Lady Lost

by Jane Goodger

  “What happened? Oh, my God, my darling,” she said, kneeling down beside her husband. “He’s dead. He’s dead.”

  “He’s not, Georgette,” Lilian said, rushing to her side. “Look he’s breathing. Breathing. See?”

  Georgette frantically looked for signs that her husband was still alive, and began sobbing when she saw proof of life. “What happened, Lilian? Was there an accident?”

  “I don’t know. He came in, told me to call a doctor, then collapsed. I have no idea—oh, no. Marcus.” Cold fingers of dread moved up her spine as Lilian stared out the door at the carriage outside. One carriage door was open, revealing a pale hand, marred by blood, hanging out, unmoving.

  “I cannot look,” she whispered, staring as a drop of blood dripped off a man’s index finger and landed in the gravel below. “Georgette.”

  Her sister-in-law, face ravaged by tears, looked up at Lilian and then followed her horrified gaze, giving a sharp gasp when she saw what was in the carriage. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”

  The foyer had quickly filled with servants, who stood there momentarily in shock before Mrs. McColl, the housekeeper, clapped her hands loudly. “Has someone gone for a physician? Good. You and you there, lift up Mr. Dunford and bring him to the main parlor. You, go get some clean cloths and get some water boiling. The rest of you go about your business. Mary, go fetch Lord and Lady Chesterfield immediately.”

  The servants were quickly dispatched. “Please, can someone check on the carriage? There’s a man.” Lilian couldn’t bring herself to say, Lord Granton. She didn’t want to believe that unmoving hand could belong to her husband. It was a stranger. A stranger who had stopped to help Adam. Or the driver. It was someone, anyone, other than Marcus. It had to be.

  A burly footman immediately ran out the door, and Lilian forced herself to follow. It had only been a matter of seconds since she’d seen that bloodied arm hanging out of the door. Only seconds. Please be alive. Please be alive. Please don’t be Marcus.

  “It’s his lordship.” His voice broke as he said the words, and Lilian thought she might faint. Another young man appeared by his side, climbing inside as Lilian stood there watching, praying, until she couldn’t watch and stand anymore. She ran to the carriage, just as the man inside called out, “He’s alive.” She could see the servant’s brown eyes, and though he’d just said Marcus was alive, the servant’s eyes said something different entirely, and Lilian found it was quite impossible to breathe, even as she took Marcus’s bloodied hand in hers and lifted it to her cheek, willing him to live. “My lady, please, do not look.”

  It was too late, of course. Lilian did look and what she saw would be etched into her mind for the rest of her days. A knife, an impossibly large knife, was still sticking out of her husband’s chest, thick blood seeping from the wound. “Get him inside,” Lilian said, and the two men maneuvered the unconscious Marcus out of the carriage. When Lilian saw the huge amount of blood left behind on the floor of the carriage, she very nearly retched.

  Just then, a young maid, her eyes wide and fearful, looked about the carriage, at the driver’s seat, even beneath. “Where is Mr. Ashton?”

  Mrs. McColl put her arm around the young maid. “We don’t know. I’ll send one of the boys out to look for him, shall I?”

  “But where is he? What’s happened?” The young maid started crying, burying her head in her hands. “Did they just leave him there? Leave him there to die?”

  “I’m certain they did not,” Mrs. McColl said sternly, and led the maid back into the house.

  “Then he was already dead. Because they wouldn’t have done that. Not Lord Granton. He never would have left Will to die. Oh, God.”

  Chapter 20

  The two brothers were laid on facing settees that were both too small for their tall frames. The other seats in the room were filled with family members, stoic or crying, depending upon their sex or fortitude. Lilian was not crying. She stared, dry-eyed, at Marcus, feeling more helpless than she could ever remember feeling.

  Lady Chesterfield, faced with two gravely injured sons, had to be led out of the room, her growing hysteria deemed far too distracting for the physician who had been called in.

