Betsy touched the cold skin of her arm. “Ma’am?”
Theo blinked, looking once more at the figure in the mirror. She didn’t recognise the woman standing there, with such emptiness in her eyes, her skin pale, regal despite the crippling weight on her shoulders.
“He will be okay,” Betsy said, though her voice trembled. “The surgeon has been.”
“He’s been and left?” Theo asked, her voice suddenly sharp. How long had she been sitting on the floor? “And? Do you know anything?”
“Nothing, ma’am—just that the Duke’s condition is stable.”
Stable. Nathanial was stable.
As soon as Betsy was done buttoning her dress, she turned for the door. “Thank you, Betsy. I’ll see His Grace now.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Theo nodded, and after a tiny hesitation, swept from the room. Fragile calm suffused her, but it would be the work of a moment to destroy it.
“Ah, Duchess,” Lord Stapleton said, meeting her in the corridor. “I see you’ve had time to change.”
“How is my husband?” She didn’t recognise her voice, so low and steady was it.
“He is as well—as well as can be expected. Come, you must see the physician. I was on the way to fetch you, as it happens.”
Theo accepted his arm and they went together to Nathanial’s room. The door was open and the physician was standing in front of the bed, watching his patient critically. On the bed, Nathanial was covered by the sheets, but the torn remnants on his shirt were on the floor, along with the bloody water she had used. There was a little more colour in his cheeks.
She felt the breath whoosh from her lungs.
“Your Grace,” the physician said, finally turning and giving her a perfunctory smile and nod of the head. “Apologies for sending you from the room earlier.”
“How is he?”
“You got extremely lucky. The wound is severe, but not, I trust, life-threatening. There was no exit wound and the bullet has been removed. He has lost a lot of blood, naturally, but he is stable.”
“Will he make a full recovery?”
“I am hopeful, though nothing is certain at this stage. I have recommended a draught for him to take when he wakes, and I suggest he avoids red meat until he has recovered.” The physician took another look at Nathanial. “It’s possible he maybecome feverish. As I say, the woundissevere. If that happens, send for me at once.”
“Would he survive if he did?” Theo dared ask.
“I could not say,” Dr Follett said bluntly. “It is too soon for certainties.”
Her prayers so far had been answered. Nathanial was still alive, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Her offers of pledging her soul had worked; she would keep bargaining, keep promising Heaven her eternal servitude if only he would be well.
“He cannot be moved, of course,” the physician said. “Not for several weeks.”
“His Grace is welcome here as long as he wishes,” Lord Stapleton said hurriedly. “As long as he needs. And you, too, of course, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” Theo said.
“I will come back tomorrow, unless his condition changes,” the physician said. “If you’re concerned for his welfare, send for me, no matter the time.”
“You’re very good,” Theo said, inclining her head. The physician bowed and left the room with Lord Stapleton, leaving her at liberty to take the seat beside her husband. Beside Nathanial. She took his hand, pressing her fingers against his fluttering pulse. Not strong, but present. Alive.
When they had come here, he’d presumed the person behind her poisoning had been a woman, but he had been shot, and she was certain it was no accident.
There were no women at the hunt today.
The culprit was a man. And he was here. The only thing she knew was that Sir Montague was not one of the party; he could not have been behind the gun unless he entered the land illicitly. Theo did not know how possible it was for someone to do that. Given the size of Lord Stapleton’s estate, she did not think she could discount it.
