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father’s bedchamber. Seconds later, Mr. Stanton gently laid her upon the maroon counterpane. She instantly missed his warmth as a chilled shudder rushed through her, but seconds later her eyes widened when he hitched one hip upon the mattress, and sat next to her on the bed, the heat of his hand pressing against her stinging shoulder. Some small corner of her mind protested that his nearness reeked of impropriety, but his presence was so comforting…and she felt so inexplicably in need of that comfort.
    A movement caught her eye, and her gaze shifted over Mr. Stanton’s shoulder, where she noted her father looking down at her with an anxious expression.
    “Thank God you’ve come around, my dear,” Father said, his voice rough. “Dr. Gibbens is on his way.”
    Mr. Stanton leaned closer to her. “How do you feel?”
    She licked her dry lips, wincing when her tongue, which felt oddly thick, touched a sensitive spot. “Shoulder hurts. Head, too.” She tried to turn her head, but immediately thought better of it when a sharp pain bounced behind her eyes, roiling a wave of nausea through her. “Wh…what happened?”
    Something undecipherable flashed in his eyes. “You don’t remember?”
    Trying to ignore the aches thumping through her, she forced herself to concentrate. “Father’s party. His birthday. You and I were arguing…and now I’m here.” Lying in bed, with you sitting so very close. Touching me. “Feeling as if I were coshed…hopefully not the outcome of our disagreement.”
    “You were shot,” Mr. Stanton said, harshness evident in his quiet voice. “In the shoulder. And it appears you hit your head quite hard when you fell. I’m sorry for the pain—I’m keeping pressure on your shoulder wound to stem the blood until the doctor arrives.”
    His words echoed through her pounding head. Shot? She wanted to scoff at his statement, but the burning ache in her shoulder and gravity of his intense regard left no doubt that he spoke the truth. And it certainly explained his nearness and touch. And obvious concern. “I…I do recall a loud noise.”
    His head jerked in a nod. “That was the shot. It came from outside, from the direction of Park Lane.”
    “But who?” she whispered. “Why?”
    “That is precisely what we’re going to find out,” interjected her father, “although the why is quite obvious. These damnable criminals are everywhere. What is this city coming to? The recent rash of crimes in the area must be stopped. Why just last week Lord Denbitty came home from the opera to find his house ransacked. Tonight’s debacle is clearly the doing of some bloody footpad whose weapon discharged while committing a robbery in the street.”
    Father’s jaw clenched, and he dragged visibly shaking hands down his face. “Thank God for Mr. Stanton here. While pandemonium reigned, he kept a cool head. He ordered a footman to fetch the doctor, another to locate the magistrate, then rallied several gentlemen to conduct a search outdoors for the culprit and perhaps another victim, all while examining your injuries. Once he’d determined the ball wasn’t lodged in your shoulder, he carried you here.”
    Catherine shifted her gaze to Mr. Stanton, who regarded her with such an intense expression, her toes curled inside her satin slippers. “Thank you,” she whispered.
    For several seconds he said nothing, then, with what appeared to be an effort, he offered her a half smile. “You’re welcome. Thanks to my adventures with your brother, I have some experience in these matters, although you may retract your thanks when you see the mess I made of your gown. I’m afraid I had to cut off your sleeve.”
    She attempted a smile in return, but wasn’t sure she succeeded. “No doubt the bloodstain would have proved ruinous anyway.”
    Father reached out and clasped her hand. “We can only be thankful you were merely grazed, and that the lead ball didn’t hit anyone else before lodging itself in the