The words struck him like physical blows, even as he forced himself to maintain the calm, authoritative tone that the situation required. "I am here to help you, lad. We need to get you and your family to safety before the water rises further."
Mrs. Thornfield appeared behind her son, her face pale with exhaustion and fear. "Oh, Your Grace! We thought that is, we didn't know if anyone would come for us."
"Of course, someone came for you," he replied with more patience than he felt, acutely aware that every moment of delay increased the danger to all concerned. "Now gather whatever essential items you can carry, and we shall have you out of here directly."
The process of evacuating the family through the flooded lower level required considerable care, as the children were too small to navigate the treacherous conditions unassisted. Lucian found himself carrying young Peter, whose initial terror had given way to fascination with the rescue operation, though the boy still maintained a careful distance from Lucian's scarred profile.
"Are you really a duke?" Peter whispered as they made their way to the waiting boat. "You don't look like the dukes in my storybook."
"I am indeed a duke," Lucian replied with grim humor, "though I suspect the illustrations in your storybook are somewhat more conventional than reality would warrant."
It was during the final rescue—the most dangerous, as the Smith cottage was situated in the deepest water and strongest current—that disaster struck. The cottage had been almost completely submerged, with only the upper floor remaining above water, and the family had taken refuge in the small attic space that was rapidly becoming uninhabitable as the flood continued to rise.
Tom Smith, the family's eldest son at perhaps fourteen years of age, had apparently attempted to save some of the family's livestock from the barn and had been swept away by the current when the structure collapsed. His parents were frantic with grief and terror, begging Lucian to search for their boy even as he worked to evacuate the rest of the family to safety.
"Please, Your Grace," Mrs. Smith sobbed as he helped her into the rescue boat. "Our Tom is out there somewhere. He's a strong swimmer, but the current..."
"I will find him," Lucian promised with the sort of absolute certainty that he did not feel but that desperate situations demanded. "Get the rest of your family to safety, and I shall bring Tom back to you."
The search for young Tom proved to be the most harrowing experience of a day already filled with challenges that tested both physical capability and emotional endurance. The current was treacherous, filled with debris that could easily disable a boat or injure a swimmer, while the rising water level made it increasingly difficult to identify potential locations where the boy might have found refuge.
It was nearly two hours before Lucian spotted Tom clinging to the partially submerged branches of an ancient oak tree, barely conscious from cold and exhaustion but still alive. Therescue required swimming through water so cold that it seemed to burn his lungs with each breath, fighting a current that threatened to sweep him past his objective before he could reach the boy.
"Don't move, lad," he called out as he approached the tree, noting that Tom's grip on the branches was weakening visibly. "I'm going to get you out of there."
Tom's eyes widened in terror as Lucian's scarred face became visible through the murky water, the boy's exhausted mind clearly struggling to process whether this apparition represented salvation or some new threat. "You're the Duke," he whispered through chattering teeth.
"I am. And I'm here to take you home to your parents."
The swim back to the boat, supporting Tom's barely conscious form while fighting the current that seemed determined to claim them both, was one of the most physically demanding challenges Lucian had faced since his recovery from his war wounds. His injured leg cramped repeatedly, threatening to disable him entirely, while his damaged arm struggled to maintain the strength necessary to keep both their heads above water.
By the time they reached the boat, both were in a state of near collapse, though Tom had regained sufficient consciousness to cling to Lucian with the desperate gratitude of someone who had accepted his own death only to find himself unexpectedly reprieved.
"Thank you," the boy whispered as they were hauled into the boat by the other rescuers. "Thank you, Your Grace."
It was only after Tom had been reunited with his frantic family and initial medical attention had been provided that Lucian learned of the catastrophe that had occurred in his absence. Thompson approached him with the sort of careful diffidence that suggested he bore news of uncertain reception.
"Your Grace, there's been an incident. Her Grace has been working with the relief efforts in the village, but she has collapsed from exhaustion. Mr. Brookes is attending her now at the inn."
The words struck Lucian with such force that for a moment he could not process their meaning. Evangeline—his stubborn, magnificent, impossibly brave wife—had not only defied his explicit orders but had apparently pushed herself to the point of physical collapse in service of his tenants.
"Collapsed?" His voice emerged as barely more than a whisper, though something in his tone made every man within hearing distance step back involuntarily. "What do you mean, collapsed?"
"She was organizing relief efforts, Your Grace, coordinating supplies and medical attention for the rescued families. She has been working without rest since early morning, refusing to take any break or refreshment. Suddenly, she just fell over. One moment she was directing the arrangement of sleeping quarters, the next she was on the floor."
The rage that filled Lucian was unlike anything he had experienced since the darkest days of his recovery from his war injuries. It was a fury so pure and consuming that it threatened to overwhelm all rational thought, directed not at Evangeline for her defiance but at every person who had allowed her to push herself to such extremes without intervention.
"And none of you thought to prevent her from exhausting herself to the point of collapse?" he demanded with deadly quiet that made several of the assembled men pale visibly. "None of you possessed sufficient initiative to ensure that the Duchess of Ravenshollow received appropriate care and attention while performing her duties for you?"
"We tried, Your Grace," ventured one of the stable hands with obvious terror. "Her Grace wouldn't listen to suggestionsthat she rest. She said there was too much work to be done, too many people in need of assistance."
"Then you should have applied to Mrs. Cromwell, or Higgins, or any of the senior staff who possess the authority to manage such situations. You should have ensured that someone with adequate judgment was monitoring her condition and preventing precisely this outcome."
His voice had risen to the sort of commanding roar that had once rallied troops under fire, and he was dimly aware that he was being unreasonable in his fury. Yet the thought of Evangeline lying unconscious, having literally worked herself into collapse for the sake of his tenants, filled him with such anguish that rational consideration of blame seemed irrelevant.
"Where is she now?" he demanded, already moving toward the inn with the sort of purposeful stride that suggested he would tolerate no delay or obstruction.
"Mr. Brookes has her in the best chamber, Your Grace. He said she needed complete rest and quiet to recover from the exhaustion."
