Willing to discharge his duty up to a point—one that didn’t include watching his pigheaded commander die—Douglas grabbed Jamie, shoved him into a chair, jammed his face up to Jamie’s, nose to nose, and growled, “Open your eyes, damn it, if ye can.”
The struggle was enough to put fear in everyone’s heart.
Jamie finally managed to open his eyes the merest slits, although his face was sweat sheened, his hands twitching, and he was gasping for air.
“There’s no goddamn point in having Von Welden die if ye die with him,” Douglas said flatly. “I’m finishing this. Stop me if ye have the strength.”
His breathing was very fast, and dark head bent, Jamie put his hands on the chair arms and tried to rise.
“It’s over now, leave it,” Douglas said, curtly.
“It’s not over.” Jamie’s voice was even and low. He’d managed to manhandle himself steady for a moment, his whole consciousness reduced to a single focus, a single thought—Von Welden’s splayed body in the narrow lens of his vision. His eyes blazing, driven by pride and temper, he commanded his body one last time and hauled himself to his feet. But dogged will alone no longer sufficed to force his body to move, and he gasped and doubled over as great waves of cramping pain nearly brought him down.
Breathing hard himself, Douglas said grimly, “You damned fool. Enough,” and walked straight for Von Welden.
Jamie’s head came up as though struck, and with stark fury in his eyes, he watched Douglas stride to the table where Von Welden had fainted away and with one powerful stroke of his saber sever the head from the body. Jerking his blade out of the table, Douglas grabbed the flamboyant, overlong hair, swung the cleaved head up, and flung it at Jamie’s feet. “He’s in hell now. Are ye satisfied?”
“Damn you,” Jamie said so faintly only those closest to him heard.
Then his eyes misted over, nausea rose in his throat, and he collapsed, his body wasted, his intellect exhausted, his tenacious strength of will played out.
CHAPTER 28
THE TELEGRAM REACHED Blackwood Glen a week later.
No one in Vienna had had time to consider anything more than seeing Jamie back to Dalmia where he’d said he wished to die. He’d been conscious only once briefly when they’d carried him into his palazzo—perhaps the familiar scent roused him—and he’d whispered, “Let Sofia know she’s safe.”
A servant had seen to the message.
No one else had time for such mundane matters with Jamie battling for his life.
Sofia’s telegram had merely stated, uncoded and plain, Von Welden dead. Safe to go home. She asked Robbie afterward whether he knew anything more, and most important, whether Jamie had recovered from his gunshot wounds.
“As far as I know,” Robbie evasively replied, “he’s home in Dalmia.” If Jamie had wished her to know more, he would have had the information relayed to her. His message from Douglas had been more explicit; Jamie was barely alive.
Two days later, Sofia was home in London.
She should have been more cheerful, more satisfied and content. Her ordeal was over, she was once again in the city she loved, and she could plunge wholeheartedly into her busy career and convivial social life. As for the uncommunicative Jamie Blackwood, she’d always known that their amorous liaison was of the most transient nature. Why had she expected anything more from him? It was over. And that was that.
Which was exactly what she said her first day back when Rosalind asked her the obvious question. “Jamie was quite lovely in every way,” Sofia urbanely said, smiling at her friend as they sat in a shaded pavilion in the rose garden at Groveland House. “I enjoyed myself immensely. But all good things must come to an end,” she airily noted. “Especially with men like Jamie, who are always on some intrepid mission.” She smiled. “Although he heroically threw himself in the way of a bullet meant for me before he left.”
“My goodness!” Rosalind exclaimed. “Was he badly hurt?”
“He was in a deal of pain at first, but he said he healed quickly. He left soon after so I’m not entirely sure. But I assume he’s fine. He’s back in Dalmia.”
Sofia’s replies were a trifle brittle, Rosalind thought, or perhaps only less dégagé than usual. “Do you miss him?” Her gaze on Sofia, she was startled to see a blush color her cheeks. “Or are you still tired from your adventure?” she tactfully added, not wishing to embarrass her friend.
