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  Finally controlling the surge of excess emotion, Gabriel looked at her through a hot blur. “What’s next?” he asked gruffly.

  “The main concern is keeping her completely still and relaxed, to minimize the risk of having a ligature give way and causing hemorrhage. If there’s a problem, it will occur within the first forty-eight hours.”

  “Is that why none of them survived? Hemorrhage?”

  She gave him an inquiring glance.

  “Havelock told me about the previous cases like Pandora’s,” he said.

  Dr. Gibson’s gaze softened. “He shouldn’t have. At least not without putting it in proper perspective. Those cases were unsuccessful for two reasons: the doctors relied on old-fashioned surgical techniques, and the operations took place in contaminated environments. Pandora’s situation is quite different. All of our instruments were sterilized, every square inch of the operating room was disinfected, and I sprayed carbolic solution on every living thing in sight, including myself. We’ve cleaned the wound thoroughly and covered it with an antiseptic dressing. I’m quite optimistic about Pandora’s recovery.”

  Gabriel let out a shaken sigh. “I want to believe you.”

  “My lord, I never try to make people feel better by shading the truth one way or the other. I merely relate the facts. How you react to them is your responsibility, not mine.”

  The resolutely unsentimental words almost made him smile. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

  “You’re quite welcome, my lord.”

  “May I see her now?”

  “Soon. She’s still recovering from the anesthesia. With your permission, I will keep her here in a private room for at least two or three days. I’ll stay around the clock, of course. In the event that a hemorrhage occurs, I’ll be able to operate right away. Now, I must assist Dr. Havelock with some postoperative . . .” The doctor’s voice faded as she noticed two men entering the front door and walking through the lobby. “Who are they?”

  “One of them is my footman,” Gabriel said, recognizing Dragon’s towering form. The other man was a stranger.

  As they approached, Dragon’s gaze fastened on Gabriel with dark intensity, trying to read his expression.

  “The operation was successful,” Gabriel told him.

  A look of relief came over the footman’s face, and his shoulders relaxed.

  “Did you find Mrs. O’Cairre?” Gabriel asked.

  “Yes, milord. She’s being held at Scotland Yard.”

  Realizing he hadn’t yet made introductions, Gabriel murmured, “Dr. Gibson, this is my footman, Dragon. That is . . . Drago.”

  “It’s Dragon now,” the footman told him in a matter-of-fact tone. “As her ladyship prefers.” He gestured to the man beside him. “Here is the acquaintance I told you about, milord. Mr. Ethan Ransom, of Scotland Yard.”

  Ransom was improbably young for a man of his profession. Usually by the time a man was promoted to detective, he had served on the force for a number of years, and had been worn down by the physical hardships of the police beat. He was lean and big-boned, well over the height of five feet and eight inches required by the Metropolitan force. His coloring was Black Irish, with dark hair and dark eyes, and fair skin warmed with a hint of ruddiness.

  Gabriel stared at the detective closely, thinking there was something familiar about him.

  “Have we met before?” Dr. Gibson demanded of the detective, evidently thinking the same thing.

  “We have, doctor,” Ransom replied. “A year and a half ago, Mr. Winterborne asked me to watch over you and Lady Helen, as you went on an errand in a dangerous part of town.”

  “Oh, yes.” Dr. Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the man who stalked after us and skulked in the shadows, and interfered needlessly as we went to hire a hansom cab.”

  “You were being attacked by a pair of dockyard navvies,” Ransom pointed out gently.

  “I had the situation well in hand,” came her brisk reply. “I had already dispatched one man, and was about to put away the other, when you jumped into the fray without even asking.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Ransom said gravely. “I thought you might need assistance. Obviously my assumption was incorrect.”

  Mollified, Dr. Gibson said in a grudging tone, “I suppose you could hardly be expected to stand by and let a woman do all the fighting. The masculine sense of pride is fragile, after all.”

  A smile flashed in Ransom’s eyes, but disappeared quickly. “Doctor, could you briefly describe Lady St. Vincent’s wound for me?”

