Read My Favorite Countess Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
My Favorite Countess (36 page)
Bathsheba looked stricken. “It's true, John. One of the babies is lodged against her pelvis. Mrs. Griffiths thinks you're the only one who can save them.”
John cursed as frustration sliced through him. He'd been certain Lady Silverton wouldn't give birth for at least three more weeks. Once again he'd misjudged, letting his own life get in the way of his patient's well-being, just as he had all those years ago with Becky.
“I'll get my bag. You can tell me the details on the way to the carriage.”
He charged back into the room and gathered his instruments. Bathsheba hovered in the doorway, looking anxious, while Stanton peered over her shoulder.
“Lady RanâBathsheba,” Stanton said in a ridiculously loud stage whisper. “Are you sure Dr. Blackmore's up to this? He looks like the very devil.”
“Oh, do shut up, Robert,” Bathsheba replied. “He's the best doctor in the city.”
Stanton looked mortally offended, but John couldn't hold back a grudging laugh.
“He's right, Bathsheba. I do look like the devil, which I have you partly to thank for.”
She starched right up, ready to argue, but he cut her off.
“Enough,” he said. “We'll have plenty of time to fight later.”
Dick Repton, Sarah's father, had been watching their little scene play out with a lively interest. He finally took his pipe from between his lips to speak.
“Anything I can do to help, Doc? Like throw that young pup out on his ear?”
“That won't be necessary, Mr. Repton. Just keep a close eye on Sarah and the baby. I'll be back tomorrow.”
John closed his bag and headed for the door, grabbing Bathsheba as he went. After giving Dick Repton a scowl, Stanton followed them, grumbling under his breath.
They hurried down the hallway and out into the courtyard. The rain still teemed, and they had to splash their way through puddles as deep as their ankles. John cast a worried look at Bathsheba, but he had to hope she was strong enough to fight off any ill effects of the dank night. Regardless, he'd deal with that later. Lady Silverton must come first.
He raised his voice over a rumble of thunder. “How long has her ladyship been in labor?”
Bathsheba held onto his arm as she hurried to keep up. “I've been with herâ”
She broke off and gave a strangled shriek as something jerked her backward and away from him.
John spun around and his heart seized. O'Neill had appeared out of nowhere, his rage-distorted features illuminated by a flash of lightning. He clutched Bathsheba tight against his body, one massive arm clamped across her chest.
And he pointed a pistol at her temple.
John froze. If she moved even a fraction, the pistol could go off and blow her skull to pieces. She stared back at him with huge eyes, her face pulled tight with fear.
Stanton slid to a halt off to the side. “Who the hell is he?” he yelped.
John laid a restraining hand on his arm, but Stanton shook it off.
“Look here, fellow,” he said to O'Neill in a sharp voice, “if it's money you're after, I'll give you my purse. Let the lady go and we'll be on our way.”
O'Neill slowly backed into the courtyard, dragging Bathsheba with him. She said not a word, only staring at John with a pleading look on her face. His soul wrenched with anguish, but he pushed down the fear that threatened to choke him. If O'Neill saw how much she meant to him, Bathsheba would be done for.
“Let her go, O'Neill,” he said. “She means nothing to you. It's me you want.”
Robert bit back an oath, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut.
“Aye, Doctor,” the big man growled. “I want you dead. I've been following you, biding my time. I was going to kill you tonight, but when I spied your doxy here, I got me a better idea.”
John's heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest. “She means nothing to me,” he managed in a calm voice. “She was just delivering a message.”
O'Neill pulled back his lips in a travesty of a grin and nudged the pistol against Bathsheba's head. Her eyes opened even wider, but she didn't make a sound.
The Irishman laughedâan ugly, echoing sound that rang off the walls of the tenements. “You won't bamboozle me anymore. You killed Mary and my boy, and now I'll have my revenge.”
John opened his hands wide and took a step forward. O'Neill jerked back, hauling Bathsheba to the center of the courtyard.
“You've already had your revenge, O'Neill. I've lost everythingâmy position at the hospital, and my practice. I'll be leaving London in a few days, completely ruined. Isn't that enough for you?”