  Dr. Landsdowne had returned to England from America just three years prior, urged to do so by Marcus, who had met the gentleman in New York when he had gone there to fetch Rose home. So impressed had he been by the physician’s skills, Marcus had promised to help his practice grow if he returned to England. Now, Lilian wondered if it had been some dark premonition that had led him to bring Dr. Landsdowne home. He was a quiet, solemn man who went about his examinations with measured assurance. The grotesque sight of Lord Granton, the knife still protruding from his chest, did not faze the man in the least.

  He first attended Adam, determined there was little he needed, and then directed his attention to Marcus.

  “What of Mr. Dunford?” Georgette asked in a panicked voice.

  “Mr. Dunford has suffered a concussion, Mrs. Dunford. His pulse is steady and he responded to the light when I opened his eyes. I suspect he will regain consciousness shortly and may suffer from nausea and headaches for a few days. It is my belief he will live, and the damage to his skull appears to not be overly grave, but with such head wounds it can be difficult to provide a certain prognosis. Lord Granton, on the other hand, is in far greater danger of succumbing to his injury.”

  Lilian stifled a sob at the doctor’s plain speech, but was oddly grateful to be told the truth. Marcus might die.

  Dr. Landsdowne carefully cut open Marcus’s shirt and Lilian did all she could not to cry out. He bled still, though the bleeding had lessened, and Lilian prayed it was because he wasn’t so badly injured rather than he was running out of blood.

  The doctor held a stethoscope over Marcus’s heart, his entire body tense as he listened. “It is good you did not attempt to pull the knife out,” he said into the silence. He straightened and his eyes sought out Lilian.

  “Lady Granton, your husband has lost a great deal of blood, and I’ve no doubt the knife has punctured his lung but I’m uncertain as to the extent of the damage. As it’s impossible to know how large this knife is, I cannot say for certain how serious the wound is. Unless you are immune to the sight of blood, I would suggest you and your family remove yourselves from this room as you are about to see a great deal more of it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Remove the knife, of course. Clean the wound. Dress it.” The doctor seemed genuinely confused by the question. “Unless you believe his lordship would rather keep the knife?”

  Lilian narrowed her eyes. “I do not, Dr. Landsdowne.”

  “Very well. I would suggest you all leave.”

  “I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind,” Georgette said, her voice wavering slightly. “I’ll keep my head averted. I cannot leave my husband.”

  Dr. Landsdowne considered that for a moment. “To be honest, madam, I’d rather not have a third patient, so I suggest you leave. The spray, you see. I’m not certain how far it will travel, and—”

  “You have made your point, sir,” Georgette said, leaping to her feet. She bent and gave her husband a kiss before taking Lilian’s hand and leading her out of the room. “Please call us back in as soon as you are finished.”

  The two women stood outside the door, their eyes mirroring one another’s anguish. “What a horrid man,” Georgette said finally.

  “I pray he is a good doctor. He seemed capable. Perhaps when faced with such dreadful things, one must not show emotion.”

  “I recall Marcus telling me that he cared for Rose when she was ill in New York. Marcus must have been impressed with the man if he urged him to relocate here.”

  Lilian hugged her arms around herself. “What do you suppose happened to them?”

  “They were accosted, obviously.” Georgette shook her head. “Cannock is such a peaceful place, and there’s been such violence of late. It’s frightening, it is.”
/>   Somewhere in the house, they heard quiet weeping, and Lilian wondered if they’d found the driver who had been with Adam.

  “Lord Chesterfield sent for the constable.” Lilian swallowed heavily. It seemed so unlikely that anyone could have done such violence on two men as fine as Mr. Dunford and Marcus. Poor Lady Chesterfield must be beside herself with worry, to see two of her sons so injured, and so soon after the terrible drama that had played out the day before. Thank goodness Mabel had been on an outing with her cousins’ nanny and had no inkling of what was now happening. It was all so awful, and Lilian had a fierce longing for Merdunoir, which now seemed a haven from all that was wrong and bad.

  They heard a small exclamation from inside the room, and both women turned, ready to rush in, when they heard the doctor call out. “All is well, ladies. I was just a bit startled.”

