She couldn’t pick up her fan. She wasn’t sure why she’d dropped it in the first place…or where it had gone…or why everything around her was so dark and misty. All Marigold knew was that every time she bent to pick up her fan, searing pain shot through her middle. And yet that urgency, that sense of having lost something, pressed down on her, urging her to try again and again and again. But she couldn’t bend, couldn’t pick up what she’d lost. She didn’t even know where she was.

The terrifying, frustrating void stretched on and on, until she felt as though she’d been searching through the darkness, looking for what was lost, bending to reach for it, and crying out in pain for years, an eternity. And it was hot. Not just because August was upon them. Everything was hot, no matter which way she turned.

At one point, she thought Alex was there, murmuring soothing words to her. She clung to him as the pain and heat rose to a fevered pitch. For a moment, she opened her eyes and was left with the uncanny impression that she wasn’t on some black, misty plane looking for her fan at all, she was lying flat in the bed of a wagon, the scent of the hay packed around her thick in her nostrils. Alex held her, stroking her forehead and murmuring, “We’ll be home soon, we’ll be home soon.”

But that felt like a lifetime ago. The swirling darkness returned, as hot as an inferno, and once again, she twisted and turned, aching every time she bent, unable to reach what she’d lost, or even figure out what it was.

And then the heat faded away. The pain dulled to a constant ache, and the restlessness of her search calmed to deep, deep sleep.

It felt as though she were rising from some sort of evil enchantment when, at last, she pried her eyes open. Bright sunlight streamed in through curtains that billowed in a summer breeze. She recognized the window. She was in bed, in the bed she shared with Alex. Something cool and wet was being daubed on her forehead by unskilled hands. She blinked, drew in a breath, and forced her eyes to focus.

James. James sat on the bed by her side, patting her forehead with a wet rag. He wore a serious look on his cherubic face, which was less than a foot from hers. As soon as Marigold’s eyes fluttered open, he drew in a breath and let go of the rag, leaving it on her forehead.

“Mari,” he shouted, clapping his hands. “Mari awake.”

A shuffle and snort sounded from one of the chairs beyond the foot of the bed. With what felt like immense effort, Marigold shifted her head to find Alex lifting from what looked like a sleeping position. One of his arms was bound in what looked like a sling.

“Mari awake! Mari awake!” James called out, bouncing his way down the bed. His every movement sent dull, throbbing pain through Marigold, but she couldn’t find the energy to care.

“Marigold?” Alex leapt from the chair. If he had been snoozing, he was fully awake now. He darted to the side of the bed, jostling it and sending a spear of pain through Marigold’s stomach and hips as he sat, and grabbed her hand from where it rested on the bedcovers with his uninjured hand. “Thank God, Marigold.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, covering her knuckles with kisses, then pressed it to his forehead as he bent over and sobbed.

“No cry, Macky,” James said, scrambling over Marigold’s legs and causing a fresh wave of pain that darkened the edges of her vision. “Mari awake.”

“Yes,” Alex said, relief thick in his voice. “Marigold is awake, but we must be careful with her.”

He let her hand go so that he could lift James off of her legs and into his good arm. The other one was definitely broken and healing. Marigold watched the two of them, focusing on her breathing and how good something so simple felt.

“What happened?” she asked, surprised at how weak and rough the words sounded.

Alex hesitated, wiping tears from his face, then dodging James as he tried to continue wiping them. He gently caught James’s hands and held them so that he would stop. “There was an accident. The carriage crashed,” he began reluctantly.

Memories flooded in on her. She’d been in the speeding carriage, kissing Alex and contemplating doing much more. She’d been about to tell him she was pregnant. Then came the crash, the blackness. All she remembered after that were flashes of pain, a bedroom that wasn’t her own, and someone forcing her to drink what felt like a gallon of foul-tasting medicine. Then came the fog and darkness.

“I remember the carriage.” She tried to move, to sit up, but could barely manage to shift a few inches.

