The Serpent and the Scorpion (33 page)

Ursula continued to stare at her wrists.

She thought, If he is dead, then I am dead.

Harrison appeared at the end of the hallway.

“Any news?”

Ursula shook her head.

Harrison ran his fingers through his hair.

Ursula closed her eyes to quell the nausea that rose in her throat. She couldn’t get the words out of her mind. They simply repeated over and over again, like a gramophone record that could not be turned off.
If he’s dead . . . then I am dead.

“Miss Marlow, I should never have left you there, at the farmhouse. Dobbs’s men must have followed us. I should have been more careful. We were lucky on one count, though. They were so distracted with you that my men managed to get that man Baruh out—one saving grace in all of this, I guess.”

It was the closest Ursula had heard Harrison come to an apology. But she was in no mood to care.

The billiards room door swung open, and Sir Thomas Reeve, surgeon to the late King Edward himself, walked though. Dressed somberly in a black frock coat and gray trousers, he had looked more like an undertaker than a physician when he first arrived. Now, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hands and shirt stained with blood, he looked like a butcher. One of the police constables carried over a basin of water, and the surgeon proceeded to clean his hands and towel them dry. The water in the basin went blood red.

The surgeon then wiped his glasses with a white handkerchief he pulled from his trouser pocket.

“I removed the bullet from His Lordship’s chest,” he calmly informed them. “But the bleeding was extensive. I did everything that I could—”

Ursula held her head in her hands.

“But we were lucky; the bullet didn’t perforate any major organs. As I said, the main concern was blood loss, but I’ve cauterized the wound successfully. Barring infection, he should survive.”

“Thank God,” Ursula whispered.

Harrison went over and shook the surgeon’s hand warmly. “I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say how grateful we are.”

“Well, as a good friend of Lord Wrotham’s for nearly ten years—we met at Eton, don’t y’know—I’m as relieved as you. Who else would I dine with in London? I can’t stand anyone else at the Carlton Club.” With a wink, the surgeon walked past.

“Can I go in and see him?” Ursula inquired as he passed.

The surgeon stopped, pulled out his fob watch, and flipped it open. “You’ll have to wait. He could be unconscious for a while, and I’ve made arrangements for him to be transported to a private hospital near Southampton. An ambulance should be here within the hour. You can certainly visit him there. But just so you know, I am recommending that he return to Bromley Hall as soon as practicable. Nothing is more likely to guarantee an infection than a prolonged stay in the hospital! I must warn you—even at the hospital, I recommend no more than one or two visitors at a time.”

Chief Inspector Harrison nodded.

“And on no account let his mother in.”

 
“Ursula . . .” Winifred shook her elbow. “Sully . . .”

Ursula was slumped across Lord Wrotham’s hospital bed, her hand still holding his. Her dark auburn hair was tangled and loose, and the top buttons of her dress were undone. Since she had refused to leave Lord Wrotham’s side, Harrison had asked one of the nurses to arrange for someone to give her a dress to wear. She could hardly remain in his hospital room wearing nothing more than Harrison’s coat and her undergarments.

“Wake up, Sully.” Winifred tried to wake her once more.

Ursula started to stir.

“Come on.” Winifred tried to lift her up.

“What are you doing?” Ursula asked groggily.

“I’m taking you home.”

“No.” Ursula pulled away.

“You need to rest, Sully. You’ve been here all night.”

“I have to stay.”

Winifred dragged Ursula to her feet. “I’ve come all the way from London, and believe me when I say I’m in no mood to argue. They’re planning on taking him to Bromley Hall tonight, now that he is stable.”

Ursula regarded her friend blankly. She felt as though she were surfacing from a dark, deep lake. Her limbs felt heavy and cold, even as she felt the reassuring warmth of Winifred’s arm around her.

“I’m taking you home now,” Winifred said. “Look, you can hardly even stand!”

“I need to be here when he wakes,” Ursula insisted.

“It’s all arranged,” Winifred continued firmly. “We’re on the ten o’clock train. Samuels will be waiting for us at Waterloo station. Mrs. Stewart and Julia have been running round getting everything prepared. They’re all concerned for you, Sully, as am I.”