“To be perfectly honest—both,” Sofia replied, surprising herself with her answer; she didn’t as a rule miss men. Shrugging away the anomaly, she sensibly added, “He’s an exceedingly charming man. Why wouldn’t I miss him?”
“You’ve known any number of charming men and never given them another thought once they were gone.” Rosalind’s gaze was amused.
Sofia sighed. “Perhaps I’m a little infatuated with the man. He’s quite extraordinary.” Another sigh, a grimace, and the shocking words, “Not that it’ll do any good if I’m infatuated or not. He’s clearly moved on.”
The women had been friends a long time; Rosalind had never seen Sofia sigh like some smitten young maid. “Could it be you’ve finally been struck by cupid’s arrow?” she gently observed.
Sofia snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who falls in love in a few days?” She’d had time in the ensuing interval to come to her senses apropos the distinctions between love and sex.
Rosalind leaned back against her cushioned chair, her smile amiable. “I was enamored of Fitz from the first.”
“If only I was a wild-eyed romantic like you,” Sofia dulcetly said.
“Maybe you’ve become one.”
“I most certainly have not. I am a rational female, no offense, darling,” she added with a grin. “Now pass that cake plate. I do so adore coconut and pineapple together. And hand over the champagne bottle, too.” Leaning over, she plucked the two items from Rosalind’s hands. “Now then, my dear, could life be any better? I’m back in London having champagne with my best friend, the scent of roses is in the air, and all’s right with the world.”
“You should go and visit him.”
Sofia sloshed champagne over the edge of her glass. “Are you mad?” she said, setting the bottle down. “Can you imagine what he’d say if some woman came uninvited to his house? Especially all the way from England?”
“He might say, How nice to see you. Come in.”
“Or he might say, What the hell do you want?” Sofia retorted.
“And you who prides herself on her nerve,” Rosalind mockingly observed.
“Be serious.” Sofia directed a hard, pointed look at her friend. “It’s all well and good to be nervy in fashionable circles where everyone expects flirtatious repartee and a fleeting night of pleasure is nothing out of the ordinary. But it’s something else entirely to hie oneself all the way across Europe for a romp in the hay.”
“I’m just saying you should think about it.”
“And I’m just saying you’re completely demented,” Sofia pithily replied.
Rosalind grinned. “There’s always Dex, I suppose.” “Very funny. He’s not my style.”
“Then you’ll have to find someone who is, won’t you?”
“I suppose I must,” Sofia murmured with an air of feigned docility. “Do you have any candidates in mind?”
“I have a couple,” Fitz cheerfully said, appearing around the side of the pavilion. “Hello, darling. Hello, Sofie.” Bending low, he kissed his wife’s cheek. “How are you feeling?” he whispered.
“Better.” Reaching up, she touched his arm. “Monty was asking for Papa.”
“I’m on my way up to the nursery. I just wanted to see how you were first.”
“Fine, fine. Sofia is entertaining me. But we must find her some entertainment now that she’s back in London.”
“The line is long, darling, for the lovely Sofie.” He grinned at her. “Dark or blonde, sportsman or intellectual. You have but to name your choice, my dear.”
She smiled back
. “Surprise me.”
Fitz laughed. “Now there’s an order. You know everyone.” He glanced at his watch. “Monty will be up from his nap.” He lifted his hand. “Ladies, enjoy your afternoon.”
Rosalind watched her husband walk away with such love in her eyes, it cast a further pall over Sofia’s pesky megrims. Not that she actually admitted Jamie’s absence was of any real consequence. But she couldn’t muster her usual cheerful spirits either. And as if she weren’t disconsolate enough, Rosalind’s next words only added to her lowered mood.
“In case you’re wondering what that was all about, I’m pregnant again,” Rosalind said, her smile euphoric. “I’m so blessed; I never thought I could have children. And Fitz is such a dear,” she added, with the besotted look of a wife truly in love. “He stopped by because I was nauseous this morning when he left.”
