By the time he’d reached Hawkshead Lane, Mitchell had returned with an old but well-kept coach, large enough to fit most of their party inside. But the boys’ distress on seeing their mother draped lifeless in Devlin’s arms had convinced everyone that it would be better for the children and the staff to travel back to London in the slower coach while Mitchell drove the much faster curricle back to the capital, with Devlin as passenger, holding Therese on his lap.
As he waited for Portland to answer Mitchell’s demanding—panicked—summons, Devlin studied Therese’s face in the light of the gibbous moon that had belatedly appeared, but her features remained as lifeless as they had throughout the fraught journey.
He’d held her cradled against his chest the entire way, cushioning her poor head as best he could against the inevitable jolts. The decision to race ahead hadn’t been hard; the sooner he got her into her own bed and summoned Sanderson—their family doctor—to see her, the better.
The door finally opened to reveal Portland, managing to appear magisterial even in his dressing gown, backed by two sleepy footmen, who on sighting Devlin with Therese in his arms, immediately came to round-eyed attention.
“My lord!” Shocked, Portland swung the door wide.
Grim-faced, Devlin strode in, and Mitchell followed.
Portland quickly shut the door. “An accident, my lord?”
“Of a sort.” Devlin turned to look at Mitchell.
His groom preempted him. “Dr. Sanderson in Harley Street, my lord?”
Devlin nodded. “As fast as you can. I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing. We need him here now.”
Mitchell bobbed his head. “I’ll fetch him.”
As Mitchell returned to the door and slipped out, Devlin glanced at Portland. “The train derailed, and her ladyship sustained a deep gash on the back of her head. She didn’t realize she was bleeding and spent the next hour taking charge and helping everyone else before she collapsed.” He hauled in a breath and reached for every iota of control he possessed. “The others are following in a hired coach. We’ll need to pay off the coachman.”
“I’ll see to everything, my lord.” Gently, Portland ushered Devlin to the stairs. “And I’ll send Mrs. Portland and some of the maids up to tend to her ladyship. You’ll want her settled before the doctor arrives.”
He supposed he did. Devlin allowed Portland to escort him up the stairs, along the corridor, and into Therese’s room. Instinct prodded him to take her to his room—it was bigger—but he quashed the urge; she would be more comfortable in her own room, in her own bed.
She’d never been in his—another facet of the idiocy he’d allowed to rule him for far too long.
He halted beside the bed and waited while Portland rounded it and lit the bedside lamp on the opposite side, then guided by the soft light, gently laid Therese down, careful to ease his arm from beneath her shoulders in a way that didn’t impinge on her wound.
He straightened. Portland, who, for the first time in all the years Devlin had known him, sounded faintly flustered, excused himself and left to summon his wife.
Devlin stood and, in the gentle light, stared at Therese’s still face, willing her to wake or even stir.
But she’d been unmoving and entirely silent all the way home and remained so.
Helplessness welled and swamped him.
Then Mrs. Portland bustled in, along with two wide-eyed maids.
Devlin felt Mrs. Portland’s gaze on his face, then the motherly housekeeper laid a hand on his sleeve and gently eased him away from the bed. “Portland was called to the door, my lord—the footman said a coach had just turned in.”
The maids had left the door ajar, and Devlin caught the distant sounds of people in the front hall.
“Perhaps, my lord, you should check on the children. Even though her ladyship will be fit as a fiddle come morning, I daresay the poor mites will be upset.” Letting her hand fall from his sleeve, Mrs. Portland added, “You know you can safely leave her ladyship in our hands. We’ll make her comfortable, and I’ll sit with her until you return.”
Devlin didn’t want to go, but he knew Therese would want him to, and Mrs. Portland was right. He needed to behave with confidence so the children wouldn’t grow overly anxious. He drew in a breath, then nodded and forced himself to turn from the bed and cross to the door.
Mrs. Portland followed, and after he stepped into the corridor, he heard the door softly close.
He didn’t look back and forced himself to breathe—in and out—as he strode to the stairs and went quickly down them.
Just as well he did; his sons were refusing to budge from the hall until they learned how their mother was.
Given his recent behavior, he could hardly fault them for that.
Schooling his features to project an assurance he didn’t feel, he smiled at the boys, shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed the garment to Portland, then crouched before his sons. “Your mama will be all right.” He met Spencer’s gaze, then Rupert’s and prayed the prediction would come true. “I’ve sent Mitchell to fetch Dr. Sanderson. He’ll come and bind up Mama’s head, and after she rests, she’ll be right as rain.”
The boys looked back at him, then Spencer quietly said, “She was very still, before. Did she wake up?”
Damn. “No, but that’s not to be wondered at.” Even though that specific point was the source of his own escalating anxiety. “She worked very hard to help the people injured in the crash and most likely wore herself out. She might sleep for a while before she wakes up. But”—he glanced at Nanny Sprockett, who was holding a thankfully sleeping Horry, then looked back at the boys—“when she does wake up, she’ll want to see you both, so as she’s still sleeping, perhaps you’d better sleep, too, or else you’ll be yawning when she comes to see you.”
Rupert was the first to nod and mumble an “All right,” then more reluctantly, Spencer followed suit.
“Good men.” Devlin stood and ruffled their hair. Normally, he would have handed the pair over to the waiting nursemaids, but whether in response to their need or a need of his own, he offered his sons his hands. “Come along.” As they slid their small hands into his, he added, “As your mama is asleep, I’ll come and tuck you in.”
Nanny Sprockett threw him a grateful look. Hefting Horry, she followed him and the boys up the stairs to the nursery. The nursemaids and footmen followed, carrying the assorted cases and bags.
Ruthlessly suppressing his welling need to return to Therese, Devlin forced himself to spend the next twenty minutes hiding his concern for her behind a reassuring mask.
Finally, the boys were tucked up in their beds. Almost immediately, sleep rolled over them, and they relaxed and surrendered.
For one last moment, Devlin hovered in the doorway of their room, watching the blankets rise and fall, then he stepped into the corridor and quietly shut the door.
He looked in on Horry.
Nanny whispered that she hadn’t stirred.
He nodded and brushed a kiss to his precious daughter’s forehead; she was so much like Therese, not just in appearance but also in character, that just looking at her squeezed his heart. She continued to sleep peacefully, but as he left the nursery, he knew that, once the children woke, Horry would be the loudest in demanding to see her mother.