Margaret linked arms with her and said, “The ball is an unequivocal triumph, as we all expected. Much more entertaining to gossip about you than any other topic.”
William looked over their heads. “Where is Westfield going?”
Elizabeth hid a smile at his curt tone. “To the drink tables.”
He frowned. “Wish he would have said something before he went in. I could use some libation myself. If you will excuse me, ladies, I believe I’ll join him.”
As William moved away, Margaret gestured toward the garden and they set off at a sedate stroll.
“You look well,” Elizabeth said.
“Regardless, a clever modiste cannot hide this belly any longer, so this ball will be my last social event of the Season.” Margaret smiled. “Lord Westfield seems quite taken with you. With luck, you will be having children of your own soon.” Leaning closer, she asked, “Is he as skilled a lover as they say?”
Elizabeth blushed.
“Good for you.” Margaret laughed, and then winced. “My back aches.”
“You have been on your feet all day,” Elizabeth scolded.
“A respite in the retiring room is long overdue,” Margaret agreed.
“Then we must hasten to get you there.”
Turning around, they headed away from the garden.
As they neared the house, they saw more guests filtering out into the cool night air. Elizabeth took a deep breath, and prayed for the patience she’d require to endure ’til morning.
“Yours will not be an easy pairing, you are aware of that?”
Marcus glanced at William as they descended the garden steps, drinks in hand. “Truly?” he drawled. “And here I’d been led to believe marriage was a tranquil institution.”
William snorted. “Elizabeth is by nature quite feisty and downright argumentative, but around you, she is not herself. She’s almost withdrawn. Lord only knows how you convinced her to accept your addresses, but I’ve taken note of her marked reticence around you.”
“How obliging of you.” Marcus clenched his jaw. He was a proud man. It did not sit well with him that Elizabeth appeared less than enthusiastic to wed him.
Margaret approached, her arched brows drawn tight with discomfort.
William rushed to her. “What pains you?” he asked gruffly.
She waved his concern away with a lift of her hand. “My back and feet ache is all. Nothing to worry yourself over.”
“Where is Lady Hawthorne?” Marcus asked, searching the winding path behind her.
“Lady Grayton had an unfortunate mishap with an unruly climbing rose and needed more assistance than I.” She wrinkled her nose. “Frankly, I think Elizabeth simply didn’t want to return to the house yet.”
Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but was silenced by a distant female scream.
William frowned. Marcus, however, was almost crippled with fear, his entire body tensing to the point of pain.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered starkly, his well-trained senses telling him the danger that stalked her was right there in the garden. He dropped the glasses he held in his hands, paying no mind to the delicate flutes shattering on the stone pathway. With William fast on his heels, Marcus ran in the direction of the disturbing sound, his stomach clenched and frozen with dread.
He’d left her with family when he should never have left her at all. He knew his job, knew the rules, knew she was not safe anywhere after the ransacking of her room and he’d ignored all of it simply because she asked him to. He’d been a fool and now he could only hope fright from an overactive imagination would be the extent of his punishment.
Perhaps it was not Elizabeth. Perhaps it was a minor incident of a stolen kiss and a woman with a flair for dramatic outcries …
Just as panic began to overwhelm him, he saw her up ahead, sprawled on the pathway next to a rose-covered arbor in a flood of displaced panniers and endless skirts.
He dropped to his knees beside her, damning himself for lowering his guard. Lifting his head, he searched for her attacker, but the night was still and quiet except for her labored breathing.
William crouched on her other side. “Christ.” His hands trembled as he reached for her.
Because the darkness made sight difficult, Marcus felt along her torso, searching for injury. Elizabeth groaned as his fingers lightly skimmed across her ribs, finding an object protruding from her hip. Moving her arm aside carefully, he exposed a small dagger.
“She’s been stabbed,” Marcus said gruffly, his throat tight.
Elizabeth opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. Her skin was pale beneath her powder, the rouge she wore unnatural in comparison. “Marcus.” Her voice was a gasped whisper as her fingers curled weakly over the hand that touched the hilt. He gripped them tightly, willing some of his vitality into her, willing her to be strong.
This was his fault. And Elizabeth had paid the price. The extent of his failure was crushing, a brutal fall from the heights of satisfaction he’d felt when the evening started.
William stood, his body tense as he searched their surroundings much as Marcus had done a moment earlier. “We need to move her to the house.”
Marcus lifted her, careful to avoid unduly jarring the knife. She cried out, then lost consciousness, her breathing slipping into a rapid but measured rhythm. “Where can I go?” he asked in near desperation. Through the ballroom was obviously not an option.
“Follow me.”
Moving like shadows through the garden, they entered through the bustling kitchen. Then they took the cramped servants’ staircase, which caused a laborious ascent hampered by Elizabeth’s panniers.
Once safely in her room, Marcus shrugged out of his coat and reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing a small dagger not unlike the one lodged in Elizabeth’s side. “Send for a doctor,” Marcus ordered. “And ring for towels and heated water.”
“I will instruct a servant on my departure. It will be faster if I collect the doctor myself.” William left with reassuring haste.
With careful, tentative movements, Marcus used his knife to cut through the endless material that made up her dress, stays, and underskirts. The task was torturous, this sight of his blade next to precious ivory skin a nightmare, and he was drenched with sweat before she was free of the pile.
A steady steam of blood leaked from around the dagger. She was still unconscious, but he whispered soothingly as he worked, trying to calm himself as well as her.
The door opened behind him, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see the entry of Lord Langston and Lady Barclay. A maid entered directly behind, carrying a tray weighted with hot water and cloths.
The earl took one look at his daughter and shuddered violently. “Oh God,” he breathed. He swayed unsteadily, his face a stark mask. “I cannot go through this again.”