“There are two injuries to consider—the flesh wound from the bullet and the injured bone. If everything proceeds as expected, the flesh wound will heal in time. But he will likely always possess limited use of the arm.”
“His clavicle is broken, isn’t it?”
The doctor’s bushy brows surged upward. “Why, yes, it is. There appear to be several small fractures in a radius around the location of impact.”
She’d felt the breaks with her fingertips after she’d removed the bullet and bone splinters. “And the humerus and scapula?”
“Both appear intact.”
“I think… the wound seemed far enough from his shoulder joint.”
“Indeed. The joint appears unaffected.”
She sighed in relief. “And the nerves of his arm?”
“He appears to have proper feeling in his fingers, and it is painful for him to move his hand, but he is capable.”
Becky forced herself to nod. She’d once read about a case in which a man had been shot in a place similar to where she’d shot Jack. The shot had separated the nerves in the man’s arm, and the limb had remained paralyzed and devoid of sensation for the remainder of his life.
So overwhelming was the sick feeling in her stomach, she couldn’t muster the voice to thank the doctor. He rattled off instructions on how she should care for him through the night, told her he’d be back in the morning, and then he left the house.
Silence fell, and she returned to Jack’s side to find him dozing. She watched him for a long while, struggling against the nausea churning in her belly. Finally, she dragged her head up to see her three servants watching her.
“You may leave,” she whispered.
They obeyed, their faces grave. Last to go was Mrs. Jennings, who closed the door behind her, leaving a puff of dust in her wake.
Staring down at Jack’s white face, Becky rubbed her arm absently, fingering the lumps of scar tissue and badly healed bone at her elbow.
He’d lied to her. He’d pursued her only to steal her money. He was a villain, just like William.
Then why did she feel that this was terribly wrong?
She’d experienced little remorse when she’d stabbed William, and she’d felt only relief when Garrett had shot him at the end. The guilt and second-guessing had come later.
Now, misery swelled in her chest, so tight and hard she could barely breathe.
With Jack, she’d allowed her hopes to climb even higher than she had with William. Four years ago, she’d traipsed blithely into trust and love. This time, she knew the value of her trust, and she’d vigorously guarded her love. And yet she’d bestowed both of them on this man, only to learn she’d been betrayed yet again.
For the first time since she’d discovered Jack’s treachery, tears stung at her eyes, then crested over her lids and made hot streams down her cheeks.
Why had he come here, when she was so weak and vulnerable? Why couldn’t he have pursued some other heiress or wealthy widow? How could she bear the pain of his betrayal? Or the guilt of what she’d done to him? Even after what he’d done, even after his admitted guilt, the fact that she’d hurt him deepened and sharpened the ache inside her.
She lowered her face into her hands.
“Becky?”
His voice was gruff. Slowly, she raised her head. Tears still streamed from her eyes, but she stared at him through the blur. He was awake, though still very pale. His lips were white and tight with pain.
“Why are you crying, sweetheart?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Shakily, he reached toward her with his good hand. “Don’t cry.”
She flinched backward, ensuring he couldn’t reach her. “Don’t bother to be kind to me,” she whispered. “I know what you are.”
Not to mention the fact that she’d shot him. They were bona fide enemies now.
He winced. “There’s… more to it than whatever you think you know. Believe me.”
“I don’t believe anything you say. I never will believe you again. I won’t make that mistake.”
“Becky…” His eyelids fluttered shut, but he struggled to open them. “You shot me.”
“Yes.”
“Am I going to die?”
“I… don’t think so.”
His brown eyes fixed on her. “Do you hope I will die?”
She was silent. He kept his gaze locked with hers.
She couldn’t admit the truth to him. She wanted him to heal. And then she wanted to go far away, so far she’d never have to experience the slicing pain that seeing him would cause her.
His eyes closed again, and he released a long, shuddering sigh. “I still want you.”
She stiffened. “Well, you can’t have me. Or my money.”
“Don’t… want your money,” he pushed out.
She twisted her hands and pressed her lips together. She wanted to rage at him that he was a liar and ask how he dared lie to her yet again. But she glanced at his shoulder and saw blood seeping through the white bandage, and she restrained herself.
“Go to sleep, Jack.”
He complied almost instantly. The lines of tension around his mouth relaxed, and his breathing deepened.
Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, she watched him sleep. She didn’t realize that hours had passed until Mrs. Jennings came to the door with her dinner. Becky looked up to discover that the room was dark and the fire had reduced to embers.
She ate the bread, cheese, and dried venison without tasting it. She drank some of the brandy Mrs. Jennings had brought up.
Jack woke and she fed him sips of broth without speaking to him beyond the necessities. He needed to use the chamber pot, and though she intended to help him, he asked her to leave. She didn’t argue.
It took him a very long time, and finally she heard the creaking of the bed as he sat on its edge. She opened the door.
“Do you need help getting back into bed?”
He shook his head grimly. “No.”
It was obvious he was in a great deal of pain as he adjusted himself onto the mattress. He lay awkwardly, and though he’d said he didn’t need her help, she fluffed the pillow beneath his head and drew the covers over him. He was shaking—from cold or from pain, she couldn’t know. She didn’t ask.
