Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

 

 

A runner was expected to go where angels feared to tread, but to do so carefully. Methodically. In a way that did not endanger themselves or those around them. In short, they were supposed to remain level-headed at all times. But when Grant heard Juliet’s scream and the subsequent gunshot, he stopped thinking with his head and thought only with his heart.

He followed the sharp smell of gunpowder down the hall to a closed door. The door was locked, but one solid blow from his shoulder and it splintered open. The wisest course of action would have been to remain in the doorway and assess the situation. Instead he damned caution to the wind and charged into the room with all the recklessness of a madman.

The first person he saw was the Dowager Duchess, her beaded gown splattered with blood. Her face was pale, but she was still on her feet. There was a man he recognized as the footman slumped against the bed.

Then he saw Juliet.

“No,” he choked out, dropping to his knees beside her. She was sprawled lifelessly on her side, one arm flung over her face. Blood seeped from a wound behind her right ear. It trickled down across her ashen cheek to pool in a circle of dark red on the floor. Feeling his own blood run cold, he lifted two fingers to check her pulse, but before he could place them under the delicate line of her jaw he heard the dowager shout out a warning.

“Behind you, Lord Hargrave!” the elderly woman cried, pointing past him to the door.

Grant didn’t think, he simply reacted. Throwing himself over Juliet while simultaneously drawing his gun, he aimed and fired. Sparks flew into the air as the bullet came flying out of the chamber and struck his target in the shoulder. The man fell back against the wall, the pistol he’d been aiming at Grant’s back falling uselessly to the ground where it bounced once before settling at the feet of the dowager. She immediately picked it up and aimed it at the man Grant had just shot. Her hands, though frail with age, were surprisingly stable.

“This odious villain tried to kill me,” she said darkly. “Were it not for Miss Williams, I would be dead. What would you like me to do, Lord Hargrave? Should I shoot him? I’m an excellent shot. You should see me take down a partridge from twenty yards.”

“No, Your Grace. I don’t think that will be necessary.” Were the situation not quite so dire – and Juliet not quite so still – Grant would have had a good chuckle at the sight of an eighty-two-year-old noblewoman holding a criminal at bay with his own weapon. “But you could go send for a doctor. With all haste,” he added as his gaze slid back to Juliet. Crouching beside her, he gently took her hand in his. Her delicate fingers were cold, and when he squeezed she didn’t squeeze back. His throat tightened.

“What about this scoundrel?” the dowager demanded.

“Don’t worry about him. If he moves so much as a bloody inch the next bullet is going straight through his heart.” It was not an idle threat. Had Grant been in a better position when he’d fired his gun, the bastard would be dead already. 

“Very good.” The dowager gave the criminal’s pistol to Grant, who slid it into the waistband of his trousers. She looked down at Juliet and tears shimmered in her eyes. “She really did save my life, you know. I’ll be back with a doctor as quickly as I can.” Then she was gone, and there was nothing to do but wait.  

“Is Jules still alive?” This from the footman – who of course wasn’t really a footman – leaning against the bed. He tried to stand, but with a grimace he clutched his side and slid back down to the floor, his face turning a pale, ghastly gray.

“He shot you as well?” Grant questioned. By the look of it the bullet was still lodged somewhere in the poor bloke’s belly. If he didn’t receive medical attention soon he was in danger of bleeding out. 

“Aye. Edward got both of us. Jules. Is she still alive?”    

Grant was afraid to check. He’d never been afraid before. At least not like this. The fear pushed down on his chest, making it difficult to draw a deep, steady breath as he slowly slid his fingers along Juliet’s jaw. If he couldn’t find a pulse…

But wait! It was there. Thready and inconsistent, but there.

“She’s alive.” He sent up a quick, fervent prayer of gratitude. “She’s alive.”

The only question was for how long. Head wounds were unpredictable. If it had been a glancing blow, her odds of recovery were excellent. But if the bullet had embedded itself in her skull…a tremor passed through him. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not when he’d finally come to realize just how much she meant to him.

A long, torturous twenty minutes later the dowager at last returned with the doctor as well as the Duke and Duchess of Readington, both of whom breathed audible sighs of relief when they saw their son was alive and unharmed.

A balding, sharp-eyed man who looked to be in his mid-fifties, if not a bit older, the doctor began to briskly unpack the black leather satchel he’d brought with him. Grant’s gut clenched when he saw him remove one sharp looking instrument after another and line them up in a neat row beside the bed.

