No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

by Sarah MacLean

  She did not hide her irritation. “You think I’ll slit his throat with all of you here? You think I’m so hateful I’ve gone mad?”

  “I think I’d rather not risk it,” Bourne said, but Mara was already turning away, lifting her skirts quickly—even as the marquess came at her—and cutting away a layer of beautiful mauve underskirt. Bourne pulled up short, and Mara would have enjoyed the look of shock on his face if she weren’t so busy thrusting the hilt of the knife in his direction. “Make yourself useful. We’ll likely need your shirts, as well.”

  Later, she would marvel at the speed with which the men responded to her demand, shrugging out of their coats and pulling their shirts over their heads, but in the moment, she added, “His is somewhere in this room, as well. Find it.”

  And then she was nudging the countess out of the way and pressing her petticoats to Temple’s bare chest, hating the way his roars had turned to quiet, inarticulate protest at the feel of her firm touch. Hating that she couldn’t keep the life from seeping out of him.

  “You made me ruin my new dress,” she said, meeting his gaze, trying to keep him awake. Alert. “You shall owe me another.”

  He did not respond, his eyelids growing heavy. She registered the waning fight there. No. She said the only words she could think to say.

  “Don’t you dare die.”

  His black eyes rolled back beneath their lids, long dark lashes coming to rest on pale cheeks.

  And Mara was alone once more, her only companion the ache in her chest. She closed her eyes and willed back the sting of tears.

  “If he dies, you shall follow him into Hell.”

  It was a moment before she realized that it was not the marquess—the man who had quickly become her nemesis—speaking. It was the other man, the ginger-haired, circumspect aristocrat with the lean face and the square jaw. She met his gaze, noting the way his grey eyes shone with barely contained emotion. And she knew without doubt that the threat in the words was true.

  They would kill her if Temple died. They would not think twice of it.

  And perhaps she would deserve it.

  But he did not.

  And so she would keep him alive if it took every ounce of her being.

  She took a deep breath and exchanged her skirts for the man’s shirt. “Then he shall not die.”

  He did not die that night.

  Instead, he fell into an unsettling sleep, which continued when the surgeon arrived, instantly fussing over the wound.

  “You should have waited for me to return before extracting the knife,” he said, inspecting the wound, deliberately not looking to the women in the room.

  “You did not come,” Bourne said, anger in his tone, and Mara was happy to see it directed to one who so rightly deserved it. “We were to do nothing?”

  “I have other business,” the doctor replied without remorse, lifting the linen from Temple’s shoulder and inspecting the now dry wound. “Nothing would have been better. You could have caused more damage. Certainly putting him in a woman’s hands was a questionable decision.”

  The Countess of Harlow raised a brow at the words, looking to the redheaded aristocrat whom Mara had discovered was her husband, but said nothing, obviously not wishing to scare the elusive doctor away now that he had arrived.

  Mara did not feel the same way. She’d seen too many doctors arrive, magic potions and tools in hand, and leave having done nothing but make the situation worse. Temple had never been luckier than when the doctor had been delayed eight hours. “I prefer a female doctor to none at all.”

  The surgeon looked to her then. “You are no doctor.”

  She’d faced stronger and worthier adversaries than this little surgeon. Including the unconscious man on the table. “I might say the same of you, for all the evidence I have seen of your medical acumen this evening.”

  The Countess of Harlow blinked large eyes behind her thick spectacles, her lips tilting upward at one corner. When Mara met her gaze, the other woman looked away, but not before Mara caught the admiration there.

  An ally, perhaps, in a roomful of enemies.

  The surgeon had turned away, and was already speaking to the Earl of Harlow. “He should be bloodlet.”

  Mara winced, a vision coming, fast and unsettling, leeches dotting flesh, each one fat with her mother’s blood. “No.”

  No one looked to her. No one seemed to hear her.

  “Is it necessary?” The earl did not seem convinced.

  The doctor looked to the wound. “Yes.”

  “No!” she repeated, louder this time. Bloodletting killed. And it would take Temple’s life as sure as it had taken her mother’s.

  The doctor continued. “And who knows what else the woman did to him. What might need to be reversed. Bloodletting is the answer.”

  “Bloodletting is not the answer,” Mara said, placing herself at Temple’s side, between him and the surgeon, who was now extracting a large square box from his bag. No one listened.

  No one but the Countess of Harlow.

  “I am not certain that this is the right course of treatment, either,” she said, all seriousness, coming to stand next to Mara.

  “You are not a doctor, either, my lady.”

  “We may not be doctors, sirrah, but we were the best he had, were we not?”

  The surgeon pursed his lips. “I will not stand for being spoken to in such a way. And by—” He waved a hand at them.

  Cross stepped forward, ready to do battle for his wife. “By whom, precisely?”

  The doctor noticed his misstep. “Of course I don’t mean Lady Harlow, my lord. I mean”—he waved at Mara—“this woman.”

  He said woman like it was a filthy word.

  Mara might have cared if Temple’s life were not hanging in the balance. She ignored the insult. “Have you blooded him before?”