“Don’t try to move,” Alex said, setting James on the floor and scooting closer to her. He stroked her face, caught her hand and kissed it again. “You’ve been through a lot. The doctor…he had to…and then…and…infection set in.”

Marigold blinked, not sure whether something was still wrong with her and she wasn’t catching everything he was saying or whether he was choking up and unable to speak. Her body felt as though it had been trampled by horses and dragged halfway through Wiltshire. She wanted to sleep again.

“It’s been over a week,” Alex choked out with a combination of relief and sorrow. “Dr. Miller didn’t think you would last through the fever.”

Marigold wasn’t so weak that she didn’t note the rush of fury in his words. He was so angry that she blinked and tried to move instead of relaxing back into sleep.

“I’ll have his license revoked,” Alex went on, fuming. “I’ll have him strung up as the quack he is.” He glanced to her, and his demeanor instantly changed. “I’m sorry, my darling. There will be time for that later. All that matters for now is that you made it through the fever. You’re here, you’re alive, and Mrs. Canny believes you won’t relapse. You’re here to stay. So rest now.”

He kissed her hand again, holding it to his cheek. Marigold stared at him, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. She’d never witnessed any man, let alone Alex, so overly emotional. She must have skated all the way to the doors of Hades and back for him to be weeping openly in front of her. That’s all that mattered to her. The rest would have to wait.

She closed her eyes, and within seconds had fallen into a heavy, dreamless sleep. There was no telling how long it lasted or what was going on around her, but unlike her previous sleep, it was restful, healing.

When she awoke again, the window was still open and the curtains still billowed, but the sunlight was dimmer, as if it were morning instead of afternoon and cloudy. Alex was gone, and so was James. A maid was busy arranging something on a small table on the other side of the window, but Marigold couldn’t make out who she was until she turned to face her.

“Ruby?” She blinked the sleep away, pushing herself up a few inches on the pillows.

“Mrs. Croydon.” Ruby’s face lit up, and she left was she was doing to rush to Marigold’s side. “You’re looking so much better, ma’am,” she smiled.

Marigold gaped at the young woman. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Ruby smile. The sight was as welcome as the breeze blowing through the window.

Ruby bent to help Marigold sit, piling pillows behind her and adjusting the bedcovers as she did. “It’s so good to see you awake, ma’am,” she said as she worked, fussing over Marigold like, well, like she had nearly died. “Everyone’s been so worried. Not a living soul could convince Mr. Croydon to leave your side for an entire week. And Mr. Edward has visited every day. Rev. and Mrs. Fallon have come every day as well, and the village children all made cards to wish you well. They said they’re learning a song to sing to you once you get better. And Gilbert, that is, Mr. Phillips, has been running back and forth between Winterberry Park and Chippenham and London every few days in his efforts to catch the man who did it.”

Marigold blinked and shook her head, which ached after the onslaught of information. “I…what…how….”

She couldn’t form her thoughts into a single question. Too many questions rattled in her brain. But it felt good to sit up, strangely enough. Even though her entire middle ached and she was so weak she felt in danger of sliding and falling over at any moment.

“Could I have some water?” she asked instead, her thirst suddenly overwhelming.

“Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am. Then I’ll fetch Mr. Croydon right away.” Ruby skipped to the table where she’d been working before and poured water into an infant’s porcelain cup with a spout. “Your father and sisters have been telegraphing like mad,” she went on. “And Lady Lavinia, and Lady Stanhope too. I’ve never seen so many messages flying around.”

She brought the cup to Marigold and held it to her mouth. Marigold was about to insist she could manage on her own, but when she lifted her arms, it was a shock to realize she would likely drop the cup if she tried to hold it. A simple porcelain cup.

“Master James has been as eager to wait on you as Mr. Croydon has,” Ruby said as Marigold finished drinking. “He’s such a darling. Thank you so much for thinking to send for me to mind him.” Her cheeks were rosy with delight. “I’ll fetch Mr. Croydon now.”

