My hand trembled as I raised my fork to my mouth, the potato I speared turning to ash as I swallowed it mechanically. Audrey had announced she would leave in the morning, and the way she kept sneaking dark glances at Castlevane meant that somehow, some way, that swine had something to do with it. She sat small and alone at the end of the table while Christine chatted in her ear in between taking gulps of wine and laughing at all the ridiculous things Weston said to her. I had to find a way to seek out a private audience with Audrey, away from everyone else. If she needed protection…if she needed help…I had to find a way to ensure her safety and well-being.

I glanced to my other side, and I blinked, realizing Lord Aberthorne had said something to me.

“I think I should be seen, don’t you think?” he said.

For the first time, I studied the man and noted his pale face, the sweat on his forehead.

I leaned in to whisper. “Are you unwell, sir?”

He rubbed his side. “It’s here. This swelling in my abdomen. Terrible pain the past two days.”

A litany of ailments ran through my head. “How would you describe the pain? Is it dull? Sharp, shooting pain?”

He pressed his other hand to his forehead, hiding the wince distorting his face. With a horrible groan, he stood up and collapsed to the floor.

“Harold!” Lady Aberthorne screamed.

I leaned down, pulling at his coat and shirt and reaching across his abdomen. My fingers hit on the spot he had massaged earlier, and my chest tightened. A large mass swelled from his side, revealing what could only be an aneurysm about to explode in his stomach. His eyes rolled back, and he let out a low moan.

The smell of lemons hit me, and I looked up to find Audrey kneeling at my side.

What can I do?” she asked, her face calm and steadfast as a soldier’s in battle.

“Run to my room and bring me my medical bag. Tell the servants to bring some hot water and towels and as much whiskey as they can find. Now. Go.”

She nodded and took off, snapping directions at the footmen as she fled the room.

“What’s wrong with him?” Lady Aberthorne cried.

“Lord Aberthorne,” I said in a firm voice. “You have an aneurysm in your abdomen that I will need to tie off. The surgery will be painful, but if I do not do it now, it could rupture and kill you. Do you understand?”

He let out another horrendous gasp of pain, but nodded his head.

“Should we move him?” Lord Weston hovered beside us, reaching out his arms to take hold of the patient.

“No!” I blocked him with my shoulder. “Even the slightest movement could make the aneurysm burst. I will perform the surgery here.” I lowered my voice. “I’m going to need you to hold him down.”

Weston nodded and knelt at Lord Aberthorne’s head.

Audrey blew through the room with my medical bag, an army of servants behind her, carrying supplies. Snatching my bag from her hands, I reached in for my antiseptic, barking at the servants to place the bowls to the side.

“Anyone who does not need to be here should leave this room immediately,” I shouted.

Audrey rose to go, but I grabbed onto her wrist. “Do you faint at the sight of the blood?”

She shook her head no.

“I need an assistant. Someone to clamp the aneurysm. Can you do that?”

Her eyes clouded over. “I don’t know how to—”

“I can show you, but I need someone I can trust. Will you do it?”

“Yes, of course.”

Ripping open my bag, I grabbed the antiseptic and poured it into one of the bowls, submerging all my tools and then my hands. I nodded toward the solution. “You should soak yours too.”

I took up my scalpel, and turned to Weston. “You will need to hold him down. Keep him still.” Glancing up, I called to a couple of footmen. “One of you take his arms. You grab his legs. Make sure he does not move.” I turned to Audrey. “I am going to use those two clamps there. You’ll need to hand them to me fast. We won’t have much time.”

She nodded, picking up the clamps I indicated.

With one long exhale, I turned to Weston and the footmen. “Ready?”

They nodded.

With one quick movement, I sliced into Lord Aberthorne’s abdomen. He let out a high-pitched wail, and from faraway I heard Lady Aberthorne scream his name. But I blocked it all out, a faint hum filling my ears as I dabbed at the blood pouring from his open belly. Reaching in, I searched until I found the aneurysm, bright and bulbous like red glass, all the blood pooling within it.

“Give me one of the clamps,” I demanded, and the smooth metal filled my palm. My patient bellowed and screamed, but my whole mind fixated on the vein as I clamped it off.

“Audrey, I need to lift my hand to clamp on, but I need your hand here.” I nodded to the exact position. “And keep it at this angle.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her hand slipping just above mine.

I let go and grabbed the other clamp to cut off the circulation below. “Now take your other hand and hold it here. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Her other hand grasped it, and I let go.

I glanced up at Aberthorne. “Almost done, my lord!”

But there was so much more to do, and I had mere minutes before he bled out. I grabbed the surgical thread I had set in the antiseptic and set to work tying off the aneurysm. Working at the base, I twisted the thread around and around, turning it and tying it into tight knots. It took only a minute, but his screams crowded into the calm and quiet in my head as I finished.

I turned to Audrey, and she stared back at me, her lips parted, her face white. Setting down my surgical instruments, I closed my hands over hers.

“Let go,” I said.

The blood pumped through the abdominal aorta, straight through with no ruptures. I breathed a quick sigh of relief, but I barely had time to celebrate.

“Grab those towels,” I cried. “Wipe him down. I need to sew him up.”

I prepared the sutures, the thick thread running through my fingers, and it was then I noticed the silence. Turning to Lord Aberthorne, my stomach sank at the sight of his ashen face, his shoulders shaking and shivering.

“Someone get him a blanket! Keep him warm!” I bellowed, focusing on the incision. Without even turning to her, I cried out. “Audrey, elevate his feet! Now!”

Lady Aberthorne hovered next to Weston, rubbing her hands over him. “What is happening to him?”

“He is going into shock,” I said, inserting the needle and working fast to stitch him up. “Keep massaging him. Talk to him.”

All my attention remained on the gaping hole in Lord Aberthorne’s abdomen. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but my hands did not shake as a row of even stitches emerged across his skin. Dipping a towel in hot water, I smoothed the crusting blood away and then placed a loose wad of bandages over the wound.

Closing my eyes, I counted to five, taking several deep breaths. Then wiping my hands on a rag, I assessed him. The shaking had subsided, and he lay still but breathing. I snapped at a footman. “Build up the fire. We need to keep him warm.”

Soon, blazing, crackling flames spit from the hearth, and I rolled up my sleeves, sitting back on my heels.

“What happens now?” Audrey asked.

I looked across Lord Aberthorne’s body, taking in her face streaked with blood, her dark hair wild and loose and falling down her shoulders. It was all I could do not to grab her and kiss her, wrap my arms around her and hold her close. The intensity of the surgery over, my blood ran cold in my veins and a wave of nausea hit me. I grabbed the bottle of whiskey, uncorked it, and took a long swallow.

Audrey reached out her hand, and I passed it to her. She gave me a warm nod before taking a long swig herself, the veins in her neck pulsing as she swallowed the fiery liquid. She shook her head and winced, placing the bottle back in my hands.

“Now we wait. And watch.” I leaned against the wall, taking another drink of whiskey.

“Will he live?” Lady Aberthorne asked in a small voice. She still hovered over her husband, massaging his skin.

I took a long breath, trying to gather my thoughts. “My mentor’s teacher, Dr. Hunter, invented this type of ligation. We have had some success in the London hospital, but—”

“Will he live?” she demanded.

I met her intense stare. “There are risks. Inflammation. Heart attack. Stroke.”

“Then why did you even open him up?” she wailed.

“Because without surgery his aneurysm would have exploded, and he would have bled to death internally.”

She looked away, smoothing his hair away from his face.

“All we can do now,” I took one last swig of whiskey, “is wait.”