Lady Catherine jerked in surprise, as though astonished that he had spoken again, then shook her head, a line burrowing between her brows.
“Please,” he said, a little more encouragingly, and Lady Catherine sighed yet again.
“You wrote a note, Lord Rutherford,” she said, choosing her words with great care. “That is to say, it appeared as though you had written a note stating that the injury to your side was by your own hand, but I did not want to believe it.”
Stephen felt the breath leave his body as he stared at her, trying to work out whether what she spoke of was true of if she had embellished it in some way. There was no reason for her to do so, he realized, a cold hand grasping at his heart as she held his gaze steadily, no sense of untruth in her expression.
“I would not do such a thing,” he said hoarsely, and Lady Catherine nodded, clearly agreeing with him. “I would never seek to take my own life.”
“I did not think you would,” she told him with a shrug. “The note was written by another, pressed into your hand so that it would look as though it was you who had written it. It would have been an excuse for your death and your body would have been discovered before the night was out.” She pressed her lips together for a moment and then looked away. “Do you know Lord Featherstone well, Lord Rutherford?”
“I do not know him at all,” he answered, confused. “Why do you ask?”
Lady Catherine turned her head to him sharply. “Because it was at his townhouse that you were discovered, at his masquerade,” she said with a frown. “Do you mean to say that you are not acquainted with him at all?”
Stephen frowned, closing his eyes for a moment or two as he tried to recall. “I am sure that, whilst I might be acquainted with the gentleman, I am not at all well known to him, nor he to me,” he said firmly. “I can think of no reason why I would then be discovered in his townhouse or why it was during his ball that I was placed there.”
Lady Catherine bit her lip and Stephen had the strange urge to lean forward and tug it free of her teeth. Looking away, he cleared his throat gruffly, just as a footman brought over a tray of refreshments, setting it down to Stephen’s left on a small table.
“Tea, of course,” Lady Catherine said, distracted from her thinking for a moment. “You may not be hungry or thirsty, but I am afraid I shall insist, Lord Rutherford.”
He did not tell her just how grateful he was for the warmth of the tea, feeling it spread out across his chest and steal some of the coldness from it. Instead, he felt himself breathe a little more easily, though still overcome by the horror of what Lady Catherine had told him. He did not want to imagine who had taken him into Lord Featherstone’s home and had pushed a knife into his side, leaving his lifeblood to flow out from him until he had gone nearer to the grave.
“I will say that I am grateful to you, Lady Catherine,” he said slowly. “I cannot imagine what you must have thought when you saw me so.”
A tight laugh escaped her, and she shook her head. “I will not say precisely, Lord Rutherford, for it was something of a shock and I do not want to give you the impression that I am of a weak character.”
“It would take a lady of an immensely strong character to have done what you did,” he told her without hesitation. “I will not pretend that I am ungrateful or that I think that you ought to have left me alone.” A swell of gratitude rose in his heart, shattering the animosity that had been between them from the very beginning. “Instead, I shall thank you profusely, Lady Catherine.” A swell of tiredness washed over him and he felt his eyelids droop once more but forced himself to wakefulness. He did not want to sleep yet, not when there was still so much on his mind, so many questions that required answering. “I cannot imagine who would have done such a thing.”
A sudden snort from Lady Catherine’s mouth had him staring at her, wide-eyed, his mouth a little ajar as he looked at her in astonishment. Lady Catherine flushed immediately, her hand at her mouth as she caught her breath, her green eyes wide with alarm.
“I cannot apologize enough, Lord Rutherford,” she stammered, clearly horrified with herself. “I did not mean to—”
“You do not think it surprising that someone would do such a thing to me?” he enquired, a flush of anger darkening his cheeks. “Really, Lady Catherine, I may be a cad but surely no one would wish to murder me?”
Lady Catherine cleared her throat delicately, looking at him steadily instead of dropping her gaze out of mortification as he might have expected her to do. “In short, Lord Rutherford, I am not at all surprised that someone has sought to injure you,” she told him, astonishing him completely. “You have something of a reputation, as you well know, though I will admit that leaving you to bleed to death in a room that would soon have been filled with the ton is rather severe.” Her gaze became thoughtful, her finger tapping lightly at her mouth for a moment. “It is clear to me that they wanted you to be surrounded by nothing more than shame in your last moments, Lord Rutherford. To have that note in your hand would have made those who found you believe that you had taken your own life, horrified by your own misdemeanors. It would have made them believe that you had nothing more than darkness and regret following you.”
Stephen felt his anger fade away as Lady Catherine spoke, knowing full well that he could not continue to hold such words against her. She had not meant to snort in ridicule yet had stood by her reaction, telling him that she was not surprised in the least that someone had sought to harm him.
“I may be a cad,” he admitted, a little slowly, “but I am not a murderer or any such cruel thing. My actions, whilst perhaps ill considered, are not worthy of death.”
“Not in your eyes, no,” Lady Catherine replied calmly. “But to another—perhaps to a lady who has been cast aside or to a wounded husband who has discovered his wife’s betrayal, your actions merit a great and severe punishment.” Her eyes did not flicker with sympathy for him, her hand did not reach out to rest upon his own as it had done before. She did not have any compassion for him now, it seemed. Yes, she had not wanted him to die but that did not mean that she had any sort of sympathy for his circumstances. To her, it seemed, this was a consequence of his own choices.
He sighed.
“You should rest,” Lady Catherine said, as though speaking to a small child who needed to obey without question. “I will return later.”
“Wait.” He reached forward and caught her hand, letting out an exclamation of pain as his side tore with agony—but he did not let go. Lady Catherine turned back to face him, her hand still and quiet in his own and a gleam of surprise in her eyes.
“Wait,” he croaked, trying to recover himself somewhat. “What shall I do next? Once I have recovered? Clearly there is someone who wishes me dead.”
“And that someone has no knowledge of where you are at present,” she answered firmly. “You need not fear, Lord Rutherford. You will be safe here until you fully recover.”
He swallowed, leaning back against the pillows, hating his weakness. “And then?” he asked, filled with a growing sense of despair and hopelessness. “Will you have me tossed from your father’s house without delay?”