And in every iteration, it was Montague standing over her, emotionless, a gun in his hand.
Nathanial flung open the library door, and stopped.
Theo was there, just as he’d imagined, her face white and her eyes wide and dark—darker than he’d ever seen them. Her head turned at the sound of the door, but she didn’t seem to recognise him.
And before her, staggering against the bookshelf, an expression of almost comical shock on his face, was Montague, a red stain erupting on his waistcoat.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Theo couldn’t quite process what she had done.
The gun was in her hands, which suggested she had been the one to shoot Sir Montague, but nothing quite felt real. The air was too thick, and she was struggling to drag it into her lungs, because she was falling, falling, falling.
A voice. Her name. She snapped her head up, but the figure in the doorway was blurred. Something hot ran down her face as she blinked, and the figure lurched forwards. Towards her. Hands outstretched, saying her name again in a pleading way that tugged at her heart.
The gun toppled from her fingers, landing on the carpet with a dull thud that radiated through her.
Sir Montague fell to his knees. Blood stained his brocade waistcoat, and he pressed his hands to his stomach, pulling them away with an expression of confusion, as though the redness there didn’t make sense.
Theo wasn’t certain she was breathing.
“Theo,” the voice said again, and now there were hands on her face, turning her to look at him. Familiar grey eyes greetedher, filled with concern and anguish and an expression she couldn’t name, that put air back into her lungs and spurred her mouth into speaking.
“Nate,” she whispered.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
At the mention of hurt, she looked back at Sir Montague, still on the floor. The detachment faded, replaced by alarm. She had done this.Shehad done it.
As though Nathanial sensed her shifting mood, he released her and knelt by Sir Montague’s side. “There’s a lot of blood,” he said grimly.
Sir Montague raised his head. Every breath was ragged, and Theo thought she could hear something liquid bubbling at the back of his throat.
He couldn’t die. Not now. Not because ofher.
“Theo, fetch Mrs Clayton,” Nathanial said sharply. “Tell her to send for a doctor.”
“Trying to save my life, cousin?” Sir Montague’s snort was weak. “I beg you wouldn’t bother.”
“Theo,” Nathanial said again. “Go.”
Her feet moved before her mind did, consumed as it was by the sight of Sir Montague lying on the floor, bleeding out against the rich, green carpet.
She had done that.
And Nathanial was here. How he had come to be here now, she didn’t know, but she could cry at the sight of him, coolly peeling back Sir Montague’s shirt to reveal the wound, unhesitating in everything he did.
But she couldn’t cry. Not when Sir Montague’s life hung in the balance.
She hadshot him.
Mrs Clayton hovered outside the library door, her hands fluttering beside her mouth, and Theo drew herself up. She was a duchess.
“There’s been an accident,” she said, her voice cool and clear. “Send for a doctor immediately.”
Mrs Clayton’s eyes darted from the doorway, through which little was visible, to Theo’s face. “I’ll get the stable boy to take the trap into the village,” she said. “Dr Brayburn resides there, and—”
“Thank you,” Theo said, cutting her off. “Do it now, please.”
