“Thank God you’ve come around, my dear,” Father said, his voice rough. “Dr. Gibbens is on his way.”

Mr. Stanton leaned closer to her. “How do you feel?”

She licked her dry lips, wincing when her tongue, which felt oddly thick, touched a sensitive spot. “Shoulder hurts. Head, too.” She tried to turn her head, but immediately thought better of it when a sharp pain bounced behind her eyes, roiling a wave of nausea through her. “Wh… what happened?”

Something undecipherable flashed in his eyes. “You don’t remember?”

Trying to ignore the aches thumping through her, she forced herself to concentrate. “Father’s party. His birthday. You and I were arguing… and now I’m here.” Lying in bed, with you sitting so very close. Touching me. “Feeling as if I were coshed… hopefully not the outcome of our disagreement.”

“You were shot,” Mr. Stanton said, harshness evident in his quiet voice. “In the shoulder. And it appears you hit your head quite hard when you fell. I’m sorry for the pain-I‘m keeping pressure on your shoulder wound to stem the blood until the doctor arrives.”

His words echoed through her pounding head. Shot? She wanted to scoff at his statement, but the burning ache in her shoulder and gravity of his intense regard left no doubt that he spoke the truth. And it certainly explained his nearness and touch. And obvious concern. “I… I do recall a loud noise.”

His head jerked in a nod. “That was the shot. It came from outside, from the direction of Park Lane.”

“But who?” she whispered. “Why?”

“That is precisely what we’re going to find out,” interjected her father, “although the why is quite obvious. These damnable criminals are everywhere. What is this city coming to? The recent rash of crimes in the area must be stopped. Why just last week Lord Denbitty came home from the opera to find his house ransacked. Tonight’s debacle is clearly the doing of some bloody footpad whose weapon discharged while committing a robbery in the street.”