Chapter 25
Max bounded up the steps to his London townhome, fighting frustration and a growing sense of fury at his fruitless morning.
Hamish was nowhere to be found. Not in his lodgings. Not in any of the places he’d been lurking. So, it had been impossible to toss him on a ship or, at the very least, scare the devil out of him.
Tonight, he’d go out into London full force with Drake and those that spied for him.
He stopped before his door and, much to his shock, it did not immediately open.
Glancing upward, he tried to make sense of it.
What the devil?
He couldn’t remember a single time in all his life in which he’d been required to open his own front door.
He understood there was a first time for everything but, immediately, he knew something was greatly amiss.
It couldn’t just be Abbot. If the butler had taken ill, then a footman would have been at the ready.
Dread, instinctual dread, filled his belly. It was the sort of inexplicable foreknowledge that made him so excellent as a spy.
He shoved the heavy door open only to witness the chaos of his parlor maids running across the foyer.
“What has happened?” he demanded in the calm, strong voice he’d discovered always cut to the center of a situation.
Young Agnes stopped, her skirts swishing. Her face was as white as her starched apron, a drastic contrast to her black hair.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Your Grace!”
His heart sank and it felt as if the world stopped spinning at her reaction.
Somehow, though his mouth felt wooden, he demanded, “What is happening?”
Agnes’ face crumpled as she wrung her hands. “Y-Your Grace, Her Grace has been shot.”
“Shot?” he echoed, unable to believe it.
But Agnes nodded. Before the girl could say another word, he rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Diana!” he yelled as he raced down the hall. “Diana!”
The world was rotating beyond his grasp. Agony and disbelief enveloped him all at once.
She was his to protect. She was his to protect. She was his to protect.
It couldn’t be true.
Her bedroom door was shut and he pushed through only to witness a veritable sea of people.
Nellie sat beside the bed, silently sobbing, her mistress’ limp hand held in her own wrinkled one.
Max stopped as the sight of a doctor working swiftly over his wife crashed upon him.
The old man was moving swiftly. Swabbing away blood as he wrapped a bandage tightly about his wife.
Several other servants bustled with basins of water and linens.
The iron scent of blood filled the room.
He’d seen death before.
So much of it. In revolution. In battle. But there had only ever been two deaths that had shaken him to his core.
The brutal death of Angeline Purcelle.
And the death of Tommy Adams. The drummer boy he’d taken in and cared for as his own.
As he stood there, terror washed over him. It was the one thing he had dreaded. The one thing that had held him back. He could not bear to lose her.
“Doctor?” his voice sounded almost unrecognizable to his own ears as he strode to his wife’s side.
The sight of Diana was nearly his undoing.
She was as white as the sheet beneath her. Blood bathed a pile of linens on the opposite side of the bed and the fresh bandage wrapped about her shoulder was, even now, stained with crimson.
Her wild, fiery hair was fanned out over the pillow and her burnished lashes feathered against her cheeks. Those cheeks were as pale as chalk.
If she felt pain, it was impossible to tell. For she was clearly unconscious.
“Diana?” he asked, his voice desperate.
She made no sign of recognition.
He threw himself down beside the bed, his body almost touching Nellie’s knee.
It was all he could do not to gather Diana into his arms but he knew such a thing could be ruinous.
He caught Nellie’s stricken gaze.
The maid stared at him, unable to give the reassurance he so needed.
“She’s lost a great deal of blood, Yer Grace. But our lass is a strong one,” Nellie bit out the words, as if she were trying to convince herself.
The doctor continued to finish dressing the wound. “I’ve extracted the ball. But, Your Grace, you must prepare yourself. As the duchess’ lady’s maid says, she has lost a great deal of blood.”
Max snapped his gaze to the doctor and stated, “She won’t die.”
The doctor paused. “You must prepare yourself.”
“I bloody well won’t prepare myself,” Max roared. “Now, if you’re done, get out. I’ll find a doctor who isn’t so ready to give up.”
The older man stiffened then bowed.
Max paid no attention to his hasty retreat.
Instead, he stroked Diana’s terrifyingly cool face. “My love? My love? You must not leave us. Nellie and I need you. I need you.”
Max took Diana’s free hand in his.
Her breaths came slowly but she did not stir, as if she were already half-gone from this world.
But he wouldn’t accept that. He could not let her go.
Good God, what had he done?
Last night, he could have told her everything. Let her in. But he hadn’t and now. . . she might die without knowing how much he loved her. How he wanted them to spend all their lives together. How he longed to see her belly grow with their child.
He sucked in a harsh breath. If he could but be given another chance, he would never deny her again. He would never keep her at bay. He would reveal his true self to her happily and rejoice that she could share all his sorrows and triumphs.
For, as she lay there slipping away, he knew one true thing without a doubt. Diana was his true self. She always had been. She always would be.
He leaned over her, his gaze fixed upon her face as if he could will her to wake up.
“Let me tell you a story, my love. A story about me and all my secrets and all the places I have been and all the things I have done. You see, once I was a very foolish, headstrong boy. . .”