Garrett’s nose twitched as she caught an ambient scent in the air, a taint of some kind of organic matter mixed with caustic chemicals . . . whatever its source, the smell was rank and rotten.

The housekeeper helped Garrett remove her hat and coat.

“Dr. Gibson,” Cassandra said, her pretty features drawn and anxious. “Thank goodness you arrived so quickly.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I’m not altogether sure. A man was brought here earlier by the river police, only they asked us not to tell anyone about it. He was thrown into the river, and they said when they pulled him out, they thought he was dead, but then he started coughing and groaning. They brought him here because he was carrying one of Cousin West’s calling cards in his wallet, and they didn’t know where else to take him.”

“Poor fellow,” Garrett said quietly. Even a healthy man who’d been exposed to the toxic waters of the Thames would become seriously ill from it. “Where is he now?”

“They carried him into the double library,” Mrs. Abbot said, gesturing toward a nearby hallway. “It’s a dreadful mess in there. Lord and Lady Trenear have been trying to wash the filth from him and make him more comfortable.” She shook her head and fretted, “The carpets . . . the furniture . . . no doubt all ruined.”

“Why would an earl and countess personally tend to a stranger?” Garrett asked, puzzled.

A new voice joined the conversation as a man approached them from the hallway. “He’s not a stranger.” His voice was deep and easy, the accent refined.

As Garrett turned to face him, a shock of excitement and confusion stopped her breath. Ethan. Blue, blue eyes . . . the dark hair . . . the big, athletic frame . . . but it was not him. A leaden weight of disappointment settled over her, followed by a chill of premonition.

“I’m West Ravenel.” The man glanced beyond her to Cassandra. “Darling,” he murmured, “let me have a few moments with the doctor.” The girl left at once, accompanied by the housekeeper. Turning back to Garrett, Ravenel said quietly, “The wounded man is an acquaintance of yours. You’re here because he asked for you.”

Cold barbs of fear lodged in Garrett’s chest. The few bites of mincemeat she’d had earlier seemed to rise in her esophagus. Swallowing against the nausea, she forced herself to ask, “Is it Mr. Ransom?”

“Yes.”

More sharp spikes were driven into her chest, pinning her pounding heart in place. She felt her face contorting, spasming.

Ravenel spoke with measured slowness, trying to give her time to absorb the information. “There’s a bullet in his chest. He’s lost a great deal of blood. The wound doesn’t seem to be bleeding now, but his condition is very bad. He goes in and out of consciousness. We sent for you not out of any hope that you could heal him, but because he wanted to see you one last time.”

Garrett tried to think above a flood of sick horror. She wanted to scream, weep, collapse. But as she thought of the men who were responsible for harming him, a bolt of fury engulfed her, searing through the smothering despair. How dare they do this to him? The burst of rage steadied her and gave her strength. Her fist tightened around the handles of her leather bag.

“Show me to him,” she heard herself say in a level voice. “I’ll fix him.”

Chapter 16

“I don’t think you understand the severity of his condition,” Ravenel said as he led the way to the double library. “He’s hanging by a thread.”

“I understand his condition quite well,” Garrett said, proceeding along the hallway with heel-digging strides. “Any perforating wound of the chest is life-threatening. Furthermore, the Thames is contaminated with bacteria, nitrates, and poisonous chemicals. One can hardly do enough to disinfect him.”

“But you think there’s a chance of saving him?” he asked skeptically.

“I will save him.” Garrett gave an impatient shake of her head as she heard the quaver in her voice.

They entered the library, two spacious joined rooms lined with acres of mahogany bookshelves. The interior was arranged with a few pieces of stately, heavy furniture, including a massive table running along the center and a long, low settee. An expanse of sodden Persian carpeting was heaped with toweling and cans of water. A foul scent competed with the acrid freshness of carbolic soap, commonly used for horses and difficult household cleaning.

The small, slim form of Kathleen, Lady Trenear, and the far more substantial one of her husband, Devon, were bent over a still form laid out on the settee.

Garrett’s heartbeat was so rough that the lights in the room seemed to pulse in front of her eyes. “Good evening,” she said, trying to sound composed, without success.

Both of them turned toward her.

Kathleen, a red-haired woman with delicate, almost feline beauty, regarded her with concern. “Dr. Gibson,” she murmured.

“Countess,” she said distractedly, and gave a cursory nod to the tall, dark-haired earl. “Lord Trenear.” Her gaze went to Ethan.

If not for the continuous trembling that shook Ethan’s long frame, she would have assumed he was already dead. His complexion was waxen, his lips blue-tinged, his eyes closed and sunken. They had covered his body with a quilt but had left his shoulders and one arm bare. His hand lay palm upward with the fingers slightly curled, the nails lavender-gray.

