“Lives with her mama.”
“His half brothers?”
“Lord Randolph and Lord Christopher have separate lodgings, and Lord Godfrey still lives in Chapel Street.”
After a moment, Collier cleared his throat and carefully, somewhat diffidently, said, “I suppose, if you thought it necessary, we could send for Lord Randolph.”
Ryder’s heir. If she had Randolph summoned now . . .
Quite aside from the likelihood that Randolph would still be out on the town and wouldn’t return to his lodgings until dawn, sending for Randolph—who could in no way assist with Ryder’s survival—would be like taking the first step in acknowledging . . . something she wasn’t prepared to give credence to at all.
She drew in a breath, held it until she was sure her voice wouldn’t waver and her tone would be as authoritative as she wished. “As his lordship’s not about to die, I doubt summoning Lord Randolph will help at this point.”
Collier eased out the breath he’d been holding. “Indeed, miss. And when it comes to one helping the other, it’s usually the other way about.”
Lips lifting cynically—she could well imagine that—Mary settled on the chair.
After several minutes, Collier asked, “Will you stay, miss?” As if to excuse what was clearly a request rather than a question, he hurriedly added, “Yours was the last face he saw. Might be helpful if you’re here when he wakes.”
It was as good an excuse as any. She inclined her head. “Yes, I’ll stay. At least until the doctor arrives and gives his verdict.”
She would stay until she was convinced beyond doubt that Ryder would survive. She didn’t need to think, to consult any part of her rational mind to know that was her decision, and one from which she would not be moved.
Just the thought of him dying . . .
Quite how she imagined her presence might prevent Death from taking him wasn’t the issue; if she left and he died, she would never forgive herself.
Sounds in the corridor had her glancing around. She hadn’t truly noticed the room itself—until then she’d registered little beyond Ryder—but in instinctively surveying it in light of what she assumed was the doctor’s imminent arrival, she wasn’t surprised to discover that, while the overall decor was unquestionably masculine, it was equally undeniably sumptuous.
The velvet hangings draping the massive four-poster bed, with its elegantly turned oak posts and restrainedly carved headboard, were heavy and plush, in a shade of old gold that complemented the rich patina of the oak, both of the bed and the tallboys and chests arranged about the room. On either side of the bed, long windows were presently screened by curtains of the same gold velvet; the same fabric had been used to upholster the two straight-backed chairs and two oak-framed wing chairs.
A silk counterpane in a tapestry of golds was spread over the bed; the ivory sheets and pillowcases were of the finest linen, stark in their simplicity, yet in perfect counterpoint to the richness, the haven of sensual lushness, within which they lay.
The door opened; Mary turned her head and watched as a man—a gentleman by his dress, long, lean, with an angular face and kind, if weary, brown eyes—strode in. The black bag he carried confirmed he was the doctor. What name had Pemberly given?
The man’s eyes had instantly fixed on Ryder, so silent and still in the big bed; his steps slowing, he paused at the foot of the bed—almost as if expecting Ryder to open his eyes and make some joke—then he appeared to shake free of whatever held him and, frowning, walked swiftly around the bed to the side opposite Mary.
Setting his black bag on the bed, he met her eyes. “Good . . . ah, I believe it’s morning. I’m David Sanderson. And you are?”
“Mary Cynster.” She’d been correct in her judgment; physician he might be, but Sanderson was also a gentleman. “I saw Ryder collapse on the street outside. I went to his aid and had my people summon his.”
Sanderson blinked. Several times. But all he said was, “I see.”
He reached for the coverlet. Mary rose and helped him turn the covers down to Ryder’s waist.
Taking Ryder’s wrist between his fingers, Sanderson closed his eyes. After a moment, he murmured, “His pulse is steady, but weak.” He opened his eyes.
Mary pointed to the pad they’d bound over Ryder’s wound. “He was stabbed there. He lost a huge amount of blood.”
Sanderson humphed. Reaching up, he raised one of Ryder’s lids, examined his eye. “Has he been out to it since you found him?”
“He regained consciousness for a short time—very briefly—while we were still outside.”
Sanderson glanced at her. “Did he speak?”
She nodded. “To me.”
“And he knew you?”