“What’s wrong? Is it the marriage bed?” Prudence asked.
Grace felt her cheeks grow hot. “No.”
“He’s a skilled lover then. So, what is it?”
“He’s always busy. In the day and the evening…with his gambling club.” Grace couldn’t bring herself to tell her friend that Ian had deceived her into believing he’d sell the Raven Club.
“If it’s any consolation, many men ignore their wives. Mother’s friends seem happiest when their husbands flee to their own clubs. I know you dislike gambling establishments, but they are prevalent. Does it truly matter if the earl owns one or attends one?”
At Grace’s silence, Prudence squeezed her hand. “Listen to me, Grace. You can lure a bee with honey, not vinegar. I have faith in you.”
Grace had spent the rest of her evening with her friend and the Wetherby family, and by the time she’d returned home, it was late.
Ian was in the vestibule as Jenkins handed him his hat and gloves. Prudence’s words of advice were fresh in her minds. Could she lure Ian with honey? The dowager’s words also reverberated in her thoughts. Were her powers of persuasion stronger than she’d believed? A simple test crossed her mind.
She placed a hand on Ian’s sleeve and smiled sweetly. “I’ve missed you. Perhaps you can stay home and we can spend the evening together?”
His eyes lit and he pressed a quick kiss to her hand. “I will return tonight.”
Disappointment coursed through her. She knew he was headed to the Raven Club.
If he spent time with her during the day, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so abandoned. But he avoided her both in the day and the evening.
Had she foolishly given her heart to a man who was only capable of loving his business?
A flash of wild grief gripped her. He leaned down to brush his lips against hers. She closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the painful vulnerability in her gaze, then she turned to trudge up the grand staircase. She made it to the landing when a loud banging sounded on the front door.
“What the hell?” Ian said, then ignored Jenkins and wrenched the door open himself.
Brooks loomed in the doorway, a large form slung over his shoulder.
“Christ!” Ian said. “Put him in the drawing room.”
Him?
A cold sense of dread trickled down Grace’s spine. She rushed down the stairs to see, but Ian tried to block her view. “Grace—”
She pushed past him and cried out when she recognized her father, bruised and bloodied, unconscious in Brooks’s arms. “My God!”
She hurried to follow Brooks as he placed her father on the drawing room sofa. “I found them beating him up pretty good,” Brooks said, breathing heavily.
“Who? Where?” Ian asked.
“Hatfield. In the alley outside the Raven.”
Grace’s heart pounded as she frantically studied her father’s injuries. Blood was splattered across his cravat and coat, and blood oozed from his nose. “Papa? Papa!”
He opened his swollen eyes. He coughed and spittle trickled from his cracked lips. “Grace?”
“What happened?” she asked, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.
“I didn’t cheat.”
Of course this was about one of his wagers. But she didn’t care. His welfare was her imminent concern. She whirled to Ian. “Hot water and bandages. Summon the surgeon. Quick!”
Ian knelt by her side. “Jenkins already left to fetch the surgeon, and Mrs. Smithson is bringing supplies. Let me look at him, Grace. I’ve been in plenty of bouts, and I can assess the severity of his injuries.”
Not wanting to leave her father’s side, she shifted to allow him access, keeping a firm grip on her father’s limp hand.
The baron grimaced as Ian unbuttoned his bloodied coat and waistcoat and pushed them aside to examine him. He roused and opened his good eye to look at her. “I’m sorry, Grace.”
“Shh. Save your strength.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she furiously blinked them back.
“He accused me of cheating at cards,” the baron said.
“Hatfield?” Ian asked.
“Yes.”
Her stomach felt like someone had hollowed it out with a dull spoon. It always came back to the gambling.
“His nose is broken. Several broken ribs as well,” Ian said.
Her father moaned, a pitiful, guttural sound.
Mrs. Smithson arrived with hot water and clean clothes. Grace dipped a cloth in water and began to gently bathe her father’s battered face.
“I’ve made a mess of things for you, haven’t I?” he asked.
Yes! she wanted to shout. He had. For three years since her mother’s death, he’d made her life miserable. But he was her father, the man who’d once sat her on his knee when she’d been a child and told her bedtime stories. She bit her lip and continued to tend him as a heaviness settled in her chest.
At last, the surgeon arrived. A short, portly man with thick spectacles and sparse, curly black hair, he took one look at his patient and frowned.
“This is Dr. Stedler,” Ian said.
“Please help him,” Grace said.
Dr. Stedler set his black bag on an end table, took one look at Grace’s tear-stained cheeks, and his wrinkled features softened. “If my lady would step away, I’ll have a look.”
Ian must have sensed her hesitation to leave her father’s side. “It’s all right, Grace,” he said. “The doctor is good with the sorts of injuries your father’s sustained. He treats the pugilists after their matches. I wouldn’t have sent for him if I didn’t trust him.”
Grace stepped back, her hands twisting in her skirts while Ian and Brooks remained by the baron’s side in case he needed to be restrained while the surgeon worked.
Her father cried out when the surgeon examined his abdomen, and her entire body stiffened at the godawful sound. Her thoughts turned to her brother. He remained in her father’s house, and she was grateful that his nursemaid would have put him to bed some hours ago. She would not want her young brother to witness this. If something happened to their father, what would she tell Adam?
Their father might die and all because of his fondness for gambling.
Gambling at the Raven Club.
Bile rose up her throat.
It felt like hours before Dr. Stedler had finished. He’d tightly bound her father’s ribs with cloth bandages. Ian followed the surgeon out of the drawing room, and Grace trailed behind. Ian had removed his coat and waistcoat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. Blood stained the white linen, and she looked away.
“He broke four ribs, but he is very fortunate, my lady,” Dr. Stedler told her.
Grace’s brows snapped together. “How is it that four broken ribs are considered fortunate?”
His eyes appeared large behind his thick spectacles. “It is not uncommon for a broken rib to puncture the lung. It could have been much worse. He’ll recover, but it will take weeks.”
“Will he be able to travel to his home?”
“Yes, if he’s moved carefully, but I don’t recommend it for tonight. I instructed Brooks to carry him upstairs and put him in an empty bedchamber.”
“Can I see him?” Grace asked.
“I administered a sedative. He won’t be very talkative, but you can sit by him. He will need much care in the beginning. Summon me if a fever develops.”