“Thank you.” Helen walked out of the room, following the butler.
“We’re sorry,” Isabella said. “Anthony must be in great pain.”
“He is.”
Maybe it was Isabella’s imagination, but the way Patrick avoided her gaze and hunched his shoulders made him look guilty.
“Do you need anything, my lord?” Mother said. “Company or a walk in the park? A bit of fresh air would do you good. Forgive me if I say you look rather pale and tired.”
“The past weeks have been difficult for us.” He rubbed his face.
“We can take a walk tomorrow if you want,” Isabella said. “Just an hour if you can spare it.”
He didn’t smile. “Tomorrow, then. Thank you.”
“How’s the Dowager?” she asked.
“Preoccupied. But you know my grandmama. She’s a strong woman.”
“Thank you, Patrick.”
The Dowager walked in, dressed in one of her impeccable, high-necked gowns. Her hair was styled in the usual old-fashioned chignon, but her green eyes were clouded, and her hollow cheeks showed the same suffering as her grandson’s.
“Your Grace.” Isabella said. “We’re deeply sorry about the incident.”
The Dowager remained unfathomable. The only sign of her distress was the down-turned curve of her mouth. “As a family, we’ve been through many troubles. We overcame those. We’ll overcome this one. Just something for you to think about.” She patted Isabella’s cheek lightly before excusing herself and heading out.
A little quiver ran down Isabella’s neck. The Dowager’s words sounded like a warning.
Mother cast her a puzzled look, but if she searched for answers, Isabella wouldn’t know what to say.
Helen returned to the drawing room with red cheeks and lips pressed together. Her shoulders were shaking. She hadn’t gone for more than three minutes, but her composure had changed.
“How’s His Grace?” Mother asked.
“Recovering.” Helen bowed her head to Patrick without looking at him. “We should leave and let the duke rest.”
Rogers entered the room and cleared his throat, addressing Patrick. “My lord, Lord McFall is here.”
“Again?” Patrick’s voice rose, but he composed himself. “Apologies, ladies.”
After a quick round of polite goodbyes, Isabella left the room confused.
Lord McFall stood in a corner of the entry hall as pale and shaken as Patrick. The tension between him and Patrick was palpable. She couldn’t hear their conversation as the footman escorted them out.
“What happened with the duke?” she asked once in the carriage with Helen and Mother.
“It was awful. I shouldn’t have disturbed him.” Helen dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief. “His face is completely bandaged, he can barely talk, and he’s weak. I fear he might die.”
Isabella’s chest clenched for Anthony. The pain must be unbearable.
“Why is his face bandaged? Where was he shot?”
“Somewhere in the face.” Helen twisted the handkerchief. “The infection is the main problem, and I didn’t understand if it’s completely under control now. Our marriage is unsure. Oh, Mother. All our plans. And if he was shot in the face, he’ll look grotesque.”
“Helen!” Isabella used a commanding tone she didn’t know she could produce. “How can you be so selfish? The duke nearly died, and he must be suffering a great deal, but you worry about your wedding plans and how he would look.”
Helen lowered her gaze, her cheeks reddening. “I care about him. I do, but I was looking forward to announcing my wedding, to starting my new life with him. And then the incident happened. And yes, I’m worried about his looks. There’s nothing wrong with that. You know how cruel people can be. He’ll be ridiculed by everyone. Gossip will spread. Life with him will be brutal.”
