“He Has Hours Left,” the Doctor Said—Then Everyone Abandoned the Dying Duke, Unaware a Stranger Had Found Proof His Crash Was Deliberate
Chapter 1
Edmund Blackwood, Duke of Blackmere, would remember the sound of horses leaving for the rest of his life.
He lay helpless on a makeshift bed in a stranger’s kitchen, his thigh broken in two places, his vision fading at the edges.
Rain struck the windows.
His family stood nearby.
And a doctor was calmly explaining why he probably wouldn’t survive.
“There’s already serious damage around the wound,” Dr. Nathaniel Crowe said. “Moving him would be dangerous. Keeping him here isn’t much better.”
Edmund tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
The pain had made his entire body feel distant.
“How long?” someone asked.
“Twelve hours,” the doctor replied. “Perhaps fifteen if he’s fortunate.”
A basin struck the brick floor.
A woman’s voice immediately followed.
“You’ve taken long enough to say you don’t know.”
Edmund recognized her.
Clara Hollis.
The daughter of the blind man who owned the isolated house where his carriage had crashed.
He had never met her before.
“Miss Hollis,” Sir Reginald Ashcombe said coldly, “you will not address Lady Vivienne in that tone.”
“I wasn’t addressing Lady Vivienne.”
Her voice remained calm.
“I was addressing you.”
Then Vivienne approached Edmund.
Her voice became soft.
Almost loving.
“Edmund, we’re going to find proper medical help. A surgeon. A proper bed. Don’t be frightened.”
He knew she was lying.
Even half-conscious, he understood.
The nearest surgeon was nowhere near this house.
And Heatheridge was in the opposite direction from where they had originally been traveling.
He tried to move his head.
“Vivienne…”
No sound came.
Dr. Crowe glanced down.
“He cannot hear you.”
Vivienne answered without hesitation.
“Then it doesn’t matter what I say.”
Her footsteps moved away.
Sir Reginald spoke next.
“Miss Hollis, do what you can.”
He paused.
“If he survives, send word to Blackmere.”
Another pause.
“If he doesn’t, contact the coroner at Heatheridge.”
Clara didn’t answer.
Sir Reginald continued in a strangely pleasant voice.
“You should also have someone else in the house when he dies. When a wealthy gentleman dies alone, people become curious about what he was given.”
Clara finally replied.
“He has no money on him.”
“It went into the river with the carriage.”
“Then that will be another question they ask.”
The door opened.
Cold rain swept into the kitchen.
Edmund heard boots.
Then horses.
Vivienne laughed softly at something someone said outside.
The animals began moving.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
Until the sound disappeared into the rain.
Edmund lay motionless.
They had left him.
His own family had decided he was already dead.
Then another voice came from beside the fire.
“They’ll send someone back in the morning.”
An old man’s voice.
Gideon Hollis.
He paused.
“No.”
His head tilted toward the doorway.
“Listen to those horses.”
Silence.
“Men who intend to return don’t ride away that fast.”
Edmund closed his eyes.
For the first time, he wondered whether the carriage accident had truly been an accident.
—
Hands touched him.
Small hands.
Cold from the rain.
Someone began cutting through his ruined trousers with scissors.
Snip.
Snip.
Another pair of hands examined his injured leg.
Broad fingers.
Careful.
Experienced.
“Hold still.”
Edmund forced his eyes open.
The room slowly came into focus.
A brick floor.
A dying fire.
Dark rain beyond the window.
And a young woman kneeling beside him.
Perhaps twenty-six.
Brown hair had escaped from its pins.
Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows.
There was no fear in her expression.
No fascination with his title.
Only concentration.
Beside her sat an elderly man with clouded white eyes.
Gideon Hollis.
He gently ran his fingers along Edmund’s injured thigh.
“Two fractures,” Gideon said.
“One clean. One ugly.”
He touched the wound.
“The lower break came through the flesh. There’s mud inside.”