  There was a pause, and she thought the surgeon might not answer her until the countess stood her ground and added, “It’s an excellent question.”

  The doctor hesitated, until Cross prompted, “Doctor?”

  “No. He’s never required it.”

  Mara looked to Temple, still as death on the table. Of course he hadn’t. The man was unbeatable. He’d doubtfully required any treatment at all. Until now.

  Until he’d nearly died.

  She looked to the countess. “My lady?” she asked, letting her feelings on the matter sound in the words. Show on her face. Don’t allow this.

  Please, let him live.

  The countess nodded once and turned to her husband. “We should wait. He is healthy and strong. I would rather he be given the opportunity to mend on his own than lose additional blood.”

  Mara released the breath she had not known she was holding, hot emotion burning at her eyes.

  “Women cannot possibly understand the basics of this kind of medicine. Their minds—” He waved a hand in the air. “They are not equipped for such knowledge.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Countess Harlow was obviously displeased.

  Mara could not waste energy on taking offense. Not when Temple’s life was in the balance. She stood her ground. “Even women can understand that blood does not typically leave the body. I see no reason to believe we do not require all we have.”

  It was an uncommon theory. And unpopular. But most people hadn’t seen their mothers die, paler and sicker by the minute, covered in leeches and cut with blades. She’d seen proof that bloodletting was never the answer.

  The surgeon sighed, no doubt realizing he was going to have to deal with the women in the room. He spoke as though to a child, and Mara noted the earl’s jaw set in irritation. “We must offset the balance. What he has lost in the shoulder, we must take from the leg.”

  “That is utter idiocy.” Mara turned to the countess—her only ally. “If a roof leaks
, one does not bore a second hole in the ceiling.”

  The doctor had had enough. He puffed up and turned to Bourne. “I won’t be schooled on my field of expertise by women. They leave, or I do.”

  “Then you should leave, and we shall find another surgeon,” the countess said.

  “Pippa,” Cross said, the words soft but firm, and Mara could hear the edge in them. He did not wish his friend to die.

  If only he would realize that Mara did not wish it, either.

  “Give him the night,” she begged. “Twelve hours to present a fever—an infection of any kind—and then let your barber at him.”

  The doctor’s eyes went wide at the insulting words, and Mara would have laughed if she weren’t so desperate to keep the man and his cruel contraption from Temple. “I wouldn’t treat him now if you tripled my fee.”

  Mara hated the man then, so similar he was to the myriad of London doctors who had poked and prodded and pronounced her mother untreatable. They’d left her to die, even as Mara had begged her father to push them. To find someone who would treat her with something other than leeches and laudanum.

  Even as he’d ignored her and left her without control.

  Bourne spoke, the irony not lost upon her that the marquess was attempting to calm the surgeon’s temper. “Doctor. Please. Twelve hours is not so very long.”

  “Twelve hours could kill him. If he dies, it’s on your females’ hands.”

  “My hands,” Mara said, meeting the marquess’s eyes, noticing the ring around the right one, now shiny and black, which would not endear her to him. She was amazed he did not look away. “His blood is on my hands. Let me clean it off.”

  It was the closest she would come to begging him.

  Close enough.

  She would never know why, but Bourne looked to Cross, then back to her. “Twelve hours.”

  Relief coursed through her, and she was tempted to apologize to the supercilious marquess. Almost.

  “I shan’t be back,” the doctor said, acid in his tone.

  She was already wringing hot water from a clean cloth. “We shan’t need you.”

  The door closed behind him, and the marquess extracted a watch from his pocket. “Twelve hours begins now.” He looked to Cross. “Chase shall have our heads for letting him leave.”

  The words did not make sense to Mara, but she was too focused on Temple to care to understand, instead speaking to the countess. “We must do what we can to stave off a fever.”

  Pippa nodded once and moved away, heading for the door to call for more cloths and fresh water.

  Mara looked down at Temple’s still face, taking in the dark slash of brows, the crooked line of his once-patrician nose, the scars at his brow and lip, the cut from the earlier fight that evening that now ran black across one cheek, and regret bloomed, tight and high in her chest.

  She’d done all this to him, she thought, pressing the linen to his brow, hating his stillness.

  Now she would save him.

  Chapter 13

  They lied, those who told stories of death and filled them with choirs of angels and a sense of utter, irresistible peace.

  There were no angels. There was no peace.

  At least, not for Temple.

  There was nothing that tempted him toward bright, comforting light, nothing that gave him solace as pain burned through him, threatening his thought and breath.

  And the heat. It burned like fire through his chest and down his arm, shooting into his hand as though they’d set the limb aflame. He couldn’t fight it—they held him down and forced him to take it. As though they enjoyed it.

  It was the heat that made him realize he was on the edge of Hell.

  His angels did not come from above; they came from below, and they tempted him to join them. His angels were the fallen ones. And they did not speak in melodic hymns.

