The Lady's Disgrace by Callie Hutton

I found her about a mile from the village. She has a gash on her forehead, which I believe might have come from her falling against a rock. I’ve sent for the surgeon.”
    “What can I do, sir?”
    “Please light candles. Plenty of them. Then ask Sanders to attend my wife. She’ll need to remove these damp clothes.” He turned as Mrs. O’Neill headed to the door. “Also ask one of the footmen to light a fire. I need it warm in here so her ladyship doesn’t catch a chill.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Joseph sat alongside her on the bed and took her cold hand in his. “Abigail, what in heaven’s name did you do?” Even though he knew she couldn’t hear him, it made him feel better to talk to her, pretend she could hear him, assume she would be all right.
    “Oh, my poor lady. What is wrong?” Her eyes wide, Sanders approached the bed.
    “She apparently fell and struck her head. Please remove her clothes and get her into a warm nightgown.” He turned toward the door. “Where is the blasted footman?”
    “Right here, sir,” David, the younger footman said, as he hurried through the doorway carrying a bucket of coal. With efficient movements, he went about starting a fire. In the meantime, Mrs. O’Neill lit a number of candles about the room.
    In the candlelight Abigail looked like she was sleeping. He ran his fingers over the scratches from her encounter with the Dinger’s pig. Now she had a gash on her forehead from heaven knew what. He was certainly not doing a very good job of protecting his wife.
    “I will await the surgeon downstairs.”
    After telling Manning to alert him the minute the surgeon arrived, he cosseted himself in his study. With shaky hands he poured a brandy and wandered to the library window. Nothing but the darkness of night greeted him.
    He hadn’t spent a great deal of time studying the area where he’d found Abigail, but couldn’t for the life of him imagine how she’d ended up on the ground with a gash on her forehead. Had she tripped? Twisted her ankle on a rabbit hole? He shook his head, then took another sip of brandy. Once she awoke—and he prayed that would be soon—he would get to the bottom of this.
    “Sir?”
    Joseph turned as Sanders pushed open the door, Abigail’s frock over her arm. “Yes?”
    “I don’t mean to intrude, Mr. Fox, but Mrs. O’Neill thought perhaps we should show this to you.”
    “You did not leave her ladyship alone, I hope?”
    She shook her head furiously. “No, sir. Mrs. O’Neill is with her.”
    He breathed a sigh of relief. “What is it you wish to show me?”
    She moved forward and held the dress out to him. “Mrs. O’Neill and I discovered this when we undressed her ladyship.”
    He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “You wished to show me her gown?”
    “No, sir. I wanted to show you the bullet hole we found in the sleeve.”

Chapter Eight
    Joseph felt all the blood leave his face and pool at his feet. “Bullet?” he croaked.
    “Yes, sir.” Sanders moved closer and stuck her finger through the hole in the sleeve of Abigail’s silk gown. She wiggled her finger back and forth until Joseph thought he would cast up his accounts.
    “Enough!”
    “Oh, sorry, sir.” She backed away, her eyes downcast.
    Guilt nudged him for taking out his anger and frustration on the poor maid. What was that quote about being the bearer of bad news? After apologizing and dismissing her, he rested his hands on his hips, studying the carpet, his thoughts in a whirl. Turning on his heel, he strode to the window, trying hard to get himself under control.
    A bullet? Why would someone shoot Abigail? It must have been a hunter not being careful enough. Bloody hell, this marriage might have saved his wife from scandal, but it was becoming very dangerous to her well-being. She’d been here only three days and injured twice.
    “Sir, the surgeon has arrived.” Manning stuck his head around the partially closed door.
    “Thank you, Manning.” Joseph grabbed