He stopped pacing and slowly lowered himself into the chair that Bell had insisted the footmen bring up in case Phillip finally passed out. It just might happen. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. The nightmares were back. Only this time they involved Sophie’s body lying crumpled on the floor of the cellar, blood seeping from a shot wound on her chest.
Phillip had tried to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Instead, he’d railed. He’d shouted. He’d even bargained with God. But every time a maid or doctor came out of Sophie’s bedchamber, their faces were drawn and pale. They shook their heads at him and said entirely unhelpful things like, “It’s grave. Quite grave, indeed.”
Phillip was tired of hearing that word. Only he truly dreaded another word that would be much worse.
Dead.
She’s dead.
He wouldn’t be able to stand it if those words were uttered. Those words would break him. He laid his head back against the wall behind him and shut his eyes for the first time in days.
But he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t cry. He had promised Sophie no harm would come to her. He was a damned liar and if she died, he’d never forgive himself. He wouldn’t deserve forgiveness.
One of their conversations haunted him. She had wanted to leave the cellar. She’d asked him to fetch the constable instead of waiting for Hugh to return. And Phillip had refused her. He’d been so convinced he could keep her safe. Her injury was his fault, and her death would be too.
Boots sounded on the marble steps coming up the grand staircase. When the footsteps stopped, Phillip opened his eyes to see Bell and Dr. Morrison from London standing in front of him. The good doctor was one of many of London’s finest Phillip had insisted come to give their opinion of Sophie’s condition.
“I’m going in to check on her,” Dr. Morrison declared, lifting his chin toward Sophie’s room.
Phillip nodded once, and the doctor disappeared into the bedchamber, while Phillip eyed the marquess through eyes he knew were bloodshot.
Bell had a recalcitrant look on his face. A look rarely attributed to the spy.
“Have you seen her today?” Bell asked quietly. He stood at attention with his back ramrod straight as if he believed the more formal he made things, the less the truth would hurt.
“Same as yesterday,” Phillip murmured. He was so tired. So tired he could barely think. But he didn’t dare sleep. If he was asleep when Sophie… No. He couldn’t even contemplate it.
“At least she’s no worse,” Bell offered, clearing his throat uncomfortably.
“Don’t.” The word was a command, not a request.
Bell scratched at the back of his neck. “Harlowe, I—”
“Do you trust her now?” Phillip managed through his dry, cracked lips. “After she risked her life for me?”
“You know I do,” Bell replied, his hands folded in front of him. He cleared his throat again and stared at the floor. They’d already had this talk. The first night. After Phillip had finished his glass of brandy. He’d yelled at Bell until his lungs had nearly given out. And Bell had let him do it. Somehow sensing that Phillip needed it. He needed to let out all the grief and anger and sadness he’d been feeling for so long. But nothing had been resolved that night. Phillip had left the room in disgust, hurrying up to begin his vigil outside Sophie’s bedchamber.
“I doubted her, Bell.” Phillip shook his head and leaned forward, staring unseeing at his boots and the parquet floor. He clasped his hands in front of him. “For a moment, when we were first abducted, I doubted her. For a half a second, I thought she might have told them where I would be.”
“How were you to know—?”
“Do you know why I doubted her?” Phillip asked, his voice still hoarse.
Bell lifted his chin and briefly closed his eyes. “Because I led you to believe she was guilty,” he said in a gruff, regretful voice.
Phillip rested his elbows on his knees and let his head drop into his hands. “Do you know how badly I want to blame you?” He turned his head slowly and stared at his friend. “But I can’t. I’m the one who knew her. Not you. I did this to her, Bell. This is my fault. No one else is to blame.”
Bell walked over and placed a hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “Miss Payton is one of the bravest souls I’ve ever met,” the marquess said quietly. “I’ve known grown men, trained spies, who wouldn’t have done what she did.”
Phillip closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. “If I lose her, Bell. If she—”
“Gentlemen,” came Dr. Morrison’s steady voice from the bedchamber doorway.
Phillip’s eyes shot open. He nearly jumped from the chair.
“How is she, doctor?” Bell asked, quietly.
The doctor shook his head, his face drawn and pale. “It’s dire, Your Grace. Quite dire, indeed.”