Ursula had opened her mouth to argue when Lord Wrotham’s eyelids flickered, and he groaned.

“I’ll go tell Matron he’s coming to,” Winifred said quickly, and with one glance at Ursula’s face, she hastened out of the room.

Ursula sat back down on the hard wooden chair by the bed and reached over to take Lord Wrotham’s hand in hers. She squeezed it gently.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m here.”

He opened his eyes, and for a moment he was disoriented.

“Ursula?” he croaked. She grabbed the glass of water and brought it to his lips. He struggled to sit up.

“Don’t try and sit up yet,” Ursula said. “You’re still too weak.”

“What happened?” he asked groggily.

“You were shot.” she replied.

“That part I remember,” he replied, still struggling to sit up. “But where am I now?”

“Southampton private hospital,” Ursula replied, propping him up gently against the pillows. “They plan on moving you to Bromley Hall tonight.”

Lord Wrotham lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

“Are you in any pain? Freddie’s gone to tell Matron you’re awake, so she should be here soon.”

“I’m fine,” he responded. “But what about Dobbs and Whittaker? What happened?”

“Whittaker is dead,” Ursula said somberly. “Dobbs is recovering from surgery, but he may still lose his leg. They have him under guard at another hospital, and they took Harsha into custody.”

“When Vilensky appeared at my door with the letter that afternoon, I feared the worst.”

“I know.” Ursula patted his hand. “Good thing the mail service is so efficient. I never thought I’d be so grateful for multiple deliveries in one day. But truly, you needn’t worry. I’m fine. . . .”

Lord Wrotham closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes,” he muttered. “I’m sure you are.” Ursula frowned, for his tone was curiously bitter.

Ursula held his hand tightly, but he pulled away. “What is it?” she asked, aware that his demeanor had suddenly altered, as if something had occurred to him now that made him question something significant, something he held most dear.

“You should go,” he said coldly.

“No,” she responded. “I want to stay. I want to be here with you.”

“Go.”

“But I don’t understand.” Ursula said. “Why don’t you want me to stay?”

“Because it only makes matters worse. I don’t need you to be my nurse.” His voice went cold. “And I don’t want your pity. I can’t have you here, knowing that as soon as this crisis has passed, it will be back to the way it was before. You pushing me away, then drawing me back in. I cannot love you under those conditions. Alexei may be able to. Who knows, maybe you still care for him more than me.”

Ursula remembered that ill-fated kiss in the doorway and opened her mouth to explain.

“Go now,” Lord Wrotham interrupted her harshly. “Save us the pain of going through all that again.”

Lord Wrotham turned away.

“But . . . I . . .” Ursula choked on her words. There was a note of finality in his voice that filled her with anguish.

His back to her, Lord Wrotham remained silent.

Ursula’s throat tightened. She had to take small shallow breaths as she stumbled to her feet blindly and grasped the edge of the wooden chair to steady herself.

“I think it’s best if we give the patient a little peace and quiet now!” Matron instructed Ursula as she bustled through the door in her starched white dress and cap. Ursula had to step aside as Matron passed. She retreated through the doorway, her thoughts in turmoil. She had to try and pull herself together and convince him that she must stay.

Ursula stood outside in the corridor for a moment, trying to catch her breath. Her throat was so constricted now, she found she had to gasp for air. She could hear the dull roar of the wind as it struck the windowpanes, the scrape of the chair against the linoleum floor, and then the ominous silence of the hospital corridor. Ursula searched for a sign that Winifred was returning, but the doors at the end of the corridor opened instead, and Ursula saw the image of Lady Winterton, dressed in a jaunty red hat and cape, approaching her.

“Lady Winterton?” Ursula said dazed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Lady Winterton seemed taken aback for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I understood you were heading back to London this morning.”

“I am . . . at least, that’s what Freddie . . . I’m sorry, I don’t understand, why are you here?”

“My family’s country estate isn’t too far from here, and when I heard that Lord Wrotham had been taken in, I thought I ought to visit.”

Ursula bit her tongue.

