His Perfect Game (16 page)

“Then why not seek out his man or take it from his heir?”

Algers shrugged. “Making you pay is more satisfying. Kirkwood never knew he focused on the wrong man. Stonemede was your pawn. I believe you are making the decisions here.”

“Regardless, Kirkwood is gone, and you have taken your payment over this past year. Why continue?”

“Kirkwood was more than a random employer. He was my father.”

Greyson’s mouth fell open. “Then why—?”

“I’m a bastard, just like you. And here you sit, titled and respected, while I’m forced to live on the streets. How is that fair?” The vein on Algers’ forehead throbbed. “I intend to make you pay by carrying out my father’s work for him. First, I must take a life as repayment for his death. Someone important. Your wife, perhaps.”

Anger clouded Greyson’s vision. “You will not touch her.” His voice came out as a snarl.

“You can’t protect her all the time. Her early morning walks through Hyde Park leave her particularly vulnerable. Not to mention her weekly visits to her mother’s house.” Algers smiled, a sickening twist of his mouth. “Or I could waylay her as she exits the milliner’s shop. She does enjoy surveying the hats. Do you know her favorite color is green?”

So infused with rage, Greyson could not see straight. This man had plagued him and mocked him for too long. However, the threat to his wife had sent him over the edge. Algers had been stalking her, and perversely studying her every move.

Alternating between a quick and easy death and a slow and painful one, Greyson squeezed the trigger.

As blood began coloring the man’s shirt, Greyson felt pain ripping through his chest. Algers held a smoking gun. The blow from the bullet knocked Greyson down, but he didn’t feel the fall. The aching in his chest overruled everything else.

He’d allowed his rage to distract him, giving Algers a clean shot. Gasping for breath, Greyson lifted his head from the ground to assess the damage.

Flecks of light burst in front of his eyes as pain shot through him. Dropping his head back, he saw Algers above him, grinning even as blood dripped down his arm.

“I’ll continue to terrorize your club while I begin on your wife. The best part is, there is nothing you can do about it now.”

Greyson tried to respond, but he couldn’t form the words. He fought the encroaching blackness, blinking rapidly. He had to save his wife.

The realization he would never have another chance to make things right with her was his last thought before he succumbed to darkness.

Abigail vaulted out of bed at the sound of banging and men yelling. Wrapping her dressing gown around her shoulders, she lit a candle and flew to the door. As she peered into the corridor, Holland rushed past her, two men following close behind. Each man had a grip on either side of Lord Merrick as they dragged him along.

Her heart stopped. His head hung lifelessly down, and he didn’t appear to be moving. Stepping further into the hallway, she watched them enter his bedchamber. She stood, immobile, unsure if she should follow or remain in the hall. What had happened?

She moved toward his bedchamber door, but stopped as her foot came in contact with something wet. Setting the candle down, she gasped. A smear of blood made a trail into her husband’s room.

Shooting up, she raced forward. Seeing the men covered in blood forced her to grab the doorjamb as a wave of dizziness assaulted her. The men had laid her husband in his bed and one held something to his chest.

“Where is the doctor?” Holland demanded.

“I don’t know. I sent the first person I found for him,” the man standing over her husband explained in a worried tone.

She broke into a sweat. Was he already dead? She wanted to ask, to speak up, but her throat had closed and the ringing in her ears made everything else sound as if it were miles away.

Abigail almost sighed in relief when Mrs. Boart arrived with the doctor. Silently stepping aside, she allowed the short man to enter.

“This better be an emergency. I was . . . Oh, I see.” The doctor rushed to the bed as the men gave him room.

Her attention focused on the bed, Abigail paid no attention to any occupants in the room. As the doctor removed the bloodied cloths, her head spun. She had never seen so much blood, and more unnerving was the knowledge it belonged to someone close to her.

“The bullet is lodged in his chest. I have to remove it,” the doctor informed them. “Hold him down in case he regains consciousness.”

As the men hurried to do his bidding, the doctor rifled through his medical bag. He cut Lord Merrick’s shirt down the middle then poured a liquid over his bloodied chest. As the doctor produced a knife and forceps from his bag, Abigail’s stomach turned and her body swayed.