“Who would you like me to treat first?” he said as he slid a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles onto his nose.

“Juliet,” Grant said, glancing at the footman who immediately nodded in agreement.

“Aye,” he grimaced. “See to Jules first. She’s far more important than the likes of me.”

“Very well,” said the doctor. “In that case I am going to need the room.”

“I’m not leaving,” Grant said flatly, his hand tightening around Juliet’s. Wake up, he willed her silently. Wake up and yell at me. Wake up and point a pistol at me. Wake up and tell me to sod off. Devil take it, just wake up!

The doctor cleared his throat. “I am afraid you must leave, sir. I may have to remove some of the lady’s clothing, and it would not be appropriate–”

“I said I’m not leaving,” Grant snarled.

“Now see here young man–”

“Darling.” Ever the quiet voice of reason, Caroline hurried forward and gently squeezed her son’s shoulder. “Darling, let the good doctor do his work now.”

“He can bloody well do it with me in the room!”

“Darling,” his mother repeated kindly, “I can see this girl means a great deal to you. But I am afraid there is nothing else you can do to help her at the moment except listen to the doctor.”

“I can’t leave her,” Grant whispered hoarsely as he stared down at Juliet’s pale face. Her auburn lashes stood out in stark contrast against her white cheeks. She looked like a sleeping angel, and his heart ached at the thought of her leaving him for heaven.

“But of course you can’t.” Having never seen her son in such a state before, Caroline looked helplessly at her husband, who gave a firm nod. “Except you must. Not only is the doctor correct and it would be inappropriate, but this thug” – she looked scathingly at Edward – “must be taken to Bow Street. I will remain with Miss Williams. If there is any change, I will send for you at once.”

“I shall stay as well,” said the dowager, stepping forward.

“There, you see? Miss Williams could not be better hands.”

“You’re going to be all right,” Grant told Juliet as he gently lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “God knows you’re too stubborn to die.”

Had the corner of her mouth twitched? It was impossible to know for certain, but it gave him hope.

“If you would just lift Miss Williams onto the bed before you go, I can begin my work. Gently,” the doctor said, hovering anxiously to the side as Grant carried Juliet to the bed as if she were made of glass. “We don’t want to jostle her any more than necessary. Excellent, excellent. Now if you could help this gentleman into another room…” he glanced down at the footman, who tried to stand but failed miserably.

“I’ll do it,” the duke volunteered. “Where would you like him, Dorothea?”

“He can go right into the adjoining chamber. It’s through that door there. That used to be my husband’s room, you know. He would roll over in his grave if he knew a servant was going to use it.” The dowager gave a rare smile. “Serves him right, the fat adulterous bastard. Serves him right.”   

 

Juliet slept for four days and four nights. On the morning of the fifth day she awoke with a pounding head and a ravenous appetite.

“You there,” she said, sitting bolt upright and scaring a poor scullery maid half to death. “Where am I?”

“You’re – you’re awake!” the maid gasped, dropping the pile dirty of linens she’d been collecting onto the floor.

“Of course I’m awake,” Juliet said irritably. “I’m talking, aren’t I? Is there any food to be had? I’m starving.”

“Yes – yes, my lady. At once, my lady. I’ll be right back, my lady.”

“You didn’t tell me where I am!” Juliet called out after the maid, but she’d already fled the room. On a heavy sigh, Juliet fell back onto her pillows. Her very soft, very luxurious pillows. Pillows that were stuffed to the brim with feather down and must have cost a small fortune. Frowning, she looked up…and saw a rich velvet canopy draped over the top of her bed. As her gaze wandered from an antique secretary’s desk in rich mahogany to a sterling silver wash basin (who on earth did she know that would have a sterling silver wash basin?), her last memories began to resurface, slowly and then all once in a mad rush of color and sound that left her dizzy and gasping for breath.

She remembered Lenny driving her to the ball.

‘Is that a new coat?’

‘Got it off a dead bloke jest this mornin’.’

She remembered having her feet trod on by the earl, and then having a heated discussion with Bran behind a fern plant.

‘You need to leave. You’re going to get us both caught.’

‘Me? I’m jest a footman doing ‘is job.’

She remembered Grant storming up to her.

‘You made a mistake coming here tonight.’

And their temporary truce.

‘Dance with me. Just dance with me.’