“No! It's not enough,” O'Neill snarled. “Fool I was to listen to that bloody cove in the first place . . . the one that told me to swear out that bleedin' complaint. You toffs never get what you deserve. It's only the likes of me that swing from the end of a rope.”
John frowned. “What cove? What are you talking about?”
“Steele, his name was. He saw me at the hospital, with that other oneâthe old doctor who runs the place.”
“Steele saw you with Abernethy?” John asked, hardly able to take it in.
“Aye, that's him. Steele came after me that day and told me to go to the magistrate. Said you would hang for killing Mary.” O'Neill turned his head and spat. “Shoulda known better than to trust an Englishman.”
Rage burned in John's gut, but he thrust it aside. He couldn't afford to be distracted by Steele's calumny.
“I understand your need for revenge,” he said. “I'm willing to do whatever you want, O'Neill. Just let the woman go.”
Out of the corner of his eye, John caught young Stanton slowly inching along a wall, moving behind O'Neill. Fortunately, the other man was too focused on John to notice the movement.
“See, now, that's the beauty of it.” O'Neill sneered. “I'll have my revenge. I'll kill your lady, like you killed mine. And you'll spend the rest of your life knowin' she died because of you.”
John inhaled a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to lunge at O'Neill, but that would surely mean death for Bathsheba.
“No,” he finally said. “I can't let you do that.” He took another step forward. As he'd hoped, O'Neill swung the pistol away from Bathsheba and pointed it straight at him.
“John, don't,” she shrieked. “Meredith needs you. Just go to her!”
“Shut your gob,” O'Neill snarled as he crushed his arm into her chest. She gasped in pain, and John again had to beat back the urge to fling himself at O'Neill.
“It's all right, Bathsheba,” he said. “I'm not leaving you. I won't ever leave you.”
By now, Stanton had circled behind O'Neill. He crouched down and stealthily picked up a rock.
“John, don't be a foolâ” Bathsheba choked out. But her voice died as he gazed at her face. A silent moment of communication passed between them. Her trembling mouth firmed with determination.
“I won't let you kill her,” John said, taking another step forward. “And you're not going to kill me, either.”
O'Neill practically frothed at the mouth, maddened with rage. “No? Just watch me.”
He cocked the pistol and John launched himself through the air. At the same time, Bathsheba jostled O'Neill's arm with her free hand.
The pistol discharged and the shot rang off the pavement as John barreled into the Irishman, knocking them all to the ground in a heap. As he wrestled with O'Neill, the two of them slipping about in the mud, he felt rather than saw Stanton pull Bathsheba to safety.
O'Neill roared out an oath and swung a massive fist at John's chin. John jerked his head away, but the heavy blow landed on his shoulder. Pain blurred his vision, but he shook it off and wrapped his hands around O'Neill's skull, banging it into the pavement.
The crazed man barely seemed to register the blow. After a short, desperate struggle, John found himself on his back with O'Neill's crushing weight on top of him. Beefy fingers clawed at his throat, trying to find purchase. John wedged a hand under O'Neill's chin, shoving with all his might, but the man didn't budge.
Suddenly, he heard a sickening thud. O'Neill stared down at him, his pupils dilating in shock. A moment later, his eyes rolled in his head and he collapsed, half on John's body and half on the water-slicked, broken pavement.
John heaved O'Neill's body aside. Gasping for breath, he looked up and met Bathsheba's gaze. She stood over him with a rock clutched in both hands.
“John, are you all right?” she exclaimed in a shrill voice.
He took a deep breath and sat up, resting his forehead on his knees for just a moment. Then he looked at her and smiled.
“Yes, my love. Thanks to you.”
She dropped the rock and reached a hand down to him.
“Please get out of the mud, John,” she said, snuffling back tears. “I can't hug you if you're lying down there. I'm dirty enough as it is.”
He gave a weary laugh and scrambled to his feet. As soon as he was up, she launched herself at him, curling around him in a fierce hug. Her body trembled in his arms.
“Shh . . . everything's fine,” he murmured as he wrapped her in a tight embrace. She had almost died because of him, but her courage had saved them both. Bathsheba didn't know it yet, but he intended to spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
If only he could convince her to give him a chance.
The sound of running footsteps cut through the pounding rain. Dick Repton and several men from the tenement raced toward them.