“The doctor brought laudanum.”
“I don’t want it.” His eyes were glassy, and his face was blanched. He still trembled.
“All right.” She turned away to build up the fire. When that task was accomplished, she took her seat beside him. He frowned at her. “You should go to bed.”
“No.”
She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask her to. He stared at the ceiling, and she stared at him.
After a long silence, he said, “Her maid came to me.”
“Whose maid?”
“Anne’s.”
She shrugged, not understanding the importance of this random comment. Why broach the topic of Anne Turling now?
Jack turned his face toward her. “Anne’s maid came to me, early that night. The night… Haredowne was murdered. She knew… knew that I loved Anne. That I was a friend.”
Becky was silent. The emotions conflicted so strongly within her, she couldn’t conjure up a thing to say. Why would he rub his love for Anne Turling into her face? Why now?
He took a shuddering breath. “The maid—she said the marquis had struck Anne. Haredowne beat her and then wouldn’t allow a doctor to come, because he didn’t want the word spread that he was an abuser of women. She—the maid—said the marquis had gone out to his club, but Anne was at home, injured badly. She begged me to help.
“Nothing could have stopped me. I jumped on my horse and rode to Haredowne’s house. I didn’t think of fetching a doctor.” Jack closed his eyes. “By the time I arrived, she was… she was nearly gone. It was as if she waited for me. As soon she laid eyes on me, she took her last breath. I believe he’d beaten her so brutally, he broke a rib and it punctured her lung
.”
Becky pressed her arms around her body. She stared at him.
The pain that swirled around them both was nearly palpable. It wrapped around her, tight like a cocoon. She couldn’t move, couldn’t break her gaze from the stark paleness of his face.
“I took my father’s gun, and I went to his club. I waited outside in the alleyway for him. When he came outside, I accused him of hurting his wife, of killing Anne. When he didn’t deny it, I shot him.”
Jack opened his eyes. The desolation in the dark depths sucked all air from Becky’s body. She struggled for a breath as he continued.
“Now you know,” he whispered. “I murdered him in cold blood. I am a murderer.”
“As well as a liar.” The ice encrusting her voice made her grimace.
“Yes. As well as a liar.”
She didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. He was different from William in that he’d admitted his wrongdoings. To the bitter end, William had seen himself as the victim.
“Nobody saw me shoot him—or so I thought. Suspicion naturally turned to me, though, and I was arrested. But they dropped the charges… they released me when a whore came forward and said I was with her that night.” Jack sighed shakily. “She was… she was a friend. I didn’t sleep with her, though the world assumed I was the jilted lover who’d gone to the whorehouse to drown my sorrows in debauchery. Instead, I talked to her. She listened. I told her the whole story about Anne, told her what a miserable wretch I was, and she took pity on me.”
Jack looked away from Becky to stare at the ceiling again. “Someone had followed me that night, though, and he saw it all. He was old friend of mine and Anne’s from our childhood—the vicar’s son. His name was Tom Wortingham, and he’d been following me ever since we were old enough to leave home. He was jealous of my relationship with Anne. He fancied himself in love with her.
“Tom left me alone for the twelve years I was absent from England, but he is in trouble. He’s desperate for a large sum of money, and when I returned to England, he demanded I pay him fifteen thousand pounds for his twelve years of silence. If I don’t procure the money, he will take indisputable evidence that I killed the marquis to the authorities. He has his own signed and witnessed testimony, along with a signed and witnessed statement from the woman—the whore—saying she lied about my being with her that night.” Jack ground his teeth. “He must have promised her a tidy sum for that.”
“Well, you won’t obtain your fifteen thousand pounds—or twenty-five thousand—from me,” Becky said quietly.
“Ah.” He nodded bleakly. “You saw the note, then.”
“I heard Lord Stratford reading it.”
“You were outside?”
“I was. I saw you and Lord Stratford leave the house. I was curious, so I followed you. I heard him read the letter, and I… I heard him say that you had planned for us to be interrupted during… while we were… that night.” Her lower lip began to tremble, and she turned away from him. “You seduced me, knowing we would be caught. Knowing that we would be expected to marry. How could you?” There wasn’t any rage in her voice, just an infinite sadness.
“I was wrong. I didn’t know how wrong it was then, but now I do.” His chest rose and fell in a sigh. “It’s all right, Becky. I have reaped what I’ve sowed. I could no more take your money from you than I could cause you bodily harm. But I will pay for what I’ve done. Tom Wortingham will take his eyewitness account to the authorities, and I will hang.”
She stared out the window, crossing her arms over her chest. “That is no concern of mine.”
“Good. It shouldn’t be. I deserved this.”
Inexplicably, Becky’s eyes filled with tears again. “Yes. You did.”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“What do you want from me, then? Besides my fortune?”
“Your love.” He paused. “But I have destroyed all hope of that, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. Her heart pattered in her chest. Unable to look at him, she squeezed her arms tightly, her fingers digging into the odd lumps of bone and tissue on her elbow.
