Recognition flared in Leda’s dark brown eyes an instant before she wrapped Bess in a tight hug. “Oh, lamb.”
Ice poured through Bess’s veins at the tight clasp of Leda’s arms. She went rigid with mingled dread and urgency. “Was he here tonight? Did you see him?”
“Lamb.” Leda set Bess away from her at arms’ length. The look in her eyes was unbearably soft with something Bess didn’t want to understand as pity.
“No,” Bess protested through numb lips.
Please don’t say it.
Leda’s fingers tightened on her upper arms. “Lamb, you’re going to need to be brave now.”
If Leda hadn’t been holding her up, Bess would have collapsed to the ground. Her heart ripped down the middle, a violent and bloody rending.
“No. No!”
He can’t be gone.
He can’t have died thinking I didn’t love him enough to give him forever.
He can’t, he can’t, I can’t do this, don’t make me live through this again…
Grief took her like a sickness, like a fever, sudden and obliterating, blotting out everything but the litany of disbelief and denial that felt at once terrifyingly familiar and agonizingly fresh. A new jagged wound carving into decades-old scar tissue.
A sharp shake brought her gasping back to the surface of her mind. Madame Leda shook again, as if making sure, then spoke directly into Bess’s shocked, horrified face.
“Listen to me!” Leda’s voice cracked. “You need to be brave—because he needs you now.”
“Wha—…wait, what?” Bess’s broken heart gave an almighty painful thump. “He’s alive?”
“Your man is alive,” Leda confirmed. “Despite his best efforts over the last few weeks, and tonight. He went back into the burning building to save the stragglers, I don’t know how many times, until he finally collapsed. They got him out and took him across the road?—”
Bess was already running. Gasping, terrified, she crashed into the little bookshop that had been converted into a makeshift surgery to help the wounded from the fire.
The owner of the bookshop was a woman, a fact that might have surprised Bess under other circumstances, but which hardly penetrated her mind as she ran her gaze over each and every person sitting or lying propped up against the bookshelves. The shopkeeper moved between the patients with the calm competence of a trained nurse, conferring quietly with the doctor as he examined people and dispensed medicine and directions, and pausing only to inquire what help Bess needed.
“I’m looking for a very tall, well-muscled man who was brought in unconscious,” Bess said, her gaze searching the dimly lit recesses of the bookshop.
“The gentleman who saved all those people,” the bookseller exclaimed, her tired face lighting up. She’d seemed older than Bess, at first glance, but when she smiled like that, her face suddenly appeared years younger. “I could tell he was Quality by the shine on his boots, but I didn’t know who to send for so I put him in the back. Seemed strange to have him out here, and the doctor says there’s nothing wrong with him—no head trauma or any wound he can find. No reason for him not to wake up.”
“But he hasn’t?” Bess’s mouth was dry.
The bookseller shook her head. “Not yet. I’ll take you to him. Maybe all he needs is to hear a friendly voice.”
“Thank you. You’ve already done so much, but when you have a moment, could you send for Doctor Perry in Harley Street?” Bess begged. “That’s his personal physician.”
“As you like. Here he is.” The bookseller swept aside a curtain at the rear of the shop, revealing a tiny office that was more of a closet, barely large enough to hold a small desk and chair, and a chaise along the opposite wall that was currently occupied by the too-still figure of Nathaniel Lively, the Duke of Ashbourn.
Bess fell to her knees beside him, barely registering the bookseller’s departure. Her heart beat so fast and so hard, it was like it wanted to batter its way out of her chest to get to him.
He lay on his back on the chaise, motionless but for his massive chest rising and falling slowly with his breaths. Someone had cleaned his face, though there were still ashes in his hair. They’d arranged him with his hands folded flat on his stomach.
Bess hated the way it looked, like he was in his coffin.
Trembling, she picked up one of those lax hands and held it in both of hers, as carefully as she’d hold a baby chick.
His fingers were rough with calluses and slippery with some sort of balm that smelled medicinal. Looking closer, she could see the burns and blisters beginning to form where he’d wrecked his beautiful hands running into a burning building.
Her stomach rolled over. She stared at his still face. She wished she could believe he was only sleeping, but Bess had watched this man sleep many times.