“Congratulations,” Sofia managed to say in a normal tone, when the news only aggravated an issue of her own. “I should have known. You’re fairly blooming, as the saying goes.”
Rosalind put her hands to her cheeks and smiled. “I’m so very happy. We both are. Fitz is a devoted father. He adores Monty, and Monty’s first word was papa. They’re practically inseparable.”
Two years ago, no one would have bet a shilling that the Duke of Groveland would give up his bachelor ways, fall head over heels in love, and completely dote on his wife and child. In fact, several members at Brooks’s had lost a considerable sum on the shocking events that transpired.
“We must find someone equally wonderful for you,” Rosalind cheerfully said. “Really, dear, I shall set my mind to it forthwith.”
Out of sincere regard for her friend’s happiness, in the course of the next fortnight, Rosalind engaged herself in supplying eligible dinner partners for Sofia. Sofia, in turn, obliged her friend and occupied her evenings with a number of handsome men. The Season was in full swing, dinners and dances abounded, and in an effort to rid herself of the glorious, beguiling memories of Jamie, Sofia did her best to enjoy herself. And forget she’d ever met Jamie Blackwood.
To no avail.
No matter how delightful, handsome, or attentive her companion, she always made some excuse at the end of the evening and slept alone.
It was truly shocking and unsettling to a woman who prided herself on living in a man’s world with equal boldness. Sexually and otherwise. She was beginning to fear for her sanity.
She began painting with a frenzy, working long hours, slashing paint on her canvases with abandon, never quite satisfied with the outcome, always beginning again on a fresh canvas. And so it went, frantically socializing at night, wildly painting every day, fretful and brooding throughout.
Until Oz finally took her in hand.
They were out on the moonlit terrace of Groveland House, the heady scent of roses in the air, the ballroom behind them awash with dancers and music and hilarity. Oz was drinking as usual, though more judiciously now since his marriage; he lifted the glass in his hand and jabbed it in Sofia’s direction. “You’re pining, my dear. I never thought to see you so blue deviled. I fear you’re falling into a decline,” he said with a grin.
“Perhaps if I was some lily-livered, faint-of-heart damsel from another century I might fall into a decline,” she snapped.
“My, my, and snappish, too. Would you like my drink? It calms the nerves.”
“I’m perfectly calm,” she snapped again.
“Perhaps you really shouldn’t go to see him,” he sweetly said, “if you’re going to be nasty to him. He’s only just crawled out of the grave, I’m told.”
She swung around, skewered him with her gaze, and whispered, “Grave?”
“I thought you knew. Jamie’s been at death’s door.”
“I didn’t know.” She was finding it hard to breathe.
He set his drink down on the marble balustrade and took her hands. “Forgive me,” he softly said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Rosalind never said anything.”
“She must not have known.”
“Did Fitz know?”
“I’m not sure. I thought it was common knowledge.”
“How did you hear?”
With a banking business that spanned the globe, Oz had a hundred sources of information. “A business associate in Athens, I think, but surely others in London have heard. His cousin no doubt and his uncle, too.”
“No one told me.”
“Ah—and you wish they had.”
She didn’t reply for so long, he bent and kissed her gently on the cheek. “If it’s any consolation, darling,” he said, looking down on her in the silvery night, “I had the same struggle with love or the meaning of love, with personal freedom or the lack thereof. It isn’t easy to accept change in your life. But if you’d like my advice, I’d say go to him.”
“He may not want to see me.”
“Don’t be foolish. There’s no man alive who wouldn’t want to see you.”
“There might be one.”
He smiled. “You won’t know unless you try. At least you’ll find out one way or the other. As a betting man, I’d lay odds you get what you want.”
“If I want it.”
He shrugged. “That’s a different matter.”
She softly sighed. “You’re happy now, aren’t you?”
“Over the moon, darling. And I abhor such rubbishy expressions, but it’s true.”
“So then.”
“So then,” he softly echoed. “Nothing ventured—et cetera, et cetera. Would you like me to see you through the hopeless train schedules in southern Europe? It’s not really safe for a woman alone.”