  After receiving a nod of consent from Gabriel, Dr. Gibson replied. “It was a single acute puncture just to the right of the neck, entering an inch above the clavicle and extending three inches deep. It pierced the anterior scalene muscle and lacerated the subclavian artery. Had the artery been severed completely, it would have caused unconsciousness in ten seconds and death in approximately two minutes.”

  Gabriel’s stomach dropped at the thought. “The only reason that didn’t happen,” he said, “is because Dragon blocked the forward tug of the knife with his arm.” He glanced at the footman quizzically. “How did you know what she was going to do?”

  Dragon spoke while tucking in the loose edge of the makeshift bandage over his arm. “As soon as I saw Mrs. O’Cairre aim for the top of the shoulder, I thought she would jerk the knife down like a pump handle. I once saw a man killed that way in an alley near the club, when I was a boy. Never forgot it. An odd way to stab someone. It made him drop to the ground, and there was no blood.”

  “The blood would have drained into the chest cavity and collapsed the lung,” Dr. Gibson said. “Quite an efficient way to murder someone.”

  “It’s not the method of a street thug,” Ransom commented. “It’s . . . professional. The technique requires some knowledge of physiology.” He sighed shortly. “I’d like to find out who instructed Mrs. O’Cairre how to do it.”

  “Can you not question her?” Dr. Gibson asked.

  “Unfortunately the detectives with the seniority are managing the interrogation, and they’re fouling it up so badly, it almost seems deliberate. The only real information we’ll end up with is what Mrs. O’Cairre told Dragon when he caught her.”

  “Which is?” Gabriel asked.

  “Mrs. O’Cairre and her late husband were part of a group of Irish anarchists who aspire to overthrow the government. Caipíní an Bháis, they call themselves. A splinter group of the Fenians.”

  “The man Lady St. Vincent saw in the warehouse is a collaborator,” Dragon added. “Mrs. O’Cairre said he’s a man of position. When he feared his anonymity had been compromised, he told Mrs. O’Cairre to take a knife to Lady St. Vincent. Mrs. O’Cairre says she’s sorry it had to be done, but she couldn’t refuse.”

  In the silence that followed, Dr. Gibson glanced at Dragon’s bandaged arm and said, “Has that cut been seen to?” She continued without waiting for an answer. “Come with me and I’ll take a look at it.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t need—”

  “I’ll disinfect and bandage it properly. You may require stitches.”

  Dragon followed her reluctantly.

  Ransom’s gaze lingered on the doctor for a few extra seconds as she strode away, the divided skirt swishing around her hips and legs. He returned his attention to Gabriel. “My lord, I hesitate to ask at such a time. But at your earliest convenience, I’d like to see the materials that Lady St. Vincent brought back from the print works.”

  “Of course. Dragon will help you with anything you need.” Gabriel gave him a hard glance. “I want someone to pay for what was done to my wife.”

  Chapter 22

  “She’s still disoriented from the anesthesia,” Dr. Gibson cautioned as she brought Gabriel to Pandora’s private room. “I’ve given her another dose of morphine, not only for the pain but also to ease the nausea from the chloroform. Therefore, don’t be alarmed by anything she says. She probably won’t pay close attention to you, and she
may jump to a different topic in the middle of a sentence, or say something confusing.”

  “So far you’ve described an average conversation with Pandora.”

  The doctor smiled. “There’s a bowl of ice chips beside the bed—try to coax her to take some. You’ve washed your hands with the carbolic soap? Good. We want to keep her environment as aseptic as possible.”

  Gabriel walked into the small underfurnished room. The gas lighting had been turned off, leaving only the quiet glow of a glass spirit lamp on a table beside the bed.

  Pandora looked very small on the bed. Her motionless body was arranged with her limbs perfectly straight, arms by her sides. She never slept that way. At night she was always curled up, or sprawling, or hugging the pillow, or kicking the blankets off one leg while keeping the other covered. Her complexion was unnaturally pale, like a porcelain bisque cameo.

