She stood and went to Fox, turning his hands over to examine the bandages at his wrists. “Excellent work.”
“You should rest, my lady,” the surgeon said. “Let that bruise to your ribs heal.”
She smiled at the young man. “Yes. Fox also needs rest, doesn’t he?”
“Aye, my lady.” The surgeon averted his eyes and began putting away his instruments.
Kincaid and Farnsworth set down their plumes. “Take your bed back, Fox,” Farnsworth said. “We’ll be in the stables with the MacEwens.”
“Alive,” Father said.
Father meant Sir Richard, who was locked in the stables in Scruggs’s vacated quarters under a heavy guard.
A wave of nausea hit Father, and Lady Jane held a pan for him.
“Fenwick is next for the good bones’s attention,” Kincaid said. “We’ve given him a large dose of his own laudanum. It’ll keep him quiet until we decide what to do with him.”
“There now,” Farnsworth said, blotting his paper. “You’ll all write your reports for us next.”
“Shaldon will not be writing reports tonight,” Jane said. “Farnsworth, help me get him to his bed, and then bring in an armchair from Lady Perry’s room. I’ll keep watch over him tonight.”
“Will you, then, Jane?” Father’s voice oozed a sensuality that drew everyone’s attention.
Lady Jane colored deeply and clamped her lips tight.
The surgeon cleared his throat. “The effects should wear off by morning. If one of you will take me to the prisoner?”
“That will be me.” Kincaid stood.
“You’ll want to sleep, Lady Jane,” Fox said. “I’ll move Jenny’s cot for you.”
“Write those reports.” Farnsworth hooked a hand under Shaldon’s shoulder. “Come, Shaldon. Grab his other side, Jane.”
When they were gone, Perry pulled a chair near to Fox’s.
“It was a near thing, wasn’t it?” she said, “But we’re all alive.”
“You should have let me kill the squire.”
“The bullet will fester and kill him probably, not before Father has a chance at him. I hope his man with the bad breath was swept up by the dragoons.”
Fox shook his head. “I killed him last night.”
The gravity in his voice, the serious expression in his eyes, told her much. “Do I want to know the details?”
He flinched.
“I know I said I wanted to take my own revenge, but I don’t think I have the stomach for killing.”
She turned her head to the mantel where the painting rested between a china shepherdess and a porcelain vase. The two figures, Perpetua and Felicity, gazed imploringly into eternity, two victims of a repression as horrifying as the Terror. “Which one is it truly, Fox? Mama surely would have lied to Sir Richard.”
Fox went and took down the painting.
“Let’s find out.”
He tucked the painting under his arm, grasped her hand, and led her all the way upstairs to his bedchamber.
“Light that lamp and bring it here,” he