“Damnation!” Edward slammed down the crystal tumbler so hard the liquor splashed onto the table. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger at his forehead, at that moment appearing as if he’d aged decades. “I sent him away tonight. Kate asked him to stay with us for dinner, but I wanted an evening alone with her.” Guilt stiffened his shoulders as he shook his head. “If I hadn’t—if I had just invited him to stay, offered another drink…”
“It wasn’t your fault, Colonel,” Grey assured him.
“I know,” he agreed quietly, “but it damned sure feels like it.” He shoved his glass away. “I’ve sent a messenger to his parents at their country estate.”
“He has a sister, too, near York—Emily,” Grey reminded him as an image from five years ago flashed through his mind of a stick of a girl with blond braids who had adored her doting older brother. She’d want to know, would want to be by Thomas’s side…“We need to send a messenger to her, too.”
Edward nodded grimly, although both men knew the harsh reality that the news wouldn’t reach Thomas’s family for days. By then, he would likely be past whatever comfort they could give. “I’ve hired Bow Street to track down the footpad and ordered Jensen to close the house to visitors. There’s nothing else to do but wait.”
Grey stared at him, the grief inside him turning into fury. Wait? Like hell he would. Downing the rest of the scotch in a single, gasping swallow, he shoved himself away from the wall and charged toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Edward called out after him.
He glanced over his shoulder as he strode from the room, his calm outward appearance belying the white-hot rage burning inside him. “To find the man who did this.”
Edward followed him. “Let Bow Street take care of this. They have access to Mayfair.”
“I have better contacts. I’ll have my men in the streets within an hour.”
“Grey.” Edward put his hand on Grey’s arm as they reached the stairs, and repeated pointedly, “Bow Street has access to Mayfair.”
Grey clenched his jaw at the unspoken meaning underlying Edward’s comment. The runners would be allowed into any house in Mayfair if they said they were investigating the marquess’s shooting, while he and his War Office men wouldn’t be allowed past the front door.
His eyes narrowed icily at the reminder that he would never belong to English society, no matter how hard he worked, no matter how many promotions he earned. He’d never cared before tonight, and the truth had never cut more deeply than at this brutally frustrating moment when being an outsider made helping Thomas impossible.
“I will find that man,” Grey repeated, wrenching his arm away from Edward’s grasp and charging down the stairs toward the front door. “I might not have the same access to Mayfair as a Bow Street runner or a blue blood,” he bit out, “but I also have nothing to lose. And if Thomas dies, I’ll make that bastard regret the day he was born.”
“Grey—”
“I have to, Colonel. I have to do something to help, however I can.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs to glance back at Edward. His chest tightened with anguish and helpless frustration as the adrenaline coursed through him. “I won’t simply stay here and wait for him to die.”
Then he strode out the front door into the black night.
* * *
Grey shifted uncomfortably on the chair in Thomas’s bedroom as the morning sunlight shone around the closed drapes. His muscles ached stiffly, and he winced as a sharp pain stabbed into his lower back.
One week had passed since the shooting, and he’d spent yet another sleepless night at Thomas’s side, keeping watch, leaving the house only to help Bow Street track down the man responsible. He’d found the footpad himself in a seedy tavern in Spitalfields, bragging about how he’d robbed a gentleman in Mayfair, still possessing the watch he’d stolen from Thomas’s pocket. Bastard. Two runners had to pull him off the man to stop him from beating the son of a bitch to death right there in the tavern, only for him to stand before the gallows at Tyburn yesterday morning and mercilessly watch the man swing.
Perhaps war had hardened him too much. Perhaps he had no compassion left after all the atrocities he’d witnessed in the wars. Because when he watched the shooter die, he’d felt glad. And relieved, knowing the man could never harm anyone else.
The door opened quietly, and Edward Westover stepped into the room. His tired gaze found Grey’s and held it in a moment of shared concern, then drifted to the bed and to Thomas’s weak body lying there as comfortably as they could make him.
But how comfortable could Thomas be given the hell he’d been through in the past week? And given that his arms and legs were bound to the bed to keep him from tossing about in fitful bouts of feverish sleep and ripping open the sutures. Kate Westover had insisted on that, the young duchess crying in choking fits as she begged the two men to tie him down. They had done it without a word, without a glance at the other, knowing it had to be done even as their chests filled with guilt.
His gaze swung back to Grey. “You spent the night here again.” Not a question, but a grim accusation.
“Yes.” And he’d spend tonight here, too. Although, he thought, grimacing as he shoved himself from the chair and rubbed at his stiff neck, the least Jensen could do was offer to bring in a cot for him. But he wouldn’t complain, not with Thomas lying so still, so pale in his bed.
“How is he?” Edward asked quietly.
“Better.” He’d slept through the night at least, for once not thrashing about in the bed nor crying out in his sleep. That was due to the receding fever and the longer and more frequent stretches of wakeful consciousness that came as he slowly regained his strength. But the color had yet to come back to his sallow cheeks, his face still as pale as a ghost’s.
Edward moved slowly to the side of the bed and frowned down at Thomas and the ugly black sutures marring his side. “At least the swelling has gone down. Kate will be glad of that.”