  Gabriel sat on the bedside chair and carefully took her hand. Her fingers were light and loose, as if he were holding a little bundle of wood spills.

  “I’ll leave you to spend a few minutes alone with her,” Dr. Gibson said from the doorway. “Then, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll let the family members see her briefly, so we can send them all home. If you wish, you can sleep tonight in a spare bedroom at the Winterbornes’ residence—”

  “No, I’ll stay here.”

  “We’ll bring in a moveable cot, then.”

  Curling Pandora’s fingers around his, Gabriel pressed the backs of them to his cheek and held them there. Her familiar scent had been obliterated by a blank, sterile too-clean smell. The surface of her lips was rough and chapped. But her skin had lost the frightening chill, and her breathing was steady, and he was steeped in the relief of being able to sit there and touch her. He settled his free hand lightly on her head, his thumb stroking the silky verge of her hairline.

  The crescents of her lashes fluttered, and she stirred. Slowly her face turned toward him. He looked into the midnight blue of her eyes, and was pierced with a tenderness so acute that it made him want to weep.

  “There’s my girl,” he whispered. He reached for a chip of ice from the bowl and fed it to her. Pandora held it in her mouth, letting the liquid absorb into the dry inner tissues of her cheeks. “You’ll be all better soon,” he said. “Are you in pain, love?”

  Pandora shook her head slightly, her gaze locking on his. A furrow of puzzled concern gathered on her forehead. “Mrs. Black . . .” she croaked.

  His heart twisted in his chest like a scullery rag being wrung out. “Whatever she told you, Pandora, it wasn’t true.”

  “I know.” She parted her lips, and he fished in the bowl for another ice chip. Sucking on the bit of ice, she waited until it had dissolved. “She said I bore you.”

  Gabriel looked at her blankly. Of all the lunatic notions Nola could have come up with. . . . Burying his head in his arm, he gasped with amusement, his shoulders shaking. “I have not been bored,” he eventually managed to say, looking at her. “Not for one second since I first met you. In truth, love, after this I wouldn’t mind a few days of boredom.”

  Pandora smiled slightly.

  Unable to resist the temptation, Gabriel leaned forward and pressed a fleeting, dry kiss against her mouth. He glanced at the empty doorway first, of course, suspecting that if Dr. Gibson had seen him, she would have had his lips sterilized.

  For the next two days, Pandora slept heavily, waking only for brief intervals and exhibiting little interest in her surroundings. Even though Dr. Gibson assured Gabriel the symptoms were common for a patient after undergoing anesthesia, it was unnerving to see his energetic young wife reduced to this condition.

  Pandora showed glimmers of her usual liveliness only twice. The first time was when her cousin West came to sit by her bedside, having traveled by train from Hampshire. She had been delighted to see him and spent ten minutes trying to convince him that the lyrics to the song “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” included the phrases “gently down the string” and “life’s a butter dream.”

  The second time was when Dragon had come to the doorway to look in on her, his usually stoic face drawn with concern, while Gabriel had fed her spoonfuls of fruit ice. Noticing the towering figure at the threshold, Pandora had exclaimed groggily, “It’s my watchdragon,” and had demanded that he come closer to show her his bandaged arm. Before he had even reached the bed, however, she had fallen back to sleep.

  Gabriel stayed at her bedside every possible minute, occasionally retreating to the moveable cot near the window for brief periods of slumber. He knew that Pandora’s family members were eager to sit with her, and they probably found it annoying that he was so reluctant to leave the room and entrust her to anyone else. However, he stayed as much for his own sake as for hers. When he spent even a few minutes away from her, his anxiety kept doubling and redoubling until he expected to find her in the middle of a fatal hemorrhage by the time he returned.

  He was perfectly aware that some of his anxiety derived from the ocean of guilt he was currently floundering in. It didn’t matter if someone pointed out the ways in which it was not his fault—he could easily come up with just as many reasons to the contrary. Pandora had needed protection, and he hadn’t provided it. Had he made different choices, she wouldn’t be in a hospital bed with a surgically divided artery and a three-inch hole in her shoulder.