Repton peered down at O'Neill's body and whistled. “Sweet Jesus, what the hell is this? We heard a pistol go off, and we come running. You all right, Doc?”
Young Stanton loomed out of the darkness. “This ruffian tried to kill the doctor, but we managed to incapacitate him.”
Bathsheba shifted in John's arms and glared at the young man.
“Well,” he amended. “Lady Randolph managed to incapacitate him.”
“That's better,” she grumbled.
“Mr. Repton,” said John. “I have a patient who urgently needs me. Can I ask you to send someone to Bow Street to fetch the Runners, and then keep an eye on this man until help comes? Mr. Stanton will stay behind to explain matters to the magistrate.”
“Me?” Stanton protested. “I haven't a bloody clue what's going on.”
“Robert, someone has to deal with this while John sees to Meredith,” Bathsheba said testily. “I'll explain the situation to your grandfather and send him to Bow Street as soon as we get back to Silverton House.”
“Very well.” Robert sighed. “But I'll want a full explanation later, mind you. It's not every day a fellow gets set upon by a madman.”
“Not to worry,” Repton said to John. “We'll take care of it, guv. And I'll see to it myself that the young lad gets safely back home.”
John gave him a grateful nod, then looked down at Bathsheba. “Ready?” he asked.
She pulled out of his arms and headed at a brisk pace across the courtyard. “Come along, John,” she tossed back over her shoulder. “We haven't a moment to waste.”
Chapter 28
Bathsheba and John dashed up the steps to Silverton House. At their knock, the door flew open. Wig askew, a frazzled-looking footman waved them into the entrance hall. Servants clustered at the foot of the marble staircase. Dread shimmered in the air, a palpable, sickening presence.
A cry, loud and long enough to raise prickles on Bathsheba's nape, drifted down from the family apartments. One of the servants, a sturdy-looking older woman, burst into noisy tears and threw her apron over her head.
Astoundingly, John smiled at Bathsheba. “That's a good sign. It means Lady Silverton still has the strength to push.”
Before she could answer him, the doors to the drawing room crashed open and General Stanton stalked out, followed by his wife.
“What's going on out here?” he barked at the servants. “Don't you have anything better to do than stand around like a bunch of old women? Return to your duties.”
Despite his harsh tone, the general gave the butler a kind pat on the shoulder, while Lady Stanton spoke soothingly to the woman with the apron. In a few moments, order was restored and most of the servants returned below stairs.
The general transferred his hawklike gaze to them. “I see you're finally back,” he said to Bathsheba. “Took you long enough, young lady. And who is this disreputable-looking character you brought with you? Not the doctor! Surely you can't think I would let him lay a finger on my niece!”
Bathsheba yanked off her sodden bonnet and shoved it at a waiting footman.
“Really, General,” she snapped, having run through her limited store of patience. “You're as bad as Robert. This is Dr. Blackmore. He's dirty because . . . oh, I'll explain in a minute.”
She turned her attention to John, who was struggling out of his wet coat with the help of the butler.
“Why don't you go straight upstairs,” she said. “I'll tell the general about Robert and then come right up.”
He nodded and headed for the stairs.
“What about my grandson?” the general exclaimed as Lady Stanton anxiously clutched his arm. “Has something happened to him?”
Bathsheba silently cursed her hasty tongue. “Robert is fine, I assure you. Please step into the drawing room and I'll tell you everything that's happened.”
Minutes later, the general had stomped out the front door on his way to Bow Street and Bathsheba was racing upstairs. As she hurried down the hallway to Meredith's bedroom, she began to pray. She hadn't prayed in a long time and had almost forgotten how, but she couldn't stand the thought of Meredith or her babies dying. Bathsheba would have bargained with old Scratch himself, if she thought it would make a difference.
She crossed through the bedroom to the dressing room, steeling herself for what might lay on the other side of the door. With a trembling hand, she twisted the doorknob and stepped inside.
Into the quietest room in the house. Bathsheba blinked to see Meredith sitting on the edge of her low bed, sipping . . . a glass of brandy? Next to her, Silverton rubbed her back, and Annabel had just opened a window to let in the fresh air of the rain-swept night. Mrs. Griffiths stood in front of an armoire, laying out John's medical instruments on a clean piece of toweling.