“Is the duchess here with you?” Grey stepped up beside him. Together the two men stared solemnly down at their friend, helpless to do anything more than continue to hold their vigil.
Edward shook his head. “She wanted to come, but I made her stay home. She’s exhausted and needs to rest, both for her sake and the baby’s.” Then he frowned. “But most likely she’ll be back this afternoon. I doubt I can keep her away for long.”
Grey nodded, his chest swelling with appreciation and gratitude for the duchess. She’d insisted on being at Chatham House nearly as many hours as he had, and far more than Dr. Brandon, the official physician tending to Thomas. “Don’t keep her away too long, Colonel.” He said softly around the knot in his throat, “Thomas is better when she’s here.”
Edward heaved a heavy breath and nodded. “He likes it when she feeds him.”
Despite the heaviness weighing in his gut, Grey crooked a half grin. “He likes looking down her dress when she leans over to put the spoon to his mouth.”
“That, too.” Edward grimaced. “When he’s healed, I plan on pummeling him for it.”
Grey’s eyes moved slowly over Thomas, his body so still except for the faint, steady rise and fall of his chest. So impossibly pale…“Then I hope you get to beat the hell out of him very soon,” Grey said quietly, his teasing words dull with grief.
“Me, too,” Edward murmured.
A clatter of noise went up from downstairs and broke the post-dawn silence of the still-sleeping town house. The front door opened loudly. Footsteps rushed in and out of the house as muffled shouts sounded outside. Then an angry voice called through the halls.
Edward slid a sideways glance at Grey. “Chatham’s arrived.”
“Apparently,” Grey muttered, not looking forward to seeing Thomas’s parents. They had never approved of his friendship with their son, and certainly not after the incident five years ago when they’d caught him kissing their daughter. They tolerated him now only because they didn’t want to alienate Thomas.
“Thomas?” His name was a pleading whisper between choking sobs. “Thomas, can you hear me? Darling, it’s Mother…please…please wake up…”
Soft cries poured from her, her already red-rimmed eyes revealing the tears she must have been crying for days, ever since the messenger arrived with news of the shooting and along every mile from Lancashire as they raced back to London.
“He’s so cold and pale,” she breathed in an anguished whisper, her fingertips stroking his face. “My baby—my poor baby boy…”
The two men looked on helplessly, before Grey had to turn away, his eyes blurring.
Edward placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “He’s out of danger now,” he assured her, his quiet voice calm and steady. The same timbre Grey remembered from Spain whenever Edward spoke to the wounded men after a battle, to give them whatever comfort and courage he could. “Dr. Brandon confirmed it. Thomas will be just fine.”
Then her cries of worry turned to ones of relief. She grabbed Edward’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “But—but he’s not waking up…”
“He’s been sleeping deeply all night,” Grey interjected gently, yet keeping his distance. He wasn’t welcome here, but he wanted to ease her suffering however he could. “Sleep is a good sign. It means his body is healing.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, and surprise crossed her face, as if she hadn’t noticed he was there. Then her lips pressed together tightly, and she nodded to acknowledge his words before turning back to Thomas.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she told Edward. “Your friendship means more than Chatham and I can ever express. Thomas is alive because of you.”
“And Major Grey,” Edward corrected gently, his gaze glancing over her head to meet Grey’s.
Grey could have told him to save his breath. He had no doubt that if Edward hadn’t been in the room, she would have already had the footmen toss him out on his ass.
“Thomas!” John Matteson, Duke of Chatham, strode into the room. His face was pale with worry, and his hands clenched helplessly at his sides.
A tall and imposing man with the same military bearing as Thomas, the duke had served in India with the East India Company, acting as a military liaison to the local maharajas for a decade before returning to England with his second wife and infant son, where he served as an administrator until he unexpectedly inherited. What struck Grey every time he saw the man was how much Thomas resembled him physically, but how little in temperament and character.
He took his wife’s shoulders and stared down at his son. “Mary, how is he?”
She choked back a cry and whispered, “He’s alive.” She turned her head and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder as she sobbed. “Our boy’s alive…”
“Thank God,” Chatham breathed out, then his arms slipped around his wife to briefly hold her close. “I told you that all would be fine.” He released her and stepped back, ending the uncharacteristic display of emotion. He glanced around the room. “Where’s Emily?”
Edward cleared his throat. “I dispatched a messenger to her. He returned three days ago with this.” He lifted a letter from the fireplace and handed it to her father. “She plans to come as soon as she’s able.”
Chatham unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly. His shoulders stiffened, but he nodded at Edward with a stoic expression. “Thank you.”
Grey knew what that letter said. Thomas’s sister Emily had thanked Edward for the news of the shooting, grateful beyond words that the colonel had thought to contact her, but claimed she was unable to travel to London. Still in mourning over her husband’s unexpected death last fall, she was too ill to travel, the roads in the north too treacherous in the spring rains, but she would come as soon as she could. Tell Thomas I love him, and always will…
Damned lies, all of it. When he’d met her five years ago, she’d openly adored her older brother, who in turn doted on her and affectionately referred to her as “the brat.” That young woman would have done anything to be at her wounded brother’s side, not letting sickness nor the weather stop her.
