fourteen
Five weeks later
Isabella sat beside her mother and Helen on the sofa in Gloucester House.
The ticking of the grandfather clock was the only sound. In front of her on a low table lay the latest issue ofThe Times.
The newspapers hadn’t dedicated much space to the news of a shooting incident in Battersea Park, involving the duke a few weeks ago. She guessed the Beauforts were powerful enough to silence the press when they wanted to. Surely, a shooting wasn’t the type of news the Dowager would want her family involved with.
The aftermaths of the disastrous West End Riots were still the main topic. Windows had been smashed, stores on Oxford Street had been destroyed and ransacked, and the Police Commissioner had resigned amid accusations of incompetence after the destruction the rioters had left behind throughout London. There had been many wounded as well.
Guilt gnawed at her for Anthony’s condition. When she’d wished for something to keep him busy after his unexpected proposal, she hadn’t meant a shooting incident that had almost killed him.
There was a lingering, mourning feeling in the air, like during a vigil, and she hoped the duke wasn’t on his deathbed as some people rumoured. If the newspapers had been quiet about the duke’s condition, the Dowager and Patrick had been vague. They’d answered politely to Mother and Father’s messages, but that was it. No explanation.
After a few more exchanges of curt messages, the Dowager had quite coldly invited them to Gloucester House, but Isabella doubted the invitation was sincere.
“Perhaps we should leave,” she whispered. “I feel like we’re intruding into their difficult moment.”
“We won’t stay long,” Mother said in a low voice. “We’ll enquire about His Grace’s health and leave. If he can receive visitors, Helen will go. The duke will be happy to see you.”
Helen nodded.
“For goodness’ sake, Helen,” Mother continued, “why did you wear those awful shoes? I should have checked you before leaving the house.”
Helen swallowed a couple of times. Either she forced herself not to say anything or she felt humiliated. “Sorry, Mother.”
“Well, I doubt the duke will notice them anyway.” Mother sighed. “Sometimes I think neither of you two listen to me.”
Isabella wondered if her mother cared about Anthony at all. “Mother. The poor man is wounded. We’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes. We aren’t welcome.”
“I won’t tire him,” Helen said. “But he must know I’ll be by his side, no matter what.”
They sat bolt upright when the door inched inwards.
Patrick entered the sitting room and offered a bow, his face pale and strained. “Lady Montrose, Isabella, Helen. Thank you for coming. I apologise for having made you wait.”
“Do not worry. How is His Grace?” Mother put her cup of tea down on the low table.
His paleness and red-rimmed eyes spoke of a lot of worry and little sleep. “His injury is serious but slowly improving although the infection is barely under control. He needs rest, and his recovery will take time.”
“What happened to him?” she asked.
Patrick fidgeted with his hands. “Anthony was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A shooting was happening, and he took a bullet.”
Mother gasped despite the fact he hadn’t said anything new. “Good Lord.”
Isabella had heaps of questions.
He hung his head. “The shot wasn’t the only problem. Unfortunately, the delay in taking him to the hospital caused by the West End Riots worsened the severity of his injury. Had the surgeon operated on him sooner, my brother would feel better.”
“Does he accept visitors?” Helen asked.
“The physician has been very strict, but if one of you wants to see him for no more than a few minutes, a visitor might cheer him up.”
Helen rose before anyone could say anything. If Isabella had to be honest, she wished to see Anthony. But she couldn’t justify her need to see him without telling the whole truth.
Patrick opened the door for Helen. “Very well. Rogers will show you to Anthony’s room.”
