“Miss Smith, my lord.” She stepped forward and bobbed a stiff curtsy. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“Your nurse,” Amelia added.
“Well, I’ll be a stuffed duck, he lives,” a voice said from the doorway.
Sam looked past Blakewood to where the voice had come from. Blakewood rolled his eyes and stepped back revealing Mr. Tristan Chase.
“It’s alarming how you appear in key moments,” Amelia muttered. “How did you know he was awake?”
He twirled a top hat around his finger as he perused Sam. “I didn’t. Lucky coincidence.” His dark hair and blue eyes were startling in the dim light against his pale skin. He had a sinister air, like a ghost. Sam recognized him from the Lyon’s Den, haunting the place, searching for leverage he could use against desperate gamblers.
Sam pinned him with what he hoped was a steely, threatening glare. “Why the devil are you in my home?”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon sends her regards. She is thrilled every day that you exist and I’m certainly heartily overjoyed to learn that you are fully awake. Dr. Sloan? What is his progress?”
“What business is it of yours?” Sam scoffed. Lightly, because just talking was tiresome, let alone speaking forcefully.
Mr. Chase chuckled. “Not mine—Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s. She’s the one who orchestrated Dr. Sloan’s and Miss Smith’s presence to save your life. You owe her a great deal.”
The true meaning of his words washed over Sam slowly, seeping into his muddled head. The Black Widow of White Hall, proprietress of the Lyon’s Den. He knew she favored him morethan most of the patrons of her gambling club, but she did not bestow her gifts out of goodwill. She was a businesswoman. She orchestrated, manipulated, and negotiated with claws and teeth.
“I’ve made no bargains with her,” Sam said. He’d remember that, wouldn’t he?
Mr. Chase folded his arms, tucking a fist under his chin. “Not you, no.”
In a surge of alarm, Sam clutched his stomach as he weakly pushed himself up with his other arm.
“Sam, no, don’t move,” Amelia begged. She rushed to his side.
“Help me,” Sam bid to Blakewood. Stone-faced, Blakewood tucked a pillow behind Sam’s back. Sam’s breathing came in short, stabbing jolts as his insides felt like they were sliding into different places. He cast a glance toward Dr. Sloan, who observed him at his desk—Sam’s desk—with a shrewd gaze but made no move to stop him.
Sam gritted his teeth, and the pain ebbed slowly. He could feel his skin pulling at what must be his scar, and bloody hell it was long. His head swam, sparkles filling his vision again for a moment before his racing heart settled. Just sitting up made him want to collapse, but this couldn’t wait.
“Amelia, what did you do?”
Her eyes filled with tears, but her chin was firm. “What I had to.”
“You know she’d do anything to save you,” Blakewood said in her defense. “We both would.”
“So, you let it happen?” Sam accused. His heart pounded, panic creeping into his mind. There was only one thing he had to offer the widow.
Blakewood met his gaze. “You were dying.”
Sam looked to Mr. Chase. “Tell me the debt I now owe Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Mr. Chase sobered. “As your proxy, your sister agreed on your behalf that you will marry a woman of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s choosing when you can physically do so as recompense for the services of collecting Dr. Sloan, for covering his fee, and for the help of Miss Smith.”
Spots danced before Sam’s eyes. He tried to take a breath, but his lungs would not inflate. He wasbetrothed. Bloody engaged to some unknown woman. He closed his eyes as anger washed through him, followed by pain as his side screamed. He was breathing too hard and too fast. Miss Smith appeared at his side, and she put her fingertips on his wrist.
“Try to remain calm, my lord.”
“Come now,” Mr. Chase chided. “You’re alive. You should be grateful.”
Grateful?
“Enough,” Amelia spat at Mr. Chase. “This is the longest he’s been awake in weeks. Run along and report to your mistress. He’s awake and alive. His bride can wait a little longer.”
Bride.