When the knife made contact with Lord Merrick’s chest, his body thrashed as he screamed. Abigail fell to her knees, but was unable to leave or turn her head. The torment in his cry would haunt her forever.

“Hold him steady!” The doctor began again and soon Lord Merrick fell motionless.

Tears streamed down her cheeks and her body rocked at the force of her sobs. The doctor continued digging for what seemed like hours, but she could not see his progress through her tears. Finally the sound of clinking metal in a dish echoed in the room, accentuated by the doctor’s relieved sigh.

“Come, my lady,” Mrs. Boart said from above her. “You should not be here.”

Abigail didn’t budge even as the older woman tried to help her to her feet. How could she leave without knowing of her husband’s fate? How could she sleep knowing Lord Merrick lie here suffering?

Without the power to fight, Abigail allowed the housekeeper to drag her up and lead her into the bedchamber. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she heard the clinking of glass as Mrs. Boart poured her some water. As Abigail accepted the drink, she prayed it would calm her.

Since the housekeeper clearly would not let her go back to Lord Merrick’s bedchamber, Abigail decided to listen by the door until the doctor finished as soon as Mrs. Boart left. She would take care of her husband. It was her duty. Lifting the glass to her lips, she took a gulp, surprised as the bitter taste touched her tongue. Refusing to be dosed with laudanum, she attempted to lower the glass, but Mrs. Boart stilled her hand.

“Please drink it, my lady. He needs you strong and well-rested. Let the men see to him tonight.”

Although desperate to argue, Abigail did as she was told. Mrs. Boart was right. Tonight she would sleep. Tomorrow she would tend to her husband. Regardless of what the housekeeper declared in the morning, she would stay with Lord Merrick until he fully healed.

Over the past month, he had been kinder to her than she, as his wife, deserved. He’d shown her a level of consideration she’d never expected to receive from a man. With his thoughtfulness, he’d earned her respect. She would stay by his side, she owed him that. Based on the frantic beating of her heart, Abigail doubted she could do anything less. She refused to allow him to die.

Chapter 9

Greyson’s eyes opened slowly, although he fought against the urge to wake up. It was dark . . . dark and cold. His body shook violently as it shivered, seeking warmth. Why was he so cold? Reaching out, he fumbled for a blanket, but pain shot through his chest. He tried to take a deep breath, but something squeezed him, limiting his air supply.

Panic welled up inside of him. What had happened to him? He tugged at the fabric wrapped around his body, but it was secured tightly. Groaning as another stab of pain gripped him, he dropped his arms. His body shivered again and his teeth chattered. He needed to find warmth.

“My lord?” a groggy voice asked. “Are you awake?”

The vaguely familiar tone moved away from him as it spoke. A dim light appeared, but his vision remained too clouded with pain to see clearly. Something moved before him. A fire. Red and orange flames danced around the face of an angel. Fire brought heat. Stretching his arm out, he touched the flames, but they didn’t burn him, instead he felt silk gliding through his fingers.

Suddenly a glass touched his lips, and he realized how parched he was. Gulping down the water, he wanted to sigh from the wondrous pleasure of it sliding down his throat.

“What can I do for you?” the female whispered.

His fire was a woman. Although he had never heard of a fire angel before, he welcomed the heat of her. Pulling her down beside him, while careful to keep her from landing on his already too restricted chest, he pressed every inch of him that didn’t hurt against her. She felt wonderful, and she smelled of Heaven.

Keeping his angel close, he fell back asleep.

Abigail peered down her nose at the ridiculous little man. Her husband’s fever had not subsided in over a week, and his periods of wakefulness lessened with each passing day. He never came back to her fully, but each time she saw his grey eyes, hope filled her. Now her hope was dying, and so was Lord Merrick.

The doctor sighed. “My lady, I understand your concern, but there is nothing more I can do. If he is strong, he will survive. If not—”

“I don’t want to hear that. Surely there is something you can do.”

“The bullet cracked his ribs, and I can’t say for sure what other damage it caused. We are lucky the bullet missed anything major. You should be grateful he has lasted this long.”

“How can you—?”