  Lilian’s breath caught in her throat and she stayed frozen, waiting to hear more, praying with all her being that Marcus would live. He’d looked so pale, so helpless. But he could not die. She needed him. Mabel needed him. The one thought she held close was that he’d been on his way home to her when he’d been attacked. She held on to that thought, the hope that when Marcus did recover, they could be a family and go home.

  After what felt like an eternity, Dr. Landsdowne came to the door and opened it, a grim look on his face; his once white shirt was covered with bright red blood.

  “No,” Lilian gasped.

  Immediately, the doctor schooled his features into a more appropriate expression. “My pardon, Lady Granton. He is well as can be. Take no heed of this,” he said, indicating the blood on his shirt.

  “Sir, you need to practice your expressions,” Lilian said, her hand on her heart.

  “It is a deficiency on my part, you are correct. Ah, Mrs. Dunford, your husband appears to be regaining consciousness.” He turned, and Lilian gave Georgette an exasperated look before Georgette hurried over to Adam, who was, indeed showing signs of awakening. He was moving his hands about restlessly, and his eyes were fluttering, as if he was trying to open them.

  Marcus, on the other hand, was terribly pale and so still, for a moment Lilian thought the doctor had simply been trying to spare her feelings. But there, his chest moved ever so slightly.

  “Adam. Adam,” Georgette said, sounding overcome with happiness. “Oh, darling. Hello.”

  “Marcus.”

  “He’s here. Right over there and recovering. Oh, Adam, I was so frightened,” Georgette said, half lying atop her husband and letting out a sob when he managed to weakly bring an arm up and pat her back.

  Lilian stood and walked over to the pair, both happy and filled with despair. “Do you know who did this thing?”

  Adam put a weary hand on his head. “No. The carriage stopped and I stuck out my head to see why. The next thing I knew, something had struck me. When I woke up, poor Mr. Ashton was dead and Marcus . . .” He swallowed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut. “Marcus was stabbed.” He turned his head, seeking to confirm that his brother still lived. “Are you sure he’s . . . ?”

  “He lost a great deal of blood,” Dr. Landsdowne said, then muttered something about the inadequacy of the study of blood transfusions. “I believe he will recover.”

  “You believe?” Lilian asked.

  “It would not be prudent of me to be overly optimistic. While I do not believe death is imminent, I cannot say with certainty his lordship will live. His heartbeat has slowed, which is a positive sign. But dealing with wounds to the lungs is always difficult. Yes, I should think it is more likely he will live than die. Unless infection sets in. Then his recovery will be a bit more challenging.”

  The physician looked wholly satisfied with his response and didn’t seem to notice that those around him were completely unsatisfied.

  “What should we do?”

  “Leave him be for now. Keep his feet elevated. Don’t change the bandage; I will return later this evening to see to that. If blood comes through the bandage, you may place another atop the one I have in place. If Lord Granton awakens, you may give him water but absolutely no spirits of any kind and do not allow him to move. This is imperative.”

  Lilian looked over to where Marcus lay, his feet propped up on the settee. He looked quite uncomfortable. “When can we move him to a bed, sir?”

  “When I direct you to,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m delivering a child into this world this afternoon. I’ll return when I can. Oh, and if he does expire, please do not call me. At that point, there is nothing I can do.” With that, he placed his bowler hat on his head, collected his bag, gave a smart bow, and left.

  * * *

  By the end of the day, Adam, with the help of Lord Chesterfield and a footman, was brought up to his bedroom, where he could better rest away from the activity in the house. Though his head pained him, he was able to sit up and walk carefully around the room, while Georgette hovered by his side continuously. He’d argued that he didn’t want to be far from Marcus, but Lord Chesterfield had put his foot down, brooking no argument.

  Marcus was unchanged, which Lilian chose to believe was a good sign.

