Although Matthew had summoned their physician, he had not yet arrived when the duchess had demanded his presence. Even Howe had appeared cowed by the message as he helped Mark become more presentable. No one argued with Phyllida Rydell.
Except her second son, who now mumbled obscenities under his breath as he struggled to remain still, as every fiber of his being had begun to ache in earnest. He had barely made it down the stairs before collapsing into the chair. “It is for me.”
“It is about the appearance of the thing.” Phyllida pivoted, still giving the fan a good thrumming. “The rumors shredded through the park today like a wildfire, reaching me before I was ten feet inside the gate. I heard the rumor at least four more times before I could wend my way out, and Lady Cowper even hinted that we might be banned as a family from Almack’s.”
“Would that be so bad—”
Phyllida stopped short, glaring at him. “You may have abandoned society—”
“In truth, I have not—”
“But you have a sister—”
“I doubt that Daphne will want—”
“And your brothers may be off to war or school or out into the country, but they all still need wives. Respectable wives.”
Matthew appeared in the doorframe of the room, pointing over his shoulder, a quizzical look on his face. “Stephens said you still have not rung for...” He looked from his mother to Mark. “Why are you out of bed? What has happened?”
Mark took a deep breath, then coughed, tugging at his shirt collar. Howe had not been able to persuade him to accept a cravat, as he was barely able to don trousers and a shirt with the valet’s aid. “Command appearance. Thetonis convinced I killed Stella.” He coughed again, and his vision blurred, a ring of black appearing at the edges. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Matthew’s voice held a note of confusion. “That was quick. How did they—ah, the servants. From Miss Ashley’s maid to the drawing rooms of Mayfair.”
“Are you surprised?” Phyllida snapped. “This could ruin us.”
“She was alive when he left her, and he has an alibi. He was somewhere else when she died.”
Phyllida huffed. “A brawl in the Rookeries.” The fan slapped her palm. “That’s no alibi. Those people would say anything for a halfpenny. No one would believe them.”
Mark grabbed a breath. “Possibly because a ha’penny would put bread on their table for a week.”
Phyllida’s glare deepened. “Please do not tell me you have added ‘reformer’ to your list of iniquities.”
Matthew stepped closer to Mark. “You looked like hell this morning. Now you look worse.”
“A good scolding from Mummy always takes the wind from my sails.”
The room fell silent, and Mark shuddered, a flash of chill seizing him. He slumped against the back of the chair as breathing became an issue. “I really do not—” He broke off, gasping as a roar of pain shot across his sternum.
Matthew swept into action, bellowing out the door for Stephens. Then he stepped to Mark’s chair and slid an arm behind his shoulders. Pain speared down his back, and Mark gasped again. “That’s probably not—”
“The doctor is on his way.”
Mark heard rather than saw his mother leave.
“Can you stand? We must get you back upstairs.”
Taking a deeper breath and trying to push through the pain, Mark put weight on his legs and pressed up from the chair. The deep pain in his back and side shot a sudden weakness down his hips, as the dark ring around his vision expanded. His voice vanished into a hiss as his knees buckled, and the world turned black.
Then darkness gave way to a riot of color.
Uniforms, crimson and navy. An azure sky, blotched by smoke, black, gray, and white. The gold of roiling flames.The march seemed interminable. Endless columns of French soldiers stretched before them, but they never moved closer. Just marching, churning the ground, firing endless volleys, the ends of their rifles belching...
The blast came from his left, and the compression brought earth, debris, and body parts slamming into him. His horse reared and he tumbled from its back, throwing out his arms and legs in attempt to brace for the impact of the ground. He hit hard, agony shimmering through his limbs. He called out to the faces that drifted through the smoke. Officers. Family. People he cared about.
“Mark!”
The urgent voice pierced the fading cacophony of the battle. Mark stopped moving, stopped fighting, trying to hear, but the roar in his ears made everything sound muffled.
