Chapter Thirty
Dominic pried his heavy lids open with what felt like a Herculean effort and attempted to focus on his dimly lit bedchamber. His eyes felt gritty, his vision was blurry, but for once, his head wasn’t throbbing, and his body didn’t feel like it was ablaze and stretched to breaking point on a torturer’s rack.
He swallowed, his mouth dryer than the ashes gathered at the bottom of the grate. “Artemis…” he rasped, turning his head this way, then that. He could have sworn she’d been here not that long ago, holding his hand, stroking his brow. Whispering soothing words in his ear. His heart kicked at the memory of her professing that she loved him.
Or had that all been a fever dream? Wishful thinking on his part?
He exhaled shakily, then pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no idea how long he’d lain in this bed, insensible to his surroundings. Between the delirium, the pain, and what seemed like an eternity of drug-induced sleep that was fathoms deep, he’d lost all sense of time. Whether it was day or night or indeed, how long it had been since he’d been shot. It could have been a few days, a week, or a millennium.
Another memory stirred and flickered like a tiny lick of flame. He remembered the alleyway off Duke Street. How cold it had been. His breath frosting in the air. The thick rolling fog. The sharp bite of whisky on his tongue and the resounding chime of a church tower clock. The red doorway of the Firebrand Club. But then the image in his mind fizzled away to nothing, floating away like a tendril of smoke from a snuffed-out candle.
Perhaps that wisp of a memory had all been a dream too.
Or a nightmare.
He groaned with frustration and then struggled to push himself up into a sitting position against the pillows. The movement sent a bolt of pain through his wounded shoulder and a hiss escaped him. And then all of a sudden he felt a gentle hand at his back. A cool palm pressed against his forehead.
“Dominic. You’re awake. And your fever’s broken. Thank God.”
Dominic squinted up into the face hovering above him. “Horatia,” he croaked. “I think you might be right.”
She beamed. “I’m so, so relieved. You have no idea how worried—” Her voice cracked and then she shook her head. “Here, let me help you to sit up. You must be parched.”
“I am.” After he gratefully accepted a few sips of water from a tumbler, his unsteady gaze shifted about the room again. There was a fire and several low-burning lamps, but the curtains were drawn. He couldn’t make out the face of the mantel clock. “What time is it?” he asked. “Is Artemis about? I seem to recall she was here…”
Horatia’s lips pulled tight. “It’s nearly half-past one in the morning,” she said. “And Artemis was here, but I’m afraid… She had to leave. Two days ago. She’s…she’s at her aunt’s house in Berkshire. Apparently, her sister needed her. I assumed the matter was urgent because she only left me a hastily scrawled note. But Nurse Quincey, who saw her briefly before she departed, mentioned that she seemed quite upset and was clearly reluctant to leave you.”
She’d been reluctant to leave him…Even so, a sliver of acute disappointment pierced Dominic’s chest at the knowledge that Artemis wasn’t actually here. “Oh…” He drew a breath. “Did she say when she’d return?”
“No.” Horatia sat on the bed next to him. “But in the days before she left, she was devoted to you. She barely left your side. She worked even harder than Nurse Quincey. Although I have wondered if something happened—something we don’t know about—and if the need to visit her sister was merely a convenient excuse.”
Dominic’s gaze met Horatia’s. Concern began to simmer in his blood. “Do you have any idea what?”
His sister shook her head. “None at all.” She sighed. “In any case, I think it might be a good idea to send word to her in the morning to let her know you’re on the mend. I’m sure she’s been worried sick, and no doubt she’ll want to return as soon as she is able.”
“Yes…” Dominic reached for the tumbler of water again. It wouldn’t do to work himself into a lather, stewing needlessly about Artemis when shewasprobably safe and sound in Berkshire with her family. There was no reason to think otherwise. Given his own recent ordeal, he supposed it was only natural that he’d jump to wild conclusions and start at shadows.
Even so, something was niggling him. Pricking and scratching like a burr in his mind. Something to do with Phoebe Jones and the night he was shot. He’d seen Artemis—made desperate love to her like it was his last night on earth. And then he’d gone looking for Gascoyne to call him to account.
To call him out.
Gascoyne. Bloody Gascoyne.
White-hot anger blazed through Dominic’s veins and his fingers tightened around the tumbler. Indeed, his hand shook so much, he splashed water onto the counterpane.
Gascoyne had called him a pathetic dog and had pulled a pistol on him. Had pressed the muzzle against his chest. They’d struggled and then…
He looked at Horatia. “Gascoyne. It was Gascoyne who tried to kill me,” he said. “I remember everything. Every last detail.”
“Oh my God.” Horatia’s face blanched. “I’ll send word to Scotland Yard immediately. I’m certain Detective Lawrence will want to speak with you as soon as possible.” Her brow dipped into a frown. “If you’re up to it, that is.”
“I am,” Dominic said grimly. Of course, he would have liked nothing more than to go and pay a visit to Gascoyne himself, right now, this minute, but he was far too weak. His limbs felt like they were weighted with lead. He could barely sit up or lift a glass to his mouth. And who knew what Gascoyne would do if confronted again. Cornered dogs did tend to go on the attack.
The man was clearly unhinged, with an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he could try to finish the job he’d started in a dark, filthy alley.
No, it would be beyond foolish to tackle Gascoyne again on his own. For now, Dominic would just have to trust in Scotland Yard and the legal system to deal with the cur effectively.
***