Page 48 of Twice Upon a Midnight

“The old man’s right,” Simon seethed. “We won’t settle it here. We’ll settle it out on the field.”

Spenser’s face turned as stony as Simon’s. “Are you calling me out?”

“If that’s what it takes to—”

Suddenly, the old man let out a tremendous shout and gripped his chest. He staggered backward, his right hand grabbing at his left arm as it dangled uselessly at his side. His body jerked, stiffening like a board, and his face contorted with pain. Then he gasped for breath and tumbled to the floor at Spenser’s feet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

S

penser let out a long and worried breath but otherwise didn’t move from his position in the chair beside the bed where Martin lay, his eyes closed and his body so very still. He’d been like that for the past hour, ever since Spenser had brought him back to his room in Cheapside, put him in bed, and sent for a physician. But the doctor said nothing more could be done for him except to make him comfortable and hope he recovered. They would know by morning if he’d survive.

“You’d better live,” Spenser muttered, his attention glued to Martin to watch for any sign that he was waking up. “I’ve invested too much time and concern in you for you to sneak away like this.”

Martin didn’t move. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest signaled that life still pulsed inside him.

“We were even, do you hear me? I saved you when you were beaten, then you saved me. Don’t you dare think that this gives you one up on me again.” He swallowed. Hard. “So wake up and tell me what you want for dinner, and I’ll fetch it, just as I always do. Martin?” He reached for the old man’s hand. “Martin, wake up now.” His voice cracked with emotion. “You can’t die on me, do you hear? What would I do without you?” Frustration at being powerless bubbled to the surface. “Damnation, I won’t let you die on me, you stubborn old man!”

“Neither will I,” a soft voice called from the doorway.

Spenser looked up, and his heart thudded painfully.Ella.

“After all,” she continued quietly as she stepped into the room, “he has to dance at my wedding.”

At that, his heart stopped completely.

“It might even be a marriage to you.” She stopped at the foot of the bed and slanted Spenser an irritated glance. “Maybe.”

Knowing he had that verbal slap coming—and more—Spenser rose slowly to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you. Mama and Papa are waiting downstairs in the carriage. They wouldn’t let me come alone.” She grimaced. “I also think they’ve become a bit nosy about my love life since the whole lost glove incident.” She looked down at Martin and bit her bottom lip. “How is he?”

He shook his head. “The doctor said we need to make him comfortable.”

She nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. But then, hadn’t she always understood him better than anyone else? “And how are you?”

He stopped beside her. Good lord, he was happy to see her, even as his heart was breaking for Martin, for her, for the future they would never have. “Sore, stiff…swollen.” He gestured toward his face and shrugged, then looked down at Martin. “Worried.” Then his gaze lifted back to Ella. “And terribly sorry for ruining your evening.”

“For what, exactly—for proving to me that Simon isn’t at all the man I thought he was…” She slowly arched a brow. “Or that you aren’t?”

He deserved the sting of that. “I was afraid that if I’d told you who I truly was the night we met, you would have laughed in my face and walked away.”

“Is that why you sent that note, then?”

“What note?” He had no idea what she meant.

“The one in which you said you never wanted to see me again,” she said, her words clipped with anger, “even after all we’d shared at midnight in the park.” Her shoulders dropped with exasperation. “But then tonight, when you came to Lord Whitwell’s… What am I supposed to believe?”

“That I would never send you a message like that. And I couldn’t have. I was too wounded to even pick up a quill let alone compose a coherent note.” Cold realization sank over him, and heknew—“But Simon wasn’t. I’m certain he forged my name.”

She blinked, confused. “But it was your handwriting…”

“We’re brothers. We were both taught to write by the same nanny when we were children. We have similar handwriting.” His voice lowered into a heartfelt promise. “I would never wound you like that, Ella.”

Her lips parted, and he could see her confusion on her face. She didn’t know what to believe about him.

He didn’t blame her. She deserved an explanation, and he couldn’t put it off any longer.