Her mind lingered on that memory, clinging to it longer than the rest. She remembered how content she’d felt in his arms, as if she could stay there forever. She remembered closing her eyes, trusting that he wouldn’t let her fall. And then…and then…

A gunshot.

What came next made her flinch, but there was no way she could escape it.

She remembered running up the stairs and down the hallway. Finding Bran, bloody and nearly unconscious, slumped against the bed. Turning around and seeing Edward. No, not Edward. Mallack.

She remembered taunting him in an attempt to stall until Grant could reach them. The Dowager Duchess entering the room, demanding to know what the ruckus was all about. Mallack lifting his gun. And then…blankness.

She thought there might be something in the dark. A deep, husky voice. A soft, gentle touch. But she was distracted from her recollections when a brisk knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she said, sitting up a bit straighter in the bed even though it caused her head to throb unmercifully. Bloody hell. It felt as if she’d downed two gallons of gin. But she’d never touched the stuff after she and Eddy shared a bottle one night and she spent the entire next day puking her guts up.

Accompanied by two maids each carrying a large covered platter of food, the Dowager Duchess swept into the room with all the authoritative force of a king. “Put the poached eggs, sausages, and toasted bread here. The pastries and sweet cakes can go over there.”

Did she say sweet cakes? 

“And for heaven’s sake,” the dowager snapped, “someone open these curtains. It’s like a tomb in here.”

One of the maids rushed to obey, and Juliet winced when the curtains were thrown open and a rush of bright sunlight spilled into the room. The pain in her eyes tempered by the breakfast tray that was placed upon her lap, she began to devour her breakfast with vigor, stuffing entire handfuls into her mouth before she looked up to see the two maids gazing at her in horror.

“Leave us,” the dowager ordered with a flick of her wrist. The maids scurried out, and the dowager sat down beside the bed. “Now then,” she said, crossing her legs at the ankle and neatly resting her hands on her knees. “I suppose it is time you told me who you really are.”

“I don’t–”

“No lying,” the dowager said sternly. “If you are afraid I am going to throw you out on your ear or call for the magistrate, you needn’t be. You saved my life, young lady, and for that I will be forever in your debt.”

“I saved your life?” Juliet blinked.

“You don’t remember?”

“No. I remember you coming into the room, but after that…” she shrugged helplessly. Then her eyes widened. “Bran! Is Bran all right? What happened to him? Is he–”

“The doctor said your friend will make a full recovery. He also mentioned that a head injury like the one you suffered could cause memory lapses, which no doubt explains why you don’t remember jumping in front of me.”

“Head injury?” For the rest time she gingerly touched her temple, and was shocked when her fingers encountered a thick bandage.

“Yes. You were shot when you pushed me out of the way of that awful Mallack fellow. Thankfully it was only a glancing blow, but you still gave us all a fright. You’ve been asleep for four days.”

Four days?

“Can you recall your name?” the dowager asked.

Juliet nodded.

“Your real name?” she said meaningfully.

“Juliet. My name is Juliet.” And then, because the dowager struck her as a no-nonsense type of woman who would stay true to her word, she told her the rest. Between bites of sausage and the fluffiest poached eggs she’d ever tasted, she told her all about her life in St Giles. She told her about Yeti and Bran and Eddy. About learning to become a thief, and the daily perils that accompanied a life in the East End. She told her what Eddy had tried to do, and how she and Bran had banished him. Then, without really meaning to, she told her all about Grant.

“Fascinating,” the dowager murmured when she’d finally finished. “Positively fascinating. You may just be the most interesting young woman I have ever encountered. And that’s saying something, given how old I am.”

“You’re really not going to send for the magistrate?”

“As long as you promise not to run off with any of my jewelry, I see no need. In fact, you are welcome to remain here as my guest for as long as you like. You needn’t ever return to that horrible St Giles ever again.”

“I…don’t know what to say.” Part of her was awestruck at the dowager’s offer. To live in a fancy swell like this was something she’d never even dared to dream about. But another part of her already missed St Giles. She knew for most it was horrible. The most horrible place in all of London. But for her, it was home.

“Think about it,” the dowager advised. “In the meantime, if you are feeling up to it, there is a certain gentleman here to see you. He has been pacing a hole in my favorite parlor rug for three days now. Should I send him up?”

“Who is it?” she asked even as her stomach fluttered and her traitorous heart gave a quick lurch inside of her chest.

“Oh, I think you already know the answer to that.”