  Lady Chesterfield had sent a cable to London asking that Stephen return immediately; she’d decided that Marcus should have the chance to see his youngest brother if he so chose. The unspoken reason for this was not lost on Lilian. Lady Chesterfield did not want her oldest son to die without giving him the opportunity to forgive Stephen. The older woman had informed Lilian of this, her eyes filled with such anguish, Lilian nearly lost the last of her control.

  She’d pulled a chair over and stayed by his side all day, her throat burning from unshed tears. If only his eyelids would flutter. Or his hand clutch hers when she held it to her cheek. Lilian spoke to him as if he could hear, trying to sound lively and happy, even though her heart was breaking. If he were to die without giving her a chance to tell him how much she loved him, she wasn’t certain she would have the strength to go on. She told him now, of course, over and over whilst looking at his dear face. His jaw was darkened by a two-day beard, and she noticed for the first time it was sprinkled with lighter, reddish hair. If he ever chose to grow a beard, it would be far lighter than the hair on his head. Suddenly, she desperately hoped that she would one day see how he looked with a beard. She wanted to see what he looked like when he held their baby, when he was old and gray and wrinkled and perhaps even a bit fat. They would grow old and fat and wrinkled together. Please, God, that this could be true.

  * * *

  Constable Conroy alighted from his buggy and looked up at the grand house, hoping that Lady Granton was at home. His first stop had been at Mount Carlyle to see the duchess, but he’d been told in no uncertain terms that Her Grace was far too distraught to speak with him.

  Now, standing in front of Hallstead Manor, he didn’t have much hope that Lady Granton would shed any light as to who had killed the duke, but did know one thing: old Silas had had nothing to do with it. Silas had left a clue in plain sight by incorrectly spelling his own name on the so-called suicide note. That note, with its shaky penmanship and cryptic words, had haunted Conroy for weeks, both when he’d thought Silas had written it of his own accord and more now when he realized the man had been forced to pen those words. Whoever had killed the duke knew about Silas’s daughter, knew she’d been raped by Weston, and had taken advantage of that terrible knowledge. I killed the duke because of what he done to my daughter. And he’d signed his name: Silas Maine.

  Only problem was, Silas’s last name was spelled Mayne. What a brave and brilliant thing he’d done at a time when he must have been under terrible duress. Conroy might have missed it if he hadn’t happened to look at the register where Silas’s daughter and wife had signed in. To be doubly certain, he’d visited the Maynes to confirm the spelling of their last name. Of course, they’d given him the correct spelling and assured him that Silas knew how to spell his own name. And that left him where he now was: at the beginning of a mur
der investigation that seemed to have been solved twice.

  He’d had one hell of a month, and it didn’t look as if it was going to get any better. How many times could one murder investigation be solved incorrectly? Never in his career had an investigation taken so many wrong turns. It was downright maddening. And frustrating. The last thing he wanted to do was tell his chief that he’d been mistaken about this case from the beginning. He thought back with more than a bit of chagrin to the CLOSED stamp he’d placed on the file. Next time, and pray God there would not be another case like this for as long as he worked, he would listen to that tiny voice in his head. That voice had whispered: This is not over, Toby. Not even close, my lad.

  The house was preternaturally quiet, and a sense of foreboding struck him. He looked at the boy who had tied up his horse and saw that the lad looked unusually solemn. Frankly, Conroy was done ignoring his gut feelings. “Has some tragedy occurred here?” he asked the boy.

  “You haven’t heard? His lordship and his brother were attacked, they were. It were awful.”

  “Has anyone died?”

  The boy looked frightened to be questioned so, but he shook his head. “Mr. Ashton, the driver. But no one else, sir, at least not as I know.”

  When Conroy twisted the bell, it seemed to take an unusual amount of time before the butler opened it. One look in the man’s eyes, and Conroy’s stomach dropped.

  “Constable Conroy. I’m here to see Lord Chesterfield.”

  The butler’s eyes widened and he took a step back.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Conroy asked, and he could smell the distinctive and rather ominous odor of bleach in the foyer.

  The butler composed his features immediately. “No, sir, but I must say I am amazed at how quickly you were able to come. From Birmingham, is it?”