  Instead, they swore and cursed and willed him to them with temptation and threat. Promising him everything he’d loved in life—women and fine scotch and good food and better sport. They promised him he’d reign again if only he joined them. Their voices were myriad—rough cockney accents, and deep aristocratic ones, and women. The women whispered to him, promising him immense pleasure if only he’d follow them.

  By God, he was tempted.

  And then there was she.

  The one who seemed to whisper most harshly. The one who bordered on berating him. The one who spoke the words that called to him more than any of the other pretty promises.

  Words like revenge. And power. And strength.

  And duke.

  Of course, he hadn’t been a duke in a very long time.

  Not since he’d killed his father’s bride.

  Something tickled at the edge of his consciousness at that, something that ebbed and flowed as he heard the others whispering around him, calling to him. It’s only a matter of time.

  He can’t hear us. He can’t fight it.

  He’s lost too much . . .

  And he had. He’d lost his name and his family and his history and his life. He’d lost the world into which he’d been born . . . the world he’d enjoyed so damn much.

  But every time he was tempted by the darkness, he heard her.

  He will fight. He will live.

  Her voice wasn’t kind or angelic. It was strong as steel, and it made prettier promises than any of the others. It would not be ignored.

  Bollocks to them.

  You’re stronger than any of them by half.

  Your work isn’t done. Your life isn’t over.

  But it was, wasn’t it? Hadn’t it been over for years? Hadn’t it been over since the day he’d woken in that bloody bed, his father’s fiancée dead at his hands?

  He’d killed her.

  He’d killed her with his giant fists and his unnatural strength and God knew what else. He’d murdered her, even as he’d murdered everything his life could have possibly been. He’d killed her, and now he was here, dying—finally, finally getting what he deserved.

  It was said that at death, one’s life flashed before one’s eyes. Temple had always liked the idea of that, not to remember his childhood on the great estate in Devonshire, but to remember that night. The one that had changed everything.

  Somewhere, in the dark recesses of his mind, he’d always thought that this moment, when he hovered on death, he’d be shown that night. The night that had sealed his fate. The night that had promised him entry into Hell.

  But even now, he couldn’t remember it, and he wanted to roar his frustration. “Why?”

  He didn’t hear his whisper echo in the room.

  All he heard was his angry fallen angel taunting him with wicked lies, even as he slipped into delirium.

  Because you will live, Temple.

  You will live, and I will tell you everything.

  She was there, the girl from that night—the pretty, laughing girl dancing away from him in the gardens, and rising over him on crisp linen sheets, all silken hair and smooth skin and eyes that haunted him.

  She was there, with the line of boys, dark-haired with eyes like jewels.

  She was there, her touch cool in the darkness, her promises tempting him away from the light. Back to her.

  Back to life.

  She was saving him.

  Hours passed and he did not wake, even as he grew more fitful in his sleep—straining against the treatment every time they flushed the wound with hot water.

  Mara was shuttled to and from the room, allowed near him only when it was time to clean the wound or change its dressing. Each time she entered, there were new people keeping vigil. Bourne and Cross and Pippa remained constant, joined once the last gamer left by the men who worked the tables of the Angel, dealers and croupiers, and followed by the women who worked the floor of the club—a steady
stream of weeping maids and worried companions and who knew what else.

  The blonde called Anna, whom Mara had met in the strange windowed room, arrived, her work complete, and Mara watched from the corner of her eye as the prostitute kept quiet vigil over Temple for long minutes, her fingers stroking the tattooed skin of his arms, tracing the cords of his muscles, holding one strong hand as she whispered in his ear.

  It occurred that she might be Temple’s paramour, what with the way she’d spoken of him in the dark, mirrored room. With the way all the women had panted and leered over him, he no doubt had a string of women. And this one was beautiful enough to be the general of his petticoated army.

  Long, slender fingers trailed over smooth skin, perfectly filed nails worrying the hair of his arms in a gesture that could not be misread. This woman knew Temple. Cared for him. Was comfortable touching him as he lay still and naked in the dark.

  Mara looked away, hating her. Hating herself for the hot jealousy that coursed through her. For not telling him everything when she had the chance. For not trusting him.

  For tormenting him, when he had done nothing to deserve it.

  She kept her head down as she cared for him, flushing and cleaning and packing his wound, mopping his brow, and feeling for his blessedly strong, steady heartbeat. Someone had covered him with a blanket and placed a pillow beneath his head—a concession to comfort even as they feared moving him from the table, as though the scarred oak had some kind of life-giving property.

  Mara grew more and more concerned as day gave way to dusk in the world beyond the casino, and he remained still. Bourne threatened to call another doctor but during one of her exiles, the elusive Chase apparently sided with Pippa and gave them the night to bring Temple back to consciousness.

  Chase was gone before Mara returned to the room for another round of wound cleaning and dressing, but his words were gospel to the others.

  When she was near Temple, she spoke to him, desperate to wake him, to bring him back to consciousness. Desperate for him to open his eyes and see.

  Sometimes, I think you do see me.

  Words whispered in the darkness on a London street.