Page 30

“Miss Lioni has a brother. An older one who’s been eating far better than she, apparently.” Keene spat the words out.

Violet’s hand landed on his forearm, a thread of caution beneath layers of sympathy. “Best put that under your hat until after he sees the doctor, Christopher. I’ll go for water to clean him up.”

“You’ll ring for a servant and go back to bed.”

She turned that gentle touch on Gabriel, her fingers light against the centre of his back.

“I mean it, Violet. We don’t know anything about this man,” Gabriel said rather pointlessly.

“I know you mean it, love. But it’s Miss Lioni’s brother, not some nefarious footpad.”

“He smells like a nefarious footpad,” Gabriel grumbled.

She crossed to ring for a servant, which turned out to be unnecessary when Sofia returned accompanied by Mrs Janewood. They were carrying water and bandages. Sofia resumed her place at the end of the table, her hands bracketing Oliver’s head, her thumbs caressing the greasy hair at his temple. Christopher watched her lips move silently in what looked to be prayer. Despite her obvious shock, she did not crumble. If anything, she appeared to have donned an extra layer of armour somewhere between the housekeeper’s parlour and the kitchen. She was preparing for the worst, he realised. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but his hands were smeared with blood, so instead he replaced the bandage he held with a clean one and did his best to keep the bastard alive for her sake. When he glanced up again, Violet was beside Sofia. Naturally, Vi had paid no mind to Gabriel’s halfhearted dictate.

“It looks as if the bleeding has slowed,” Christopher said. He studied Oliver to keep his questions to Sofia at bay. He appeared older than Christopher and Gabriel’s thirty-seven years, but lifestyle could age a man. His clothes were of poor quality, little more than rags really, and the tread was nearly gone from his boots. His mass of curly hair was likely identical to his sister’s if hers had not been pinned into submission, but his complexion was darker, not the olive of the Italians. He was large, over twenty-one stone Christopher guessed. All at once, that twenty-one stone began to thrash, eyes fierce and frantic. Keene dived to still him before the bleeding could start again.

“Be still. You’re safe. Your sister is beside you. My name is Christopher Keene and you are at Northam Hall.” Glazed eyes darted to each person present, lingering on Gabriel for a long moment before finding his sister’s face and softening. “Piccola pulce.” He reached for her, and though he groaned, he did not stop until he caught her hand in his. “Perdonami per le cose ho detto. Non intendevo loro. Non intendevo⁠—”

“Riposa ora. Tutto andra bene.” Sofia kissed his knuckles.

A knock sounded at the door a moment before Doctor Higgins entered the room. His purposeful stride did not slow as he greeted Gabriel with a nod. “Your Grace, who do we have here?”

“Oliver Lioni, my governess’s brother. Arrived in this state some thirty minutes ago.”

The doctor slid his glasses up his hooked nose and addressed his next question to his patient. “Knife wound?”

Oliver nodded, then gasped as Dr Higgins pressed the tissue surrounding the wound with methodical fingers.

“You’re lucky, son. It doesn’t appear to have severed any major blood vessels or organs. An inch to the right and you never would have made it to the property line. I’ll have to clean it and stitch it up. It’s filthy, but the edges are smooth. It’s going to hurt like the devil and you’ll likely develop a fever that will make you wish you were dead.”

Gabriel turned to his wife. “Vi, why don’t you take Miss Lioni for a cup of tea or, better yet, a snifter of brandy?”

Sofia gripped Oliver’s hand with both of hers, her fingers blanched white from the pressure she exerted. She shook her head in a stilted little jerk. Violet raised a hand to her shoulder but Christopher’s feet were already moving, his arms opening to reach for her. She flinched, sucking in a quick breath of air. “No, Christopher. If you touch me, I will cry and I cannot … cannot …” She heaved in two more choppy breaths. “Cry.” Quick, jarring tremors had overtaken her slight body, but still she held herself stiff and apart, her eyes beseeching. Christopher stood rooted in place.

“Sofia.”

“No,” she said again. Her arms came up around herself and he watched the muscles in her throat move as she swallowed. “No. I will go with Her Grace. A brandy would be … si.”

Turning, she all but ran from the room. Violet paused long enough to lay a hand on Gabriel’s wrist, a brief look passing between them before she followed Sofia at a walk.

Sofia swept around the corner, pressed her palms and forehead against the cool wall, and tried to combat the nausea roiling through her stomach. Knowing Her Grace would be just a few moments behind her, Sofia straightened her spine … only to discover the bloody hand print smeared across the delicate cream wallpaper. She tried to wipe the blood away with her sleeve, but it only seemed to grind deeper into the wall.

A gentle touch landed on her shoulder, stilling her frantic movement.

“Never mind that,” the duchess said. “May I call you Sofia?” Her soft, lyrical voice was more suitable to a drawing room tea than the current drama. “And I would very much like it if you would call me Violet. Considering that your brother is currently bleeding in my kitchens, it seems absurd to stumble over unnecessary titles.” Violet made a frustrated sound. “And I have said the entirely incorrect thing again. It’s a problem of mine.”

Sofia shook her head. “No, I much prefer honesty. And I would like it if you called me Sofia.”

“Excellent. I will have a bath drawn for you, and then, when you are feeling more the thing, we’ll have a glass of brandy. I’ve never actually had brandy but this seems like an excellent excuse. Or scotch. Gabriel prefers scotch. Come to the study when you’re ready.”

A short while later, as she sank into the steaming bath, Sofia attempted to wash away her anxiety alongside the evidence of Oliver’s close call with death. Too many emotions were closing in on her and she had no way to escape them. She was as distraught by the thought of having Oliver close to Northam Hall as she was at the prospect of losing him again. If he died, she didn’t know how she would survive on the memory of what he had become. She heard the contempt in his voice even now, searing away at the memories she had long safeguarded in her heart. Memories that had sustained her through the days when Oliver had become difficult to love.

Sofia didn’t want to be angry with him tonight, so she tried to think only of the sweet boy he had been. Oliver, sewing tiny, uneven stitches with clumsy hands, reattaching the leg of her favourite doll. Oliver, dancing every song with her the night Antonio De Luca had called her a clumsy cow to a crowd of his friends. She had shrunk into the shadows that night, but Oliver had found her, ruffled her hair, and told her she belonged in the light. Always in the light.

Now he had become her darkness.

But perhaps she had played a part in making him so. This broken man was not her Oliver. He was a monster created from tankards of ale. Ale that he used to wash away the injustice of his birth and to fill the void of unfulfilled revenge. But regardless of his recent plummet into disgrace, he had been her only source of loyalty and affection for many years.