Setting down her doctor’s bag, Garrett knelt on a folded towel beside the settee and reached for his wrist to check his pulse. It was nearly too weak to detect. His veins were colorless and flattened. Oh God. He’d lost too much blood. Anything she did was going to kill him.

Ethan jerked a little at her touch. The thick lashes lifted to reveal a flash of unearthly blue. His disoriented gaze settled on her, focusing with effort. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “Garrett. My time’s . . . run short.”

“Nonsense,” she said firmly. “I’ll have you back to rights quite soon.”

She began to pull back the quilt, but his big, cold hand slid over hers, stopping her. “I’m dying, love,” she heard him whisper.

The words shook Garrett by the spine, as nothing ever had before. She was distantly amazed that she could manage a coherent reply. “I’ll thank you to leave the diagnosing to me.”

His fingers wrapped around hers. The feel of them was unfamiliar, devoid of their natural heat and strength. “Garrett . . .”

She used her free hand to ease the quilt down until the bullet wound was visible. It was a surprisingly neat, small circle. Given the elasticity of skin, the bullet was undoubtedly larger than the hole’s diameter.

Ethan’s gaze fixed on hers as he spoke with effort. “The first moment I saw you, I knew you were my share of the world. I’ve always loved you. If I could choose my fate, I’d never be parted from you. Acushla . . . pulse of my heart, breath of my soul . . . there’s nothing on this earth more fair and fine than you. Your shadow on the ground is sunlight to me.”

He fell silent, his eyes closing. Tremors racked his body. Pain drew his eyebrows together as if he were concentrating very hard on something.

Clumsily Garrett drew away from him to rummage in her bag, yanking out a stethoscope. Her heart was dashing itself to pieces. She wanted to throw herself on him and howl in despair. I’m not strong enough for this, she thought. I can’t bear it. God, please don’t let this happen . . . please . . .

But as she looked down at Ethan’s ashen face, a mantle of calm determination settled over the blaze of anguish. She would not lose him.

Carefully she set the stethoscope at various points on his chest, from just above his collarbone down to the bottom of his rib cage. Although his breathing was far too rapid and shallow, his lungs didn’t appear to have been damaged. Clinging to that one small bit of good news, she reached into her supplies, found her hypodermic needle case, and prepared a syringe of morphine.

“Ethan,” she asked quietly, “can you tell me what kind of gun it was? Did you see how far away the shooter was standing?”

His eyes slitted open, staring at her without comprehension.

Devon, Lord Trenear, answered from behind her. “From the powder burns, it appears he was shot at point-blank range. There’s no exit wound. I would guess it was a large-caliber round shot at low velocity.”

She hoped he was right: the inward track of a heavy bullet through the flesh would be wider, which would make probing and removal easier.

“He said it was one of Jenkyn’s men,” Trenear continued. “A professional assassin would use one of the more modern bullets, with a conical shape instead of round. If so, it would be partially encased in a shell of copper or steel.”

“Thank you, my lord.” A pointed tip made it likely the bullet had pursued a direct course instead of bouncing and ricocheting inside him. And if the projectile was covered by a hard casing, the lead wouldn’t have fragmented.

Trenear gave her an astute glance, understanding that she was going to operate on Ethan right there, in a last-minute effort to save his life. His eyes were dark blue rimmed with black . . . Ethan’s eyes. Was she going mad? No, she wouldn’t think about anything except the work that awaited her.

“What do you need?” Kathleen asked, coming to stand beside her. “We have three large cans of boiled water, and more in the process of heating. We’ve been using it to wash him with carbolic soap.”

“Excellent,” Garrett said. “The footman has carried in a basket of surgical chemicals. If you would, my lady, please find the one labeled sodium hypochlorite, and pour the entire contents into one of the cans of water. Use that to disinfect every inch of the library table, and cover the surface with clean linen sheets. We’ll need as many lamps in here as you’re able to provide.” She turned to Devon. “My lord, can you send someone to fetch Dr. Havelock?”

“I’ll fetch him myself.”

“Thank you. Also, make certain he brings the Roussel transfuser. He won’t want to, but don’t let him come without it.” Continuing to kneel beside the settee, Garrett swabbed Ethan’s upper arm with antiseptic solution. Tilting the morphine syringe upward, she expertly forced the air from the small glass chamber until a clear drop appeared at the tip of the hollow needle.

Ethan stirred and blinked, seeming to regain his sensibilities. “Garrett,” he said carefully, as if he knew her but wasn’t quite sure of the name. His gaze flickered to the hypodermic needle in her hand. “Don’t need that.”

“You’ll be glad of it when I start probing for the bullet.”

His chest rose and fell with an agitated breath. “Don’t even think about opening me up like . . . a tin of boiled ham.”

“You’re going to receive proper medical treatment,” she informed him.

“If I made it through surgery, the fever would kill me.”