“I’m sorry, Becky,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The following morning, Becky pressed her palm to Jack’s flushed cheek and discovered him feverish.
Thus began the longest seven days of her life. Vaguely, Becky remembered that Christmas drew nearer, but she couldn’t drag herself from Jack’s side even to write to her family. Sam always lingered nearby, concerned, flatly refusing when she told him to return to London. Mr. and Mrs. Jennings hovered in the background, ready to help whenever she asked.
The likelihood that Jack wouldn’t recover increased daily. Nothing anyone did could reduce his temperature, and he’d begun to experience fits of fevered delirium.
Becky did what she could for him. She fed him, changed his bedclothes, placed soothing, cool cloths over his brow, gave him his medicines, followed to the letter every instruction the doctor gave.
The only thing she couldn’t bring herself to do was talk to him. God help her, but she couldn’t bring herself to beg him to get better.
Today, she sat in her chair waiting for the doctor. Jack was calm for the time being, in a state of uncommunicative half-sleep, and Becky stared down at her hands.
She could still see the blood on them. Would she ever be able to wash it off completely? Her logical mind told her that the blood was a wild invention of her imagination, that she’d washed it away that first day. But she could still see it. Slippery and slick, and such a bright red, it hurt her eyes.
The door opened, and she glanced up to see Dr. Bellingham at the door.
The doctor bowed in greeting, then approached his patient’s bedside. “How is he?”
“No change,” she said.
Dr. Bellingham went through his usual routine, checking Jack’s temperature, his pulse, his pupils, and hiswound. From the second day, the doctor had tolerated her presence in the sickroom and spoken to her as an equal. He’d realized quickly that she was knowledgeable in anatomy, healing, surgery, and all the treatments he recommended, so he spoke to her plainly, without mincing words.
“His fever is higher,” he said. “The area below the wound looks to me to be in the early stages of gangrene, and the swelling in his shoulder and liver have increased to an unhealthy level.”
Becky had assessed the wound herself earlier and come to a similar conclusion. She’d hoped the doctor’s prognosis would be better. “What can we do?”
“I could bleed him again.” He paused. “There is another option…”
Becky spoke automatically. “Amputate his arm.”
“Yes.” The doctor sighed. “I’m not entirely convinced it will help.”
Becky stared at Jack for a long moment, remembering how he’d climbed the trellis to her room and told her that he’d often climbed the rigging of the Gloriana. He’d no longer be able to do such a thing. Without his right arm, he’d be a cripple, far worse off than she was with her mangled elbow.
She met Dr. Bellingham’s serious gaze. “Is it our only hope?”
“It might be.”
She swallowed hard. If she must choose between Jack’s arm and Jack’s life, the choice was obvious.
“Then do it.”
Dr. Bellingham scheduled the surgery for that afternoon, as he needed to return to Camelford to fetch his assistant and the proper equipment for an amputation. He left the house with instructions for the servants to prepare household items for the upcoming surgery and a promise that he’d return by one o’clock.
Becky sat in her chair, unable to move, tears pricking at her eyes.
She would not cry. She would not think on the fact that she had done this to Jack.
Mrs. Jennings opened the door, her arms brimming with items the doctor had requested. She glanced at Becky.
“Ma’am, Mr. Jennings hadn’t gone to fetch the post for several days,
so he went today. There were several letters for you, but I thought you might be especially interested in this one.” Fumbling with her armful of supplies, she withdrew a letter from her apron pocket. “It’s addressed to Mr. Fulton.”
Becky’s heartbeat quickened. Standing, she took the letter from Mrs. Jennings and stared at it.
Who could it be from? What could it be? The writing was tall and elegant. It certainly didn’t match that of anyone in her family, but who else knew Jack was here?
Becky glanced at Jack, who lay motionless on the bed, now deep in slumber. She laid a hand on his scorching hot, dry forehead. “Jack?”
No response. She laid a cool cloth on his forehead then turned away, still gripping the letter. Blindly, she left the room.
Across the hallway, she sat on her own bed—the bed she’d hardly seen in the last several days. She laid the letter down on the counterpane in front of her and stared at it.
It was addressed to Jack. She shouldn’t open it.
But Jack was unconscious in the next room. Insensible with fever… and losing his arm.
She grabbed the letter and tore it open.
December 4, 1827
J,
In respect for our previous friendship, and my desire to see you well situated, I’ve taken some time to think about it, and I have decided to reduce the terms of our agreement.
Eighteen thousand.
Despite your refusal to pay a shilling when last we met, I feel this is a very fair compromise indeed. I am certain you will agree.
But the remaining terms still stand. We’re running out of time, my friend.
T.W.
Becky read the letter again. And again.
Jack had refused to pay him a shilling? When? Had he given up in his attempt to steal her money before he’d come to Cornwall? The day he’d found her here was the day after Tom Wortingham had penned this letter. Which meant Jack had still wanted her even after he’d told Wortingham he wouldn’t give him a shilling.
Could he…?
No, a firm voice within her said. She’d shot him. Whatever had happened between Tom Wortingham and Jack, it had no bearing on her relationship with him now.
A Season of Seduction Page 25