“Well, if it isn’t Doctor Jones again,” Lord Jonathan interjected, entering the drawing room. “I hate to interrupt, but I believe Holland is hoping you will give him an update on Lord Merrick’s condition.”

“Yes, at once. I’m sure
he
will understand.” The doctor shot her a smug look, telling her exactly how little he thought of her.

Keeping her fists clenched at her sides, she simply glared at the man, waiting for him to leave. Doctor Jones had not only been inattentive, but he also suffered from laziness. She found she didn’t care for his medical advice or his bedside manner.

“How is our patient doing today?” Lord Jonathan inquired. “I would have asked Doctor Jones, but I get the impression you don’t agree with his assessment.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear that.” Her cheeks heated.

Lord Jonathan had come every day to check on Lord Merrick, and each time, she’d managed to keep her opinions to herself. As she’d soon discovered, she remained the only one who didn’t agree with Doctor Jones’ ministrations.

“I’m not. If Greyson is receiving less than stellar care, I wish to know about it. I also enjoy seeing a woman speak her mind.” He winked at her.

She looked down, uncomfortable by the attention. “Well, I can’t say anything for sure against the level of care, as I have no knowledge to compare it to, however Lord Merrick’s condition is worsening.”

Lord Jonathan’s normally cheerful eyes turned emotionless, but he kept his strained smile in place. She could see the pain in his eyes and realized his happy demeanor was a mask to hide his true self from the world. She could relate to that.

He offered his arm. “Shall we go check on him while you tell me how Holland intends to rectify the situation with the doctor based on your concerns?”

“Holland, like the rest of the staff, is greatly concerned over his master. They hold on to Doctor Jones’ words as if the man is infallible. Since I’m not a doctor, my opinion is quickly disregarded.”

“I shall not treat you thusly. I have always had a weakness for beautiful women.”

Smiling at him, she shook her head. It was impossible to resist his charm. She only hoped he would agree with her, because something needed to be done for her husband. Something the doctor could not do.

As they entered the dark bedchamber, the stench of sickness assaulted her nostrils as usual. Doctor Jones had insisted they keep the curtains drawn and the door closed in order to prevent Lord Merrick from getting a chill. However, as he did every day, Lord Jonathan threw open the curtains and cracked a window. The fresh air immediately poured into the stifling room.

“Why are these constantly being closed? When Greyson awakens, is he supposed to believe it is night?”

“It’s the doctor’s orders, which are quickly obeyed.” Her voice came out bitter, but she didn’t care.

Lord Jonathan shook his head then approached the bed. As he lightly touched his friend’s face with the back of his hand, he winced. Concerned, she came up beside him. Lord Merrick’s breathing was shallow, but he remained alive.

“What are your recommendations? When a fever took my mother, the room resembled this. She wasted away as the doctors watched, but I can’t allow that to happen to him.”

Encouraged by having someone willing to help, Abigail straightened her shoulders and slid the sheets down to expose her husband’s dirty attire.

“I understand the importance of the bandage, but I don’t understand why it or his clothes can’t be changed. From the violent swings in temperature, he is filthy. I would have changed him myself, but I can’t lift him.”

“Then I shall help you.”

Immediately, Lord Jonathan began removing her husband’s shirt. Thrilled to be doing something, and to have help, she climbed on the bed and assisted him. Together, they carefully began unraveling the bandage. She was glad Lord Merrick didn’t wake during the painstaking process.

When the ends parted, Abigail gasped at the sight. The bullet wound had been stitched closed, but the skin around it had puckered up and burned bright red. She had no doubt the infection and fever arose from this. If Lord Jonathan had not agreed to help her, they never would have known.

“This can’t be good.” Lord Jonathan sighed. “Hurry, we can remove his trousers then you can bathe him while I go acquire some willow bark to ease the inflammation. Just be sure to keep him warm after he is clean.”

Abigail swallowed. The idea of removing her husband’s trousers and rubbing a cloth over his body made her uncomfortable. Attempting to keep her reaction to herself, she nodded. When Lord Jonathan began unfastening Lord Merrick’s trousers, her eyes remained fixed upon his fingers. Shaking her head to clear it, she grabbed a sheet and tossed it over her husband’s lap before Lord Jonathan could expose him.