"Go, Your Grace," she said. "I'll keep her safe."
Jasper gave a final glance to his daughter—then, not wasting a single second, turned on his heel and ran out the door, hailing a carriage as he went.
Chapter 44
Nathaniel and Grace had been sitting in the salon, enjoying the quiet that followed dinner. Abigail had left near two hours ago, wrapped in her cloak and kissed on the cheek by Grace before stepping into the waiting carriage. She'd seemed tired, but content.
A decanter of port sat between them, each with a glass in hand. The fire had burned low. Outside, the sky had deepened into dusk. They spoke in low voices about the townhouse they had purchased for Sophia and Jasper—a wedding gift the young couple would be arriving to claim any day now.
Both turned at the sound of brisk footsteps in the corridor.
Their butler entered, his expression polite but puzzled. "Pardon the interruption, my lord, but a footman from the Duke of Winterset has called. He asks to speak with you."
Nathaniel stood at once. Grace set her glass down with a soft clink.
The footman was shown in a moment later, his hat tucked respectfully beneath his arm. He looked barely twenty—and visibly anxious.
"My lord, my lady," he said with a quick bow. "Forgive the intrusion. His Grace sent me to inquire after Lady Winterset. She was expected home some time ago but hasn't yet arrived. We hoped she might still be here—resting, perhaps?"
"She left nearly two hours ago," Nathaniel said, his brow furrowing. "She said she wanted to be home before dinner."
The footman's mouth tightened. "Yes, my lord. His Grace is... understandably concerned."
Grace stood at once and rang for their footman. "Please have our carriage readied. We'll leave at once for the Duke of Winterset's townhome."
The footman bowed. "Very good, my lady."
Grace and Nathaniel moved quickly to the front hall, the quiet of the house replaced
by sudden urgency. Grace fastened her cloak with unsteady fingers.
"If she's not here," she said, voice tight, "and not there—then where is she?"
Nathaniel didn't answer. He reached for the front door and opened it—and nearly collided with a man on the other side.
The constable took a startled half-step back, arm raised mid-knock. "Your Grace?" he asked, removing his hat quickly. "Lord Everly?"
"Yes," Nathaniel said, his voice clipped.
The man gave a short nod. "I've been sent by the Duke of Winterset—there's been an accident. The Duchess's carriage overturned near Grosvenor Square. One of the horses was spooked. She's been taken to St. Bartholomew's Hospital."
The world narrowed.
Grace let out a soft, strangled cry, her hand flying to her mouth.
Nathaniel's voice came hoarse. "Her condition?"
"She was found unconscious, my lord, and her injuries are quite serious. The duke is already on his way to her and asked that you be informed. He thought you would wish to be there."
For a moment, no one moved.
Nathaniel turned to Jasper's footman. "Go on back to His Grace's estate," he said. "We'll be taking our carriage to the hospital."
Moments later, he and Grace climbed into the coach. The ride was short but silent. Grace stared out the window, eyes shining with worry, while Nathaniel sat forward, fists clenched against his knees.
Please, God. Please let her live.
The carriage halted outside St. Bartholomew's—London's oldest hospital, grim and grey as a lamplighter moved from lamp to lamp, bringing the gaslights to life. A footman helped Grace down. Nathaniel took her arm as they hurried up the steps.
