Still regarding his patient, Sanderson lowered his arms. “That leaves me with my original prognoses, and I’ve told you which I strongly favor.” Sanderson turned from the bed and, smiling faintly, met Devlin’s eyes. “I’d place money on her waking later today—although possibly not before midday. More likely, she’ll sleep deeply into the afternoon.”
Devlin dragged in what felt like his first breath in hours. “And once she awakes?”
Sanderson grinned. “Knowing her, you’ll have to work to keep her resting. And she’ll be hungry, but she should only have broth to start with. Parker and your housekeeper will know what to send up for her.”
“So she should remain abed?”
“I would prefer that she rest quietly for the remainder of the day, but again, knowing Therese, I suspect that’s too much to hope for, but do your best.” Sanderson walked to the end of the bed, collected his black bag, then arched a brow at Devlin. “The children?”
“Entirely unharmed and sleeping—I hope, soundly. As Parker said, they were on the seat opposite Therese, and her being flung forward protected them. I didn’t see so much as a bruise.”
Sanderson snorted and hefted his bag. “That will make her happy.”
Devlin managed a nod; he needed some time to decide what to make of Sanderson’s predictions. He waved toward the door. “I’ll see you out.”
He rang for Parker before following Sanderson into the corridor. They passed the dresser in the gallery as she hurried to return to watching over her mistress.
Adopting his customary urbane mask, Devlin accompanied Sanderson to the front hall.
As Sanderson shrugged on his coat, he met Devlin’s gaze. “If you have any lingering concerns over Therese’s recovery, or the children’s, come to that, don’t hesitate to send for me.” He paused, then more quietly added, “Sometimes, injuries aren’t evident immediately.”
Devlin nodded.
Portland had a hackney waiting. Devlin walked with Sanderson onto the front porch. He shook the doctor’s hand and told him to send in his account. He waited on the porch and raised a hand in salute as the hackney rattled off, then turned and went inside.
He paused in the hall, trying to fix in his mind all that Sanderson had said, then with a nod to Portland, along with a recommendation that the butler should return to his bed, Devlin headed for the stairs, intending to return to Therese’s room and his vigil by her bed.
But at the foot of the stairs, he paused. For a long moment, he stared blindly before him, then he changed direction and made for his study.
Chapter 15
Fifteen minutes later, Devlin quietly opened the door of Therese’s room and walked inside.
By the wall, Parker sat rigidly upright on the straight-backed chair, her gaze locked on Therese’s still figure.
Devlin left the door ajar and walked to the side of the bed. Halting before the armchair he’d previously occupied, he confirmed that Therese hadn’t shifted so much as an eyelash since he’d left the room, then he glanced at Parker. “Go to bed, Parker. The doctor doesn’t expect her ladyship to wake this side of noon, and you’ll be no use to her if you’re exhausted. You were in the crash, too. Even if you don’t want to think it, your nerves must need a rest.” He gazed at Therese. “I’ll watch over her through the night. I’ll ring for you if she wakes.”
From the corner of his eye, he watched Parker wrestle with what was, in essence, an order, no matter how civilly couched. In the end, her training triumphed, and she rose and dipped in a curtsy. “If you’re sure, my lord?”
He nodded. He continued to study Therese’s face as Parker quietly left the room and closed the door behind her.
He held still for a moment more, then exhaled.
Then he raised his right hand, the one that, as he’d entered, Parker hadn’t been able to see and, moving to the bedside table, carefully set down the figurine he’d fetched from the safe.
Sanderson had left Therese lying on her side, the better to keep all pressure off the surely painful wound; although the lamps had again been moved away from the bed and turned low, Devlin could see every line of her face. He spent several seconds adjusting the position of the figurine so that as soon as she opened her eyes, her gaze would find it.
Or so he hoped.
The figurine was in the shape of a rearing dragon about to launch into flight. A fierce defender, just like Therese herself. He’d thought of her the instant he’d seen it, when they’d paused at the Russian jeweler’s stand on the opening day of the exhibition. He’d been intrigued that she had also been drawn to the finely worked statue. Knowing that she had been attracted to it—drawn to it, it had seemed—had made it the perfect gift for her.
Ironic that securing the perfect gift for his wife should have caused so much heartache and pain.
If he hadn’t gone to fetch it, she wouldn’t have seen him and thought…and she wouldn’t have been on the train when it crashed.
He’d debated whether to bring it there—even whether to give it to her at all. While he hoped it would stand as visual proof of his explanation of what she’d seen in Covent Garden, he worried that it might, instead, forcibly remind her of what she’d imagined and felt on seeing him go into the Russians’ lodgings.
Would she view it the way he hoped she would—as a heartfelt gift—or as a reminder of a moment of wretchedness?
