It was an interminable journey back to Hemlock Manor.
“How is he?” Maxwell asked distractedly, leaning forward to watch the road. Emmett remained still, and by all appearances, dead, in the seat beside him, where he was slumped against the carriage wall. I hadn’t noticed any improvement in the gaping eye socket that repeatedly drew my attention, but I knew that it was healing, albeit slowly. “By God, can’t we move any bloody faster?” The urgency and frustration in his voice echoed my own.
I felt for Ambrose’s pulse in the dark carriage interior, my finger sliding over his clammy skin to settle on the artery at his neck. It throbbed beneath my fingertips softly, reminding me of the delicate wings of a bird. I’d seen men lose ten times the blood Ambrose had lost and survive, at least for a time, and I had to believe the precautions of bandages had slowed down any further egregious loss. We just had to hope that the hit to his head hadn’t caused other significant injuries.
Ambrose’s head rested on my lap, and I resisted the urge to bounce my leg as I silently urged the driver to go faster. But a broken wheel would be even worse for the situation, and the coach was bouncing erratically as it was. “He’s doing okay,” I said, unsure.
Maxwell glanced back at me hesitantly, as if he wanted to ask more, but remained silent. “That wasn’t the Emmett I knew. He wouldn’t … he was never a violent man, not like father.”
I smiled tightly. “I believe that.” The thematic shift of Emmett’s art to the macabre was making more sense now, as was the blood on his mattress, likely the result of several late night visits from Raven. “He will be different as a vampire. I … don’t know what that means. Perhaps if I’d had the chance to be myself after I’d changed, I would have been different. Your brother …” I hesitated. “Perhaps there will be a chance for him to be the man you knew once he adjusts. He will still need to drink blood, but perhaps he will be better in the long run.”
“If my family allows him to live,” Maxwell said, blinking away tears for a moment before he lifted his head, as if in defiance to fate. “I don’t know how we do this. I don’t see Father standing for it. But I can’t just let him … we have to figure something out.”
I reached forward and clasped his hand. “We will, Maxwell. I promise you, we will figure this out.”
Maxwell nodded, eyes shifting to Emmett’s once more before dropping to the floor. After several minutes, he spoke again. “We’re almost there now.”
I didn’t try to glimpse the road, but I could tell from the smooth ride that we were pulling up to the circular drive. I gently shifted my arms beneath Ambrose to cradle him, not wanting to waste a moment to adjust my grip once the carriage rolled to a stop. Maxwell seemed of the same mind, for he leapt to open the door before it had completely stilled.
I carried Ambrose up to the door, but no one opened it for us, Maxwell pulling the handle with a grim look at his brother, who seemed much paler. He hesitated on the threshold as the warmth of the house chased away the cool night air. That was good. Keeping Ambrose warm would be good.
“Look after him,” Maxwell said, touching his brother’s arm with regret. “I’m going to instruct the driver to leave Emmett in the carriage and lock it away. He’ll do as I say. Then I’ll grab a horse and fetch the doctor straightaway.”
“Be quick about it,” I told him.
He nodded, then ran back out into the night.
I hesitated as I stepped inside. Percival wasn’t around, so I paused in the front hall, laying Ambrose on a sofa and eyeing the bandages, completely red now. They weren’t soaked through, however. I took that as a good sign until I recalled that once the heart stopped, blood no longer flowed through one’s arteries. I checked his pulse again. It was weak, but it was there.
“You have to make it,” I told Ambrose, holding his hand. “You are an exceedingly frustrating man, but you don’t deserve this fate.” I pulled a chair up to the sofa and watched him for several minutes, eyes finding the throbbing pulse at his neck, as I was accustomed to do. I watched for Percival, but he was conspicuously absent. Hewouldchoose this vital moment to neglect his duties. “Damn them all,” I cursed, frustrated as I grabbed fistfuls of my hair. “Where is everyone?” My eyes turned back to the door. How long would it take for the doctor to arrive, I wondered? Would he be in time? What could he do for Ambrose if he was?
I swallowed hard, finding Ambrose’s face again, his eyes shifting beneath his closed lids. “Despite my reservations, I believe you will make a good duke.” I hesitated. “You were right about me, after all. I’m no good. But you wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself if you’d killed Emmett. Even though you’re pig-headed at times, I think you’ll come to see him as your brother. You’ll realize the right thing to do. Your father … taught you cruelty. But you aren’t cruel. You’re a self-absorbed brat, but you’re not the monster he is.” I hung my head, sighing. “Me, on the other hand … I deserved that raiding party. I needed to be stopped.”
I pushed a loose hair back from Ambrose’s forehead. I couldn’t keep waiting. I had to fetch some servants to tend to him if they weren’t going to come to me. Perhaps someone would have a better idea of how to care for him until the doctor arrived. My specialty was quite the opposite of keeping someone alive.
I ducked my head into the adjoining hallway, then ventured out. “Hello?” I called tentatively. “Is anyone around?”
I heard the sound of faint piano music. Of course, the ball was underway. Most, if not all, of the servants would be there.
“I’ll be back,” I called back to Ambrose, as if he would hear me.
I stalked determinedly to the ballroom as the piano music grew nearer. Outside the doors, I still saw no servants to tend to Ambrose. I recalled the illness that had swept through the house and scowled. They were probably working with a skeleton crew tonight.
At the entrance to the ballroom, I took a moment to run a hand back through my disheveled hair. I must have looked a fright, having rolled around in a crypt, but I couldn’t worry about that now. Gazing into the room, I was struck by how I’d met Maxwell and Ambrose in this very room just a few weeks ago. So much had changed since that fateful day. I’d only cared about myself then, no regard for the people around me, no idea that my life would be irrevocably altered by the duke’s sons. My throat thickened as I thought of Ambrose on the sofa alone, fighting for his life. I didn’t have time to linger. I needed momentum to carry me through this night.
When I stepped into the ballroom, I was greeted by Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major. Flora stood rigid beside Zachariah, surveying the elegant dancers flitting about the middle of the room. I took a hesitant step forward. Flora was the best person to inform of the situation. After all, it was her son who was gravely injured.
Resolved, I circled the dance floor until I reached the hostess. Neither she nor Zachariah spoke as I approached, and I had to clear my throat before Flora swiveled her head in my direction.
“Ah, Lucian,” she said, a vague smile crossing her lips. “You’re here.”
I leaned in for discretion. “I’m sorry to do this, my lady, but there’s been … an accident. Ambrose needs you. Can you summon some servants to the front hall?”
Flora swayed slightly, staring at me. “Oh, but we can’t interrupt the ball. It’s hardly started. But now that you’re here …” She let her voice trail off, her gaze returning to the dancers.
I hesitated. “I don’t think you understand. Maxwell has gone to fetch the doctor. Ambrose is hurt.” I glanced at Zachariah, but he didn’t seem to be listening. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that it’s serious.”
“Care to dance, my lord?” a brunette woman in her mid-thirties asked. She was a fresh face from the usual crowd.