“Isolde wouldn’t appreciate you going.”
“She’s so busy with her fields this time of year I doubt she’ll notice I’m gone. She’s a farmer.”
“And you’re not?”
He smiled. “I’m a banker who’s learning to farm in England. A novice at the moment. Let me talk to her. Stay here. This won’t take long.”
Sofia lifted one brow. “So sure Isolde will oblige you?”
“We always accommodate each other in every way.” He grinned. “It seems to be working.”
Oz found his wife in a salon adjoining the ballroom where she and a small group of men were deep in a discussion of the price of corn, and he felt as he always did on seeing her. As if he were the most fortunate of men. “If I might speak with you for a moment, my dear,” he said, with a gracious smile for the gentleman surrounding her. Taking her hand, he drew her away.
“Lucky fellow, Lennox,” one of the men grumbled. “Don’t find women like the countess every day. A damned good farmer and a stunning beauty, too.”
Everyone nodded, and a few hear, hears were uttered along with one wistful sigh. Not everyone was there to discuss the price of corn.
“He’s a demned lucky dog if you ask me,” a middle-aged squire muttered, watching them walk away. “Cocky young buck.”
“So how is the price of corn?” Oz cheerfully inquired as he threaded his way through the clusters of conversing guests to a quiet corner of the room.
“Better. How’s Sofia doing?”
Oz’s glance drifted right. “Are you a mind reader?”
“I am of yours.”
He grinned and came to a stop. “What am I thinking now?”
Isolde slapped his arm lightly with her folded fan. “Behave, darling. People are looking.”
“I always worry about that,” he softly mocked. “But very well, I’ll behave,” he added in deference to his wife’s quelling gaze. “I have a favor to ask.”
“And I as well. When you see Blackwood, will you give him a good tongue-lashing for me? Poor Sofie’s been brooding over him ever since she returned to London.”
“I tremble before your prophetic vision,” Oz said with mock alarm.
“Pshaw. How could I not know? She’s been steeped in melancholy since her return like some tragic opera heroine. More to the point, she’s been celi
bate despite any number of men who’ve tried to tempt her otherwise. One doesn’t have to be intuitive with such blinding evidence. And,” Isolde said with a benevolent smile, “I know how you like adventure.”
“Thank you, darling. I’ll make it up to you when I return.”
“Just don’t stay long.”
He grinned. “Yes, dear, whatever you say, dear.”
“Very funny,” she murmured. “Now give me a kiss, then go and tell Sofie the good news.”
SOFIA AND OZ left the next morning and traveled through Europe by private railcar staffed with a full retinue of Lennox servants. Oz was by turns consoling and bracing, supporting Sofia when she wavered, giving her the confidence that she’d made the right decision.
“We’ll rent a yacht in Trieste and continue by sea. The roads in the Balkans are atrocious, and the railway doesn’t come within fifty miles of Jamie’s home. There now, give me a smile.”
She’d invariably laugh; he in turn would flash her a grin, refill his glass, and lift it to her in salute. “I’m betting on you, darling. Don’t let me down.”
When they arrived at the small port near Jamie’s estate, Oz tactfully chose to remain on the yacht and send her ahead in a rented carriage with an escort from his staff.
“My people will wait for you in his drive,” he said after handing her into the carriage. He didn’t say, In case Jamie kicks you out, but that’s what he meant.
She felt like some shy, tremulous maiden on the journey, the narrow road skirting the Adriatic seemingly endless. Her nerves were all aflutter, her heart was beating in double time, and she kept smoothing the silk muslin of her skirt as if it mattered that she look her best.
When, at last, the carriage came to rest before an apricothued palazzo that could have graced the Grand Canal in Venice, she alighted and gazed up a long, wide marble staircase leading to huge doors bracketed with polished brass fittings. The splendor was off-putting, as was the sprawling Roman palace behind the pastel palazzo that soared like a monstrous, ancient monument up the ragged escarpment.
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