he was doing, he was thoroughly pumping blood to his head—and right out through the gaping hole in his forehead. So, though he might remain conscious, he could drop dead at any moment.

Just then, as his hope flagged, he achieved the second floor. Full of pride for his accomplishment, he stood there … simply breathing, his hand on the newel cap. And that was when the piercing female scream, coming from somewhere down the hall, jerked him upright and chilled his blood.

“Oh, my God, Victoria!” Catherine Redmond screamed. “Oh no, my baby!”