“There you are, Lady Randolph.”
Bathsheba whirled around at the sound of John's voice. He stood in front of a washbasin, drying his hands and arms. He'd stripped down to his shirtsleeves, and his hair was mussed where he'd obviously run a towel through it to soak up the wet.
She hurried to him. “What's going on in here? Is Meredith drinking brandy? Why is she out of bed?”
“Brandy calms the nerves and eases the pain, and sometimes moving about helps, too.”
Even though John appeared completely at ease, she couldn't miss the grim expression in his eyes. Her heart sank.
“Is she going to be all right?” she whispered.
He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I think so, but it's a good thing you came for me when you did,” he said in a quiet voice. “You most certainly saved her life.”
Throwing the towel aside, he strode to the bed. Gently, he removed the tumbler from Meredith's hand.
“Are you ready, my lady?”
The marchioness lifted her head, and Bathsheba had to swallow a gasp of dismay. Meredith's pallor was a sickly gray, and her eyes were dulled and sunken with pain. For a horrible moment, it seemed it might be too late, after all.
Bathsheba desperately locked her gaze on John, and the tightness gripping her throat began to ease. He looked confident and calm, ready to take on the worldâa miracle after that scene in St. Giles. She had always known him to be a good and kind man, but tonight she realized how truly extraordinary he was. He held deep reserves of character and strength, and unflagging courage.
And this extraordinary man had decided she was the woman for him. That was another miracle, one she didn't deserve.
Her heart aching with love, she watched John help Meredith swing her feet up onto the bed.
“I had better be ready, hadn't I,” replied the marchioness in a weak voice. “It's not like I have a choice. I don't mean to complain, but I'm so tired.”
“I know,” John replied. “But you're strong. We'll get through this together.” He bent over and gazed into her eyes, silver meeting silver. “You must trust me, my lady. You have nothing to fear. I promise.”
Slowly, Meredith's lips curved into an answering smile. Tension seemed to flow from her body and dissipate on the cool evening breeze.
“Yes,” she replied in a clear voice. “I do trust you.”
“Good. Lord Silverton,” directed John, “would you please sit on the bed behind her ladyship? She'll be more comfortable if she can lean against you.”
Silverton knelt on the bed and tenderly eased Meredith back against his chest, while John stationed himself at the foot, perching on a low stool.
“Ah, the head is lodged, all right,” he said, after examining her. “I'll wager that's your son who doesn't want to come out, my lady. What a stubborn little fellow he is.”
Meredith's smile was more like a grimace. “Well, tell him he doesn't have a choice.”
John nodded but didn't answer, his brow knit in concentration. “Mrs. Griffiths, please hand me the forceps.”
Bathsheba wandered over to stand next to Mrs. Griffiths, feeling helpless, frustrated, and scared to death. All she could do was pray. She repeated the same prayer over and overâa desperate, incoherent plea for mercy.
John glanced up at Meredith. “You'll feel pressure and pain, but you must not push until I tell you to.”
The marchioness drew in a trembling breath, preparing herself. Silverton wrapped his arms about her, murmuring soothing words of love in her ear. Suddenly, Meredith gasped and bit her lip, going rigid in her husband's arms.
“Hang on,” John breathed. “Hang on . . . now, push!”
Meredith bore down, her face screwing up and turning crimson with the effort. A low moan surged from the back of her throat and built into a scream.
“I've got him,” John exclaimed, and a moment later he was easing a messy baby onto the sheets. Meredith collapsed against Silverton, panting and drenched with sweat.
“The baby, is he . . . ?” Silverton asked in a hoarse voice.
John cleaned out the infant's mouth and nostrils and rubbed his little chest. A moment later, a thin wail filled the room.
“Very much so,” John said with a grin. “Now, let's get that other baby out.”
He handed the boy to Mrs. Griffiths, who bustled off to clean and swaddle him. A few minutes later, with surprisingly little fuss, an infant girl, pink and round as a berry, entered the world.
Bathsheba sniffed, wiping away the tears she had just realized were drenching her cheeks. Meredith fell back into her husband's arms, sobbing openly with joy and relief. Annabel, who had been silently gripping her sister's hand throughout the entire ordeal, bent her head, her slender shoulders heaving with silent tears.