With a short curtsy, she sped out of the room, leaving Marigold alone. Marigold blew out a breath, shaking her head in bewilderment. They’d barely managed to get Ruby to say three words together in London. Alex could hardly be bothered to spend an hour on end with her, let alone sit by her side for days when she wasn’t even conscious. The Fallons barely knew her, and for all she knew, the village children hadn’t even heard of her. She felt as though she’d gone to bed in one world and awakened in an entirely different one.

Footsteps charging up the hall alerted her to Alex’s arrival before he burst through the bedroom door. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice heavy with relief as he rushed to sit on the side of the bed. His left arm was still secured in a splint and sling.

“For the time being,” she said, using all of her effort to raise her hand.

He took it, kissing it as he had the last time she woke up. He seemed rested and well put together at first glance, but the more she studied him, the easier it was to see the lines in his face, the grey at his temples, and the exhaustion in his eyes.

“How long was I asleep this time?” she asked, already tempted to return to sleep.

“Just since yesterday afternoon,” he said. “It’s late morning now.” He paused, then added, “Do you feel up to trying some broth or tea? I’ve been worried sick that you wouldn’t get enough nourishment these last ten days.”

Marigold blinked at him, wondering how on earth she’d been nourished at all in that time. That explained the cup with the spout, at least. “I could eat something,” she said.

Alex turned to Ruby, who was standing in the doorway. “Tell Mrs. Carlisle to send up broth, soup, anything.”

“Yes, sir.” Ruby curtsied, then rushed off.

Marigold wriggled against the pillows, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her back was in agony, and every way she turned brought a new wave of aches. “I never thought I’d look forward to eating so much,” she laughed weakly. Alex leaned forward to help with her pillows, eventually giving up and twisting on the bed so that he could hold her against his side with his good arm. “I suppose I should keep my strength up,” she went on, “since….” A flush of excitement and guilt splashed through her. “Alex, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“No,” he said with a surprising catch in his voice. His arm tightened around her. “There’s something I should tell you.”

She turned her face slowly to him. There was so much pity and anger in his expression that dread trickled through her, making her dizzy. “What?” she whispered.

He drew in a long, shaky breath. “The impact of the crash,” he started, then stopped and swallowed. Marigold’s dread grew, as did the horrible suspicion that she knew what he was about to say. “You were very badly injured,” he went on, barely able to get the words out. “Even before Dr. Miller got ahold of you.”

An icy chill joined the gnawing dread filling her, as if she were drowning from the inside. “Just tell me,” she whispered.

Alex swallowed again, licked his lips, blinked rapidly. “You lost the baby,” he said in a hoarse rush.

Marigold gasped, her eyes instantly stinging with bitter sorrow. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she would have collapsed and not been able to right herself. Too many things made sense—the aches and soreness all through her stomach and hips, the dream that she had lost something, the hollowness.

“We’ll…we’ll try again,” she said, working to swallow her tears. “As soon as I’m recovered, we’ll have another one.”

Alex shook his head, looking downright ashen. “No,” he whispered. “Not after what….”

Between his words and his expression, Marigold went numb. “It can’t be that bad,” she whispered. “I made it through the fever. I’ll work hard to get well again. Surely we can—”

He pressed his fingers to his mouth, then took a deep breath. “When Dr. Miller saw you’d miscarried, he attempted an examination to be certain everything was expelled.”

Marigold frowned in confusion and mounting fear. “Why?”

Alex shook his head. “It was bloody foolish, unnecessary.” For a moment, he was angry beyond the ability to speak. Marigold felt his body heat around hers. But he gathered himself enough to go on. “No one was in the room with him, and he’d given you laudanum, so there’s no way to know for sure. And then the fever set in. Mrs. Canny, the midwife, says it’s a miracle the infection wasn’t worse, but she….” He drew in a shuddering breath.

Marigold had gone rigid at the story. Her stomach twisted, but she forced herself to say, “Please just say it and get it over with.”

Alex shook his head. “It’s a miracle you’re alive,” he said, “but that’s the best miracle we can hope for. Mrs. Canny says the damage is irreparable. There won’t be any more babies. There can’t be.”

