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wall. Egad, a mere inch or two, and you might have been killed.” His lips narrowed with determination. “I vow I’ll not rest until the scoundrel who did this is caught, Catherine.”
    The room seemed to take a sickening spin as the full ramifications of what had happened clicked into place in her mind. Before she could form a reply, a knock sounded on the door, and her father called, “Come in.”
    Dr. Gibbens entered the room, carrying his black leather medical bag, his long face the picture of concern as he approached her. “How is the bleeding?” he asked, setting his bag on the end of the bed.
    She felt a lessening of the pressure against her shoulder. “Nearly stopped,” Mr. Stanton said, with unmistakable relief. “There’s a sizable lump on the back of her head, but she’s coherent. She also bit her lip when she fell, but that bleeding has subsided as well.”
    “Excellent,” said Dr. Gibbens. He stood for several seconds, then cleared his throat. “And as soon as you gentlemen leave the room, I shall examine the patient.”
    Mr. Stanton glowered at the doctor and appeared about to argue, but Dr. Gibbens said firmly, “I’ll give you both my report as soon as I finish. In the meanwhile, you are needed downstairs. The magistrate arrived just after me.”
    There was no mistaking Mr. Stanton’s or Father’s reluctance to leave her, but they did as the doctor bid. Watching them close the door behind them, a shudder racked her, a shiver of dread that had nothing to do with the pain throbbing incessantly through her.
    Father appeared convinced that she’d been shot by random accident. A robbery gone astray. But he didn’t knowthat a growing number of people wished Charles Brightmore dead.
    And that tonight someone had nearly succeeded.
     
    Andrew paced the confines of the corridor outside Lord Ravensly’s bedchamber, his insides clenched with impatience and frustration. And stark fear. How the hell long did it take to examine and dress a wound? Certainly not this long. Damn it, the party guests had departed, a witness had been found and interviewed, the magistrate had been dealt with, and still Dr. Gibbens had not emerged. He’d encountered many precarious, unsettling, and even dangerous situations in his life, but the unconditional terror and numbing horror of looking down at Lady Catherine’s bleeding, unconscious form…
    God. He paused in his pacing and leaned his back against the wall. Closing his eyes, he tunneled his hands, which still didn’t feel quite steady, through his hair. All the fear and anger and desperation he’d felt since the moment that shot had rung out burst through the dam of control and restraint with which he’d surrounded himself. His knees shook, and with a low moan, he sank down to his haunches and pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead.
    Damn it, he’d only ever once in his entire life felt so helpless—and that situation had ended disastrously. And under such horrifyingly similar circumstances. A shot. Someone he loved falling to the ground…
    His every nerve ending pulsed with the need to kick down the damn door, grab the doctor by the neck, and demand he make Lady Catherine well. And the instant she was, he would deal with the bastard who had done this to her. But in the meantime, this waiting was eating at him. That and the fact that just prior to the shot they’d argued. Argued , for God’s sake. They’d never before exchanged a cross word. A sick sense of loss gripped him as he recalled her cool, dispassionate gaze during their conversation. Never had she looked at him like that.
    “Any word on her condition?”
    Andrew turned at Lady Catherine’s father’s voice. The Earl of Ravensly strode down the corridor, his features tight with worry.
    “Not yet.” Andrew rose, then jerked his head toward the bedchamber door. “I’m giving your Dr. Gibbens two more minutes. If he hasn’t opened the door, propriety be damned, I’m storming the