“Well done, Lady Silverton,” John exclaimed as he inspected the mewling baby girl. “You have two beautiful children, and they look healthy to me.” He turned and nodded to Mrs. Griffiths. “Griff, please give the boy to Lady Randolph, and take this little one while I attend to her ladyship.”
With trepidation and wonder, Bathsheba carefully took the boy in her arms. She hadn't held a baby since Rachel was an infant but, somehow, it seemed as natural as breathing. He had a squished little face and a sweet, grumpy frown, and her heart melted as she cradled the sturdy bundle in her arms. When he opened his tiny mouth and yawned, joy filled her chest and she broke into laughter.
John looked up for a moment and smiled, then returned to his work.
Mrs. Griffiths gave the baby girl to her aunt Annabel, and bustled over to help John clean up and organize the bed. A few minutes later, Meredith, dressed in a clean nightgown, was reclining comfortably on fresh sheets. She looked exhausted, but the pink had returned to her cheeks. With a radiant smile, she held out her arms to Annabel, who carefully placed the baby girl in her mother's arms.
With a nod from John, Bathsheba approached the bed.
“Your son, Lord Silverton,” she said as she gently transferred the baby to his father's arms. Silverton gazed at the bundle with a bemused expression on his face, but when the mite blew out an air bubble, he gave a soft laugh.
He looked at John, his eyes glittering with unshed tears.
“Thank you, Dr. Blackmore,” he said, “for saving my family. I can never repay you.”
“I was happy to be of assistance, my lord. Your lady's safety is payment enough.”
Silverton gave him a solemn nod. Then he cradled the baby in one arm and seized Bathsheba's hand.
“And you, Lady Randolph.” His voice grew hoarse, and he paused. “I . . . thank you,” he finished.
She squeezed his hand. “Call me Bathsheba, please. And I was happy to help.”
“I think Lord and Lady Silverton might like a few moments alone with their children,” John said as he turned down his shirtsleeves. He smiled at the couple, already lost in love with their new babies. “I'll return in a few minutes to check on you.”
“Heavens, yes,” cried Annabel, leaping up. “I must go tell Grandmama. How could I have forgotten to do that?” She dashed out of the room in a flurry of skirts.
John waited at the door for Bathsheba. She walked through, suddenly feeling crushed with weariness, and shaking from the accumulated stresses of the harrowing day. She stumbled to a well-padded chair placed against the wall and collapsed onto it. John didn't even bother to make it to one of the chairs a few feet away. He just set his back to the wall and slid down to the floor next to her.
“Good God,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is a day I would be thrilled to forget.”
Then he looked up at her, his tired, bloodshot eyes filling with a slow heat. “Well,” he amended. “Perhaps not all of it.”
The warmth in his eyes flooded every inch of Bathsheba's body. Suddenly, she didn't feel nearly so tired. She reached out and stroked his damp, tumbled hair.
“You were magnificent, John. We would have been lost without you.”
He took her hand and turned it over, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Her pulse jumped, and tingles shot along her nerves and flowed through her veins.
John's eyes, no longer weary, shone clear and silver bright with emotion. “And you were beyond magnificent, my love. You were willing to risk everything for me. I will never forget how you told me to leave youâto save Lady Silverton instead of yourself.”
Bathsheba swallowed a sudden rush of nausea. Reliving that awful moment made her light-headed. “I can't believe I did that. I must have been out of my mind.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed, rubbing her hand against his rough, bristled cheek. “You're the bravest woman I know.”
“I'm not brave. I'm a coward of the worst order. And a fool. I want to lock myself in a closet every time I think of the things I said to you that day in your study. Can you ever forgive me?”
In a fluid movement, he rose to his feet. She made to get up, but he surprised her by going down on one knee in front of her chair. Her heart began to flutter in the most ridiculous, girlish fashion.
He studied her with a grave expression on his lean, aristocratic features, but a hint of mischief lurked in his gaze.
“I would consider forgiving you, my lady, under one condition.”
“And what is that, Dr. Blackmore?” she said pertly, just to show him that she wouldn't melt at his feet like some foolish miss.
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