Clara looked at him.
“Dr. Crowe said mortification had begun.”
“Dr. Crowe used a frightening word because it ends conversations.”
Gideon sat back.
“This isn’t mortification yet.”
He pointed toward the wound.
“It’s contamination.”
Clara frowned.
“And that can be treated?”
“It can be cleaned.”
Gideon turned toward the kitchen.
“Get the rear door off its hinges.”
Clara immediately stood.
“Two candles near his hip. One by my left hand. Bring the sailmaker’s needle and waxed thread.”
He continued without slowing.
“Boil the scissors. Five minutes. Bring the brandy hidden behind the flour.”
Clara nodded.
“And my father’s tourniquet strap.”
She moved toward a wooden chest.
“Then lock the door.”
Gideon’s expression hardened.
“If those riders come back tonight, I don’t want them walking into my kitchen.”
Edmund finally found enough strength to speak.
His voice was barely more than a rasp.
“Who…”
He swallowed.
“Who are you?”
The old man turned toward him.
“Gideon Hollis.”
He paused.
“Twenty-one years as a surgeon’s mate.”
His expression softened.
“Eleven years blind.”
He gestured toward the young woman.
“This is my daughter, Clara.”
Clara returned to the table.
“She keeps watch for both of us.”
Gideon smiled faintly.
“And you, sir, are the Duke of Blackmere.”
Edmund stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“Your carriage had your crest.”
The old man tapped his fingers against the table.
“Besides, I know who owns the land beyond my door.”
He leaned closer.
“Now listen carefully.”
Edmund tried to focus.
“I am about to hurt you badly.”
Clara looked at him.
“And I won’t apologize for it.”
Gideon continued.
“You may curse me.”
“You may hate me.”
“But if we don’t clean that wound, you’ll die.”
Edmund closed his eyes.
“Do it.”
Clara placed a folded strip of cloth between his teeth.
“Bite this.”
He looked at her.
“You’ll need it.”
He bit down.
Then the work began.
—
The next hour had no clear beginning or end.
Only pain.
Fire.
Hands.
Voices.
Gideon gave instructions in a steady tone.
“Hold him.”
“Turn the leg.”
“More light.”
“Now.”
Clara never stopped moving.
She braced one arm across Edmund’s chest whenever his body tried to rise from the pain.
And she counted.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
Her voice remained steady.
“Four.”
“Five.”
Edmund realized she wasn’t counting for her father.
She was counting for him.
Giving him something to follow besides the agony.
“Ten.”
“Eleven.”
“Twelve.”
He held on.
The procedure lasted nearly an hour.
When it finally ended, his leg was secured between two pieces of ash wood and wrapped tightly.
Four blankets covered him.
Gideon washed his hands at the basin.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Edmund drifted into an exhausted sleep.
—
He woke before dawn.
The fire had been reduced to glowing embers.
Gideon slept in a chair near the hearth.
Clara was gone.
Edmund heard the rain.
Then the door opened.
Clara entered carrying a heavy wet sack.
Her skirt was soaked almost to the waist.
She crossed the room without saying anything.
Instead of bringing the sack toward him, she carried it to a wooden chest beneath the window.
She placed it inside.
Closed the lid.
Locked it.
Then she stood there with both hands resting on top.
Edmund watched her.
Something about her expression unsettled him.
She looked frightened.
Not for herself.
For whatever was inside that chest.
After a moment, she removed her boots and walked toward him.
She examined the splint.
Then looked at his face.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She picked up a cup.
“Then we can try some milk.”
Edmund accepted it.
He wanted to ask about the sack.
He wanted to ask why his family had abandoned him.
Most of all, he wanted to know why Clara had locked the door before treating him.
But exhaustion pulled him back toward sleep.
Fourteen weeks would pass before he learned what was inside that chest.
And by then, the truth about his carriage crash would have changed everything he thought he knew about his family.