Blood was swiftly wiped away by Lady Duncaster who’d proven most efficient in regards to this matter. The doctor retracted his pincers, pulling out a fragment of Lady Mary’s gown, “Excellent,” he murmured. “Most infections are caused by bits of foreign material getting pushed inside the wound upon impact, so I am happy to have recovered this.”
Not long after, the doctor declared making contact with the lead ball itself. Richard’s hands tightened against Mary, even though her body had gone limp after losing consciousness again. Still, he could not risk her waking up and disturbing the doctor’s delicate work. Slowly, the shot was dragged out of her torso and dropped into a bowl. “That ought to do it,” the doctor said as he leaned back with a sigh. He placed his hand against her forehead. “She feels cool to the touch, so I would suggest keeping a blanket over her for warmth.”
“Do you think she will be all right?” Lady Duncaster asked, giving voice to Richard’s own concern.
“Only time will tell, I suppose.” Reaching for his needle and thread, the doctor proceeded to stitch up the hole.
Richard knew what he meant, even though he’d hoped that the doctor might have offered more of an assurance. But having been to war and witnessing the effect such wounds could have on seemingly healthy and strong men, he was also aware that the worst might still be to come. “I will watch over her,” he said decisively.
The statement was met by hushed silence until Spencer quietly said, “I do not think that doing so would be an appropriate course of action. You are not her husband, after all.”
“I will be soon enough. Once she recovers.” And she would recover. She simplyhadto. The alternative wasn’t an option.
“Even so, you must consider her reputation,” Lady Duncaster said. “People will talk once they notice your presence here.”
Grinding his teeth, Richard stared at each of them in turn, not liking the extent of their sound judgment. “Then what would you suggest I do? Because I can assure you that doing nothing is out of the question.”
“Perhaps you could sit by the door while Lady Foxworth and I take turns in the room with her.”
“By the door?” he muttered, feeling as though he’d just been banished to a corner.
“You will still be close enough for us to keep you apprised of her condition and you would also be of great help if we need to call for the doctor to return. Considering how invested you are in her recovery, I daresay you would fetch him faster than any of my servants.”
“You can be certain of it,” Richard said.
“Then it is settled?” The pitch of Lady Duncaster’s voice suggested a question even though Richard was wise enough to know that it was anything but.
He nodded, because although he would have preferred to sit by Mary’s bedside, he knew such a thing would not be possible. Instead, he found himself occupying a comfortable armchair only minutes later. A footman had even brought him that day’s paper so he would have something with which to pass the time. As if he was able to concentrate on politics or gossip—trivialities, in truth, when considering the fact that Mary’s life was still very much at stake.
Instead, he focused on his breaths, aware of how tight his chest felt against his lungs. He turned the pages of the paper, but failed to comprehend a single word that was printed thereon. It was all a massive blur, distorted by the most bizarre feeling that the only thing he cared about was in the room beyond, and that he just might lose it.
The thought stuck, disturbing him to the point of restlessness. For years he’d been motivated solely by the need for revenge. He’d achieved his goal. Victory was his. But at what cost? A shudder went through him. Carthright had definitely wronged him. Of that there was no doubt. And he might not deserve his title, his property or his fortune, but if Richard hadn’t striven to take them all from him, then perhaps...
He shook his head, unwilling to torture himself with what-ifs. One thing was certain however, and that was the fact that he would gladly repeat the past five years of misery for a chance at a different outcome—one in which Mary would not get shot.
The door opened beside him and he was on his feet in an instant. “How is she?” he asked upon seeing Lady Duncaster.
“She is still sleeping.”
“Have you touched her forehead, ensured that she does not feel feverish?” Lord how he hated the helplessness.
She nodded. “Of course.”
Expelling a breath, he thanked her for letting him know, resuming his seat as she returned to the room, closing the door behind her.
Two hours later, Lady Foxworth arrived to switch places with Lady Duncaster. “Mr.Heartly,” she said, her hollow eyes sparking a little upon seeing him there. “I did not expect to find you here, though I suppose I should have done. What happened today—”
“She will recover,” he said with certainty.
Her only response was a tremulous smile, and then she was gone, ushered into a room that he was still denied entry to. Lady Duncaster exited soon after. “I will send a tray up with some food for you. Is there anything else you would like?”
“Perhaps a clock? I did not think to bring my pocket watch with me when I left my room this morning and I would like to keep track of the time.”
“Of course,” Lady Duncaster said. “I will ask a footman to bring one up for you right away.”
As it turned out, the footman brought a notebook and pencil as well, which was wonderfully thoughtful since it allowed him to jot down Mary’s status every half hour. Even though there was little to say, it gave him something more meaningful to do than reading the paper.
“Would you care to join me for a drink?” Spencer asked at half past eleven when he returned carrying a brandy bottle and two glasses.