But the recently widowed woman who sent this letter—apparently, Grey didn’t know her at all anymore.
“Mother…” The word was little more than a breath on Thomas’s lips, but the soft sound pierced the room.
Mary Matteson sobbed and cupped her palm against his cheek as she sat beside him on the bed. “I’m here, Thomas. Father and I are both here.”
His eyes remained closed, but he licked his dry lips as he slowly woke. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…”
“No, darling, no.” She leaned over to kiss his forehead as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t—”
He tried to move to reach for her, but the ties held him down.
She pulled back and glared accusingly at Grey through tear-glistened eyes. “Get these things off him!”
Anger pierced him at the indictment on her face, mixing with the horrible guilt he already carried for having to tie down his best friend in the first place. But he held his tongue and said nothing, knowing now wasn’t the time to defend himself to Thomas’s parents. And not in his sickroom.
“Mary,” Chatham told her, “he wouldn’t be tied down if Dr. Brandon didn’t think it necessary.”
Instead of reassuring her, his explanation only made her weep harder.
Thomas’s eyelids fluttered open heavily, taking all his strength to open them. “Don’t cry, Mother,” he whispered. Then he rasped out, “Water…please.”
Mary nodded and reached for the pitcher and glass on the stand beside the bed, but her hands shook so violently that she nearly spilled it.
“Here, let me.” Grey stepped forward and took the glass from her, then carefully slipped his hand beneath Thomas’s head to raise it from the pillow. He held the glass to Thomas’s parched lips and tipped it just enough that he could take several swallows, then eased his head back down onto the pillow.
Unfocused, Thomas’s blue eyes swept around the room. Bewilderment flashed across his pale face. “Emily…?”
“She’s coming as soon as she can,” Grey assured him with the lie, knowing the truth would only upset him. That most likely she wouldn’t come at all. During the past two years, Thomas and Emily had fallen out and rarely communicated, although Thomas had always refused to say why exactly other than that Emily had gotten married. “The weather is bad up north, and she can’t travel yet. But soon.”
His answer didn’t calm the agitation in Thomas’s eyes. “I need her, Grey…I need Emily.”
Grey stared down at him, his chest ripping open painfully beneath Thomas’s soft pleading. He was still so weak, with the loss of blood leaving his skin nearly transparent and his muscles still too fragile to move from bed. Every breath was a struggle.
“Bring the brat to me…please…”
Grey nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He knew what he had to do.
“We’ll send our own coach and escort for our daughter, Major,” Chatham interjected. “This is none of your concern.”
Grey ignored him and cast a glance at Edward, whose solemn expression signaled his complete understanding of the unspoken question that passed between them. He nodded once.
Turning on his heel, Grey strode from the room, through the house, and out the front door. His jaw was set hard, his mind determined.
“Send a message to Arthur Hedley at the Horse Guards,” he ordered the groom who brought out his horse from the stables, then tossed the man a coin to make certain the message was delivered. “Tell him to follow me north to Yorkshire.”
Knowing the former sergeant would catch up with him by nightfall, he mounted his horse and set off. Thomas wanted Emily by his side, so that wa
s exactly what he would do. Put her at Thomas’s side.
No matter what it took to get her there.
Chapter Two
Yorkshire, England
Snowden Hall. Thank God.
After three days of hard riding, Grey gratefully turned his horse down the lane toward the large Yorkshire farm where Thomas’s sister lived, with Hedley falling into a trot beside him. Three days of near-constant riding through miserable rain and unseasonable cold, stopping only when the night grew too dark to travel on—all because Thomas had asked him to fetch his sister, and Grey would have moved heaven and earth for him.
Although, he thought, grimacing as he glanced up at the thick, darkening clouds that promised more icy rain by nightfall, he hadn’t realized that moving heaven and earth meant riding into hell. But he wouldn’t rest until he delivered Emily Matteson Crenshaw to the Chatham House doorstep.
Without warning, a bullet tore into the tree trunk inches above his head. The wood splintered with a loud pop.
Christ! Dropping from his horse to the ground, he rolled behind the stone wall edging the stable yard of the white stone house and reached for the pistol beneath his coat.
“Get down!” he yelled at Hedley.
A well-trained soldier who had served under him with the Scarlet Scoundrels, Hedley dove behind the wall and crawled toward Grey on his stomach. Hedley scowled, drawing his own pistol. “Seems they don’t like visitors none, Major.”
“Apparently not.” Grey took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. The last thing he’d expected this morning was to be pinned down by gunfire. “Where’s it coming from?”
“The side garden.”
Glancing down the wall just long enough to see that it offered a way to stalk closer to the shooter, he handed his pistol to Hedley. “Keep his attention while I circle behind.”
“Aye, sir!” Hedley snatched Grey’s hat from his head and tossed it high into the air above them.
A shot rang out as a bullet drove through the crown.
Grey stared incredulously. “What the hell—”
Along Came a Rogue Page 2