  Dr. Gibson came to examine Pandora frequently, checking for fever or signs of suppuration, looking for any swelling of the arm or in the area above the clavicle, listening for compression in the lungs. She said Pandora appeared to be healing well. Barring any problems, she would be able to resume her usual activities in two weeks. However, she would still need to be careful for a few months. A hard jolt, such as the impact from a fall, could conceivably cause an aneurysm or hemorrhage.

  Months of worry. Months of trying to keep Pandora still and quiet and safe.

  The prospect of all that lay ahead of them, and the nightmares that tormented him every time he tried to sleep, and most of all Pandora’s persistent confusion and lethargy, made him quiet and grim. Perversely, the kindness of friends and relations made him even surlier. Flower arrangements were a special irritant: they were delivered almost hourly at the clinic, where Dr. Gibson refused to allow them past the entrance lobby. They piled up in funereal abundance, making the air nauseatingly thick and sweet.

  As the third evening approached, Gabriel looked up blearily as two people entered the room.

  His parents.

  The sight of them infused him with relief. At the same time, their presence unlatched all the wretched emotion he’d kept battened down until this moment. Disciplining his breathing, he stood awkwardly, his limbs stiff from spending hours on the hard chair. His father came to him first, pulling him close for a crushing hug and ruffling his hair before going to the bedside.

  His mother was next, embracing him with her familiar tenderness and strength. She was the one he’d always gone to first whenever he’d done something wrong, knowing she would never condemn or criticize, even when he deserved it. She was a source of endless kindness, the one to whom he could entrust his worst thoughts and fears.

  “I promised nothing would ever harm her,” Gabriel said against her hair, his voice cracking.

  Evie’s gentle hands patted his back.

  “I took my eyes off her when I shouldn’t have,” he went on. “Mrs. Black approached her after the play—I pulled the bitch aside, and I was too distracted to notice—” He stopped talking and cleared his throat harshly, trying not to choke on emotion.

  Evie waited until he’d calmed himself before saying quietly, “You remember when I told you about the time your f-father was badly injured because of me.”

  “That wasn’t because of you,” Sebastian said irritably from the bedside. “Evie, have you harbored that absurd idea for all these years?”

  “It’s the most terrible feeling in the world,” Evie murmured to Gabriel. “But it’s not your fault, and trying to make it
so won’t help either of you. Dearest boy, are you listening to me?”

  Keeping his face pressed against her hair, Gabriel shook his head.

  “Pandora won’t blame you for what happened,” Evie told him, “any more than your father blamed me.”

  “Neither of you are to blame for anything,” his father said, “except for annoying me with this nonsense. Obviously the only person to blame for this poor girl’s injury is the woman who attempted to skewer her like a pinioned duck.” He straightened the covers over Pandora, bent to kiss her forehead gently, and sat in the bedside chair. “My son . . . guilt, in proper measure, can be a useful emotion. However, when indulged to excess it becomes self-defeating, and even worse, tedious.” Stretching out his long legs, he crossed them negligently. “There’s no reason to tear yourself to pieces worrying about Pandora. She’s going to make a full recovery.”

  “You’re a doctor now?” Gabriel asked sardonically, although some of the weight of grief and worry lifted at his father’s confident pronouncement.

  “I daresay I’ve seen enough illness and injuries in my time, stabbings included, to predict the outcome accurately. Besides, I know the spirit of this girl. She’ll recover.”

  “I agree,” Evie said firmly.

  Letting out a shuddering sigh, Gabriel tightened his arms around her.

  After a long moment, he heard his mother say ruefully, “Sometimes I miss the days when I could solve any of my children’s problems with a nap and a biscuit.”

  “A nap and a biscuit wouldn’t hurt this one at the moment,” Sebastian commented dryly. “Gabriel, go find a proper bed and rest for a few hours. We’ll watch over your little fox cub.”

  Chapter 23

  In the week and a half since Pandora had returned home, she’d wondered more than once if they’d sent the wrong husband back from the clinic with her.