Marigold nodded slowly, her gaze losing focus. The numbness had spread through her body and into her heart and mind. She should have been wailing with grief and fury, as angry as she could tell Alex was. She should have been weeping for her lost baby, for all the babies she would never have. Instead, she felt nothing.

She turned her face away from Alex. “I don’t think I can eat after all,” she murmured. Her voice felt a thousand miles away.

“You should at least try to eat something,” Alex said, cradling her tenderly.

She could barely feel his touch. What was the point of eating when there was nothing to eat for? She didn’t make any effort to wriggle out of Alex’s arms, though there didn’t seem to be a point in taking comfort in his embrace either. There wasn’t much point to anything.

The silence between them stretched on, until Ruby arrived with a tray carrying two steaming bowls. “Mrs. Carlisle sends bone broth and chicken soup,” she announced with a smile. That smile vanished as soon as she glanced in Marigold’s direction. “I’ll just put it on the table,” she whispered, depositing her load on the table, then rushing out of the room again.

Alex waited several more seconds before saying, “Please try to eat something.”

Marigold didn’t move, didn’t react at all. Part of her argued that she should at least try, that life wasn’t over yet. A greater part of her wondered if, in fact, it was. She’d all but demanded to marry Alex because she wanted to be the mother of the Prime Minister’s son. She’d failed miserably at that. What was she supposed to do now?

“Here.” Alex set her gently aside, then got up and fetched the bowl of broth and a spoon from the tray. He carried them to her, barely managing with one arm in a sling, then dipped the spoon into the broth. “I have it on good authority that Mrs. Carlisle’s bone broth is infused with magic. She sent bowl after bowl of it up after Violetta died.” His voice flattened on the last two words, as if he hadn’t thought his sentence through and shouldn’t have said it to begin with.

Indeed, his whole countenance sagged so much that Marigold shifted, pushing herself to sit straighter. Damn it all, if she couldn’t have Alex’s children, the least she could do was pay him the respect of not dying the way his mistress had.

“Let me taste it,” she sighed, as if telling him to go ahead and chop her hand off.

Alex perked up a bit, bringing the bowl and a spoonful to her mouth, even though the effort with his broken arm made him grimace in pain. Marigold sipped gingerly, surprised to find the warm, salty liquid actually didn’t taste half bad. She let him feed her another spoonful, then another.

By the time they made it to the sixth spoonful, her mind was beginning to work again. “What did Ruby mean?” she asked. “That Mr. Phillips is trying to catch the man who did it?”

Alex let out a heavy sigh. His shoulders sagged so much that he set the bowl and spoon on the bedside table. “Henry wasn’t driving the carriage that night. An unknown man who infiltrated the party picked us up. The police have done as much investigating as they can, and as near as they can figure, the man hopped down from the carriage just outside of Frogwell.” He hesitated, then pushed on. “Burrs were found under the horses’ harnesses. The local constable believes they were put there to make the horses run mad. He’s surprised that they got as far as they did before the carriage wrecked.”

Marigold’s eyes went wide. “Someone tried to kill us?”

Alex nodded. “Several men at the party saw the driver, but no one has been able to identify him yet. No one has been able to trace how he got to Edward’s house or where he went afterwards. And unless they find him, there’s no way to tell if he was acting alone, what his motives were, or who hired him.” His expression hardened.

It didn’t matter that Marigold had spent the better part of ten days unconscious and on the brink of death. She knew in an instant what he was thinking.

“Turpin,” she whispered.

Alex nodded. “Who else? He had the motivation, and heaven knows he has the means.”

“Surely investigators will be able to find a link, to prove he is responsible.”

“We can only hope,” Alex said. “And even if Scotland Yard turns up nothing, Turpin is a marked man.” His face clouded with fury so potent that Marigold felt it down to her weary, broken bones. Alex’s gaze shifted to her, stark with determination. “After what he did to you, if the law doesn’t bring him to justice, I’ll kill him myself.”