Sophia took a shaky breath and smoothed her skirts, refusing to give Roxboro the satisfaction of knowing she’d been distressed at hislate arrival. Her husband would probably fall out of the carriage, reeking of brandy and barmaid. Sophia planned to inform Roxboro that in the future, she objected to Lord Damon as an intermediary. She would not tolerate any further disrespect. Then she would make a rather grand exit and proceed to ignore the duke, which wouldn’t be difficult given the size of The Pillory.
Resolve firm, Sophia stood before the window, watching as Roxboro’s mud-stained carriage, missing one of the horses, halted before the front door.
Barstow stepped onto the gravel drive, hurrying toward the carriage, shouting instructions to the footmen who rushed outside.
Sophia pressed her fingertips to the window pane.
Servants swarmed the vehicle. A footman leapt down from the driver’s seat, the same young man Barstow had sent out to search for the duke earlier today. Another bedraggled footman, his livery torn and dirty, arrived on the missing horse.
Stone appeared, sprinting towards Barstow as the carriage door was opened.
Roxboro’s driver tumbled out, the side of his face bruised a deep purple, a thin trickle of red streaming down one cheek.
Blood. A great deal of it. On the driver. On the footmen. The carriage door.
Sophia didn’t hesitate. She ran outside, heart in her throat, just in time to see Roxboro, unconscious, the fine lawn of his shirt, stained crimson as Barstow and Stone pulled him from the carriage.
*
“Your Grace.”
Sophia looked up at the exhausted face of Dr. Reading. He’d been summoned while enjoying a pie his wife had made. Cherry, according to the stain dotting the napkin still suck in his collar as he arrived atThe Pillory.
One footman, Milburn, dead. The driver, John, injured from a blow to the head. The remaining footman had been fortunate. He’d been stabbed but the wounds were shallow, according to Dr. Reading.
But Roxboro.
“I’ve done all I can for now, Your Grace.” Dr. Reading placed a hand on her shoulder. “The rest, I’m afraid, is in God’s hands. We’ll be on the lookout for infection. Fever.” He pressed his lips together in consternation.
“What is it?” she said, taking in Roxboro’s pale, bloodless countenance. Her anger towards him was still there, sitting in her mid-section, but the sight of her husband like this hadtornat Sophia in a way she hadn’t expected.
“The duke’s love of drink will make things worse. His body will notice the absence of spirits. It will make his recovery that much more difficult, Your Grace.” Dr. Reading looked to Barstow.
“I had an uncle who required care when he gave up the bottle. I understand,” Barstow replied.
“What must I do for both…illnesses?” Sophia asked. She’d never nursed a soul except for one of her dolls when Mara tore the arm off. That experience was unlikely to assist her in this instance.
You’ve the courage. Patience and comfort are required.
Lady Violet’s whispered instruction to Sophia after the wedding breakfast. At the time, she hadn’t known what to make of the words, but now, looking at Roxboro, she had some idea, although Violet could never have imagined this scenario.
“Your Grace,” Stone said. “I’ll stay with the duke.”
“Yes,” Dr. Reading agreed. “A lady such as yourself—”
“Forgive me, Dr. Reading,” Sophia returned crisply. “But you don’t know what sort of lady I am. I will nurse my husband, with Barstow’s assistance. And Stone’s.” She glanced at the butler who appeared pleased by her demand. “Now, what must I do?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Send for me immediately if his woundsworsen. You know what I refer to, Barstow, do you not? Redness. Pus. Flesh not knitting together. There’s laudanum for pain and his—other symptoms.”
“I saw many fevers and putrid wounds while I served England, Dr. Reading. I’ll send word immediately should the duke’s wounds worsen. And as to the other, as I’ve said, I helped my uncle who loved gin far too much.” Barstow looked at Sophia. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”
“Putrid wounds. Fever. Some sort of symptoms caused by lack of spirits.” Sophia jerked her chin. “Very well.” The fatigue of the last few hours crept under her skin, but she pushed it aside. Roxboro wouldnotdie. She would make sure of it.
When Barstow had yelled to fetch Dr. Reading even as Stone helped him carry Roxboro from the carriage, Sophia had stood still on the drive, deathly calm. She followed his blood-stained form up the stairs as he was carried to his rooms. Didn’t weep or collapse into a fit of tears, though she’d dearly wanted to. The entire household looked to her for guidance. Strength.
Because Sophia was the Duchess of Roxboro.
And even though she’d never wanted such a lofty title and had held it only little more than a week, Sophia would not fold. Nor crumple. A duchess was made of sterner stuff.
