Page 4 of Along Came a Rogue

“I know,” he agreed quietly, “but it damned sure feels like it.” He shoved his glass away. “I’ve sent a messenger to his parents at their country estate.”

“He has a sister, too, near York—Emily,” Grey reminded him as an image from five years ago flashed through his mind of a stick of a girl with blond braids who had adored her doting older brother. She’d want to know, would want to be by Thomas’s side…“We need to send a messenger to her, too.”

Edward nodded grimly, although both men knew the harsh reality that the news wouldn’t reach Thomas’s family for days. By then, he would likely be past whatever comfort they could give. “I’ve hired Bow Street to track down the footpad and ordered Jensen to close the house to visitors. There’s nothing else to do but wait.”

Grey stared at him, the grief inside him turning into fury. Wait? Like hell he would. Downing the rest of the scotch in a single, gasping swallow, he shoved himself away from the wall and charged toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Edward called out after him.

He glanced over his shoulder as he strode from the room, his calm outward appearance belying the white-hot rage burning inside him. “To find the man who did this.”

Edward followed him. “Let Bow Street take care of this. They have access to Mayfair.”

“I have better contacts. I’ll have my men in the streets within an hour.”

“Grey.” Edward put his hand on Grey’s arm as they reached the stairs, and repeated pointedly, “Bow Street has access to Mayfair.”

Grey clenched his jaw at the unspoken meaning underlying Edward’s comment. The runners would be allowed into any house in Mayfair if they said they were investigating the marquess’s shooting, while he and his War Office men wouldn’t be allowed past the front door.

His eyes narrowed icily at the reminder that he would never belong to English society, no matter how hard he worked, no matter how many promotions he earned. He’d never cared before tonight, and the truth had never cut more deeply than at this brutally frustrating moment when being an outsider made helping Thomas impossible.

“I will find that man,” Grey repeated, wrenching his arm away from Edward’s grasp and charging down the stairs toward the front door. “I might not have the same access to Mayfair as a Bow Street runner or a blue blood,” he bit out, “but I also have nothing to lose. And if Thomas dies, I’ll make that bastard regret the day he was born.”

“Grey—”

“I have to, Colonel. I have to do something to help, however I can.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs to glance back at Edward. His chest tightened with anguish and helpless frustration as the adrenaline coursed through him. “I won’t simply stay here and wait for him to die.”

Then he strode out the front door into the black night.

* * *

Grey shifted uncomfortably on the chair in Thomas’s bedroom as the morning sunlight shone around the closed drapes. His muscles ached stiffly, and he winced as a sharp pain stabbed into his lower back.

One week had passed since the shooting, and he’d spent yet another sleepless night at Thomas’s side, keeping watch, leaving the house only to help Bow Street track down the man responsible. He’d found the footpad himself in a seedy tavern in Spitalfields, bragging about how he’d robbed a gentleman in Mayfair, still possessing the watch he’d stolen from Thomas’s pocket. Bastard. Two runners had to pull him off the man to stop him from beating the son of a bitch to death right there in the tavern, only for him to stand before the gallows at Tyburn yesterday morning and mercilessly watch the man swing.

Perhaps war had hardened him too much. Perhaps he had no compassion left after all the atrocities he’d witnessed in the wars. Because when he watched the shooter die, he’d felt glad. And relieved, knowing the man could never harm anyone else.

The door opened quietly, and Edward Westover stepped into the room. His tired gaze found Grey’s and held it in a moment of shared concern, then drifted to the bed and to Thomas’s weak body lying there as comfortably as they could make him.

But how comfortable could Thomas be given the hell he’d been through in the past week? And given that his arms and legs were bound to the bed to keep him from tossing about in fitful bouts of feverish sleep and ripping open the sutures. Kate Westover had insisted on that, the young duchess crying in choking fits as she begged the two men to tie him down. They had done it without a word, without a glance at the other, knowing it had to be done even as their chests filled with guilt.

His gaze swung back to Grey. “You spent the night here again.” Not a question, but a grim accusation.

“Yes.” And he’d spend tonight here, too. Although, he thought, grimacing as he shoved himself from the chair and rubbed at his stiff neck, the least Jensen could do was offer to bring in a cot for him. But he wouldn’t complain, not with Thomas lying so still, so pale in his bed.

“How is he?” Edward asked quietly.

“Better.” He’d slept through the night at least, for once not thrashing about in the bed nor crying out in his sleep. That was due to the receding fever and the longer and more frequent stretches of wakeful consciousness that came as he slowly regained his strength. But the color had yet to come back to his sallow cheeks, his face still as pale as a ghost’s.

Edward moved slowly to the side of the bed and frowned down at Thomas and the ugly black sutures marring his side. “At least the swelling has gone down. Kate will be glad of that.”

“Is the duchess here with you?” Grey stepped up beside him. Together the two men stared solemnly down at their friend, helpless to do anything more than continue to hold their vigil.

Edward shook his head. “She wanted to come, but I made her stay home. She’s exhausted and needs to rest, both for her sake and the baby’s.” Then he frowned. “But most likely she’ll be back this afternoon. I doubt I can keep her away for long.”

Grey nodded, his chest swelling with appreciation and gratitude for the duchess. She’d insisted on being at Chatham House nearly as many hours as he had, and far more than Dr. Brandon, the official physician tending to Thomas. “Don’t keep her away too long, Colonel.” He said softly around the knot in his throat, “Thomas is better when she’s here.”

Edward heaved a heavy breath and nodded. “He likes it when she feeds him.”