“Can you tell me what happened? No one seems too sure,” Lady Winterton continued. She dusted off the sleeve of her cape.

“I . . .” Ursula wasn’t sure what to say.

“A riding accident, I believe.” Winifred’s voice boomed down the corridor. She came from behind and squeezed Ursula’s arm. “That’s what we’ve been told.”

“Ah, Miss Stanford-Jones. My apologies. I really did think you and Miss Marlow were on your way back to London.”

“We are,” Winifred answered smoothly.

Matron stalked into the corridor. “Quiet!” she said sharply. “The poor man needs rest, not the constant chatter of ladies who have nothing better to do!”

Ursula flushed darkly, but Lady Winterton merely arched one eyebrow and took the comment in her stride.

“Of course, Matron,” she replied smoothly. “But tell me, how is the patient doing after his fall?”

Matron’s eyes narrowed and Ursula guessed that she had been specifically instructed not to divulge the nature of Lord Wrotham’s wounds to anyone.

“He’ll live,” came her curt reply. “But only if he is left in peace.”

“Sully,”—Winifred put a hand on Ursula’s arm—“we really should be getting to the station,”

Exhaustion had clouded Ursula’s mind. She felt woolly-headed and slow to react. Standing there in her immaculate suit, with her basket of provisions, Lady Winterton presented a picture of all that a man of Lord Wrotham’s stature would want in a wife. Ursula acknowledged for the first time to herself what an embarrassment she must be to him. Since her father’s death, she had brought him nothing but scandal and disrepute.

“Miss Marlow, are you all right?” Matron asked, her grim countenance softening.

Ursula stared at her blankly without answering.

“Are you staying?” Lady Winterton asked, an impatient edge in her tone.

Winifred urged her to come home, and Ursula acquiesced numbly. She let Winifred take her arm and lead her down the corridor, concentrating all the while on simply placing one foot in front of the other as she tried to regain her self-control.

Once they were outside, Winifred turned to Ursula. She was about to speak when she encountered Ursula’s gaze.

“Sully . . . what on earth is the matter?” Winifred gripped her arm. “What happened?” she asked.

“Oh, Freddie,” Ursula replied, and looked at her friend with hollow eyes. “I think I’ve lost him for good this time.”

 
“Alexei’s gone,” Winifred said gently. “Just so you know.”

She had accompanied Ursula to Southampton station, and they were both standing on the platform, waiting for the London train. Ursula was still dazed by what had happened at the hospital, and Winifred seemed determined to divert her attention by informing her what had happened the morning following her disappearance.

“I arrived yesterday morning at around eight, after spending the night at one of our sister’s houses in Kensington. I was worried when I hadn’t heard from you that morning. Alexei was gone, but he had left a note for me. At first I didn’t know what to make of it, until I received a telephone call from Chief Inspector Harrison. Alexei’s note simply said, ‘Gone to Shrewsbury Grange.’ I guess that was his pathetic attempt to salve his conscience.” Ursula gave no indication of having heard her. “We should be grateful,” Winifred continued, “that Lord Wrotham knew from Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith about Dobbs’s recent real estate acquisition. Seems she may be useful for something after all.”

“Alexei’s gone?” Ursula asked numbly.

“I overheard Harrison talking with one of his men while you were with Lord Wrotham. Something about his evading surveillance. We can only hope Okhrana catches up with him.”

Part Four

England

Twenty-four

London
AUGUST 1912

 
A month later, as the summer dragged into August without a sign that the wet weather would end, Ursula attended one of the last events of the London season, a garden party at Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s. This year she had missed Royal Ascot, avoided the Eton and Harrow cricket match, and refused countless invitations to the balls and parties that punctuated the season like exclamation marks. She had been too preoccupied with recent events and too uneasy about the fate of her father’s empire to care up until now. But the thought of an autumn spent without Lord Wrotham had started to wear her down. She had heard nothing from him since leaving the private hospital in Southampton. Many other people chose to keep her abreast of all developments, of course—Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith being one of the worst offenders. With every telephone call, handwritten note, and invitation she sent, she continued to remind Ursula of what she had lost.