Page 65 of The Butterfly
The plan seemed foolproof. Daphne had thought of everything. Niall and the escorts of the other women would go along for protection. There was nothing she could do but wait for them to return—Daphne and Niall happy because they’d succeeded, Adam stone-faced and furious that they’d gone behind his back. However, her brother would calm once he was made to see reason. He would understand that it was better this way, for Bertram to be publicly tried and executed for his crimes. This was the best way to protect everyone involved while ensuring the guilty party got what he was due.
Despite knowing that from this night forward, Bertram could never harm her or anyone she loved ever again, Olivia could not squelch this feeling deep in her gut … a feeling that something was not quite right.
She could not describe it, but as she glanced at the ormolu clock ticking away on the mantle, she realized that they ought to have returned by now. It could not possibly take this long to confront and take a man into custody … could it?
The clatter of wheels outside nearly made her jump out of her skin, its closeness and speed both relieving and alarming at once. She dashed to the nearest window and peered out into the night, eyes wide at the sight of the hackney coach rolling to a halt before the front steps. The door flew open, and Niall jumped down first, the gas lamp directly overhead illuminating his drawn face and bloodstained hands.
“Oh, God!” she cried, a hand flying up to her pounding heart.
She calmed only a bit when she realized the blood was not his. She pressed a hand to the windowpane, wanting to call out to him. Her heart leapt into her throat as he turned to dash down the lane, leaving the hackney door open for the other occupants.
Adam came next, a bundle wrapped in a dark cloak held tight against his chest. His face was wild with panic, his long legs propelling him swiftly to the front steps. The head in the crook of his arm lolled, falling free of its hood to reveal a mass of auburn hair and a face that had gone far too pale.
“Daphne!” she wailed, running out into the vestibule to meet Adam as he barreled through the front door held open by a footman.
Even in the dim lighting, Olivia could make out the overabundance of blood staining Daphne’s gown and cloak, all of it originating from her shoulder. She’d gone unconscious and lay limp in Adam’s arms, though Olivia could hear her harsh, labored breathing. The woman just barely clung to life.
“What happened?” she demanded, accepting a lamp from a footman and falling into step beside him to light the way.
“She was shot,” he said, hurrying to the stairs.
Clutching at her dressing gown and nightgown to keep from tripping over the hems, she followed as fast as she could, her shorter legs making it a struggle. “Shot? By whom? Where is Niall?”
“Gone to fetch a surgeon,” he said before his voice lifted to echo through the entire house. “Maeve! Maeve, come quickly!”
They reached the landing and flew down the corridor, only to find Maeve coming from the opposite direction with an armful of linens. She cried out at the sight of them, losing hold of her laundry. The white cloths fluttered to the floor as she stumbled to a stop.
“Good Lord, what has happened?” she cried, wringing her hands and approaching with tears in her eyes.
“She’s been shot,” Olivia told her as Adam stormed into the room, intent upon Daphne alone. “Niall’s sending for a surgeon. We will need those linens, hot water, more light, and … and … perhaps some spirits. Something for the pain.”
She did not know what else could be done. As far she knew, all laudanum had been banned from the house, and a bit of whisky or brandy might be all they had on hand. Daphne would need it. When she awoke—ifshe survived—she was going to be in a tremendous amount of pain.
“Right away,” Maeve replied, before turning to dash back down the corridor.
In her haste, she forgot the linens, so Olivia set her lamp on the nearest table and went to retrieve the cloths, certain they would need every single one. When she entered the room, she found Adam seated on the bed beside Daphne’s prone form, one of his hands wrapped tightly around hers.
“Goddamn you, you stubborn thing,” he growled. “Don’t you dare die. Do you hear me? If you die, I’ll never forgive you.”
Olivia’s chest ached at the sight he made, his distress clear despite his stillness and stoic face. No one knew him better than she did … no one knew how deeply he must care for this woman if he would allow himself to give a damn whether she lived or died.
She hurried to light a fire, not bothering to wait for a servant. They needed to illuminate this room so the surgeon could see what he was about when he arrived. In the meantime, they would do what they could for Daphne. They owed her as much for all she’d done for their family, almost losing her life in the process.
Once the fire roared to life, Olivia came to the other side of the bed and began freeing Daphne of her cloak. Adam seemed incapable of anything other than holding her hand and threatening her life should she decide to die on him. The irony of such a threat was not lost on her, but she supposed it was his way of letting Daphne know he cared.
“How did this happen?” she asked, gingerly working the cloak from under Daphne.
The coppery tang of blood flooded her senses, niggling at her grisly memories and threatening to bring them back to life. But she swallowed past the lump of fear in her throat and choked her own reactions down, forcing them deep into her belly. This was no time for her to go falling apart. Her hands remained surprisingly deft as she freed the other woman of her cloak.
“Bertram,” he ground out from between clenched teeth. “The bastard pulled a gun … refused to allow himself to be arrested. When confronted with his crimes, he turned into the sniveling little shite I’ve always known him to be. The gun … he pointed at me before I could draw my own pistol. It was aimed right at my chest … he would have shot me.”
Olivia paused in the midst of brushing Daphne’s hair back from her face and neck, glancing up at her brother. Her throat constricted at the thought of him being carried into this house with blood pouring from his chest—perhaps lifeless and without breath. Just imagining it made her want to weep.
“Daphne saved you,” she whispered.
Adam shook his head in disbelief. “The idiot. She threw herself in front of that gun … she saved my life, but she might have doomed herself.”
Maeve arrived then, with two other maids on her tail. They came bearing bowls and buckets of hot water, more linen, candles, scissors, and two bottles of spirits. Olivia accepted the scissors from one maid while the other began lighting tapers and settling them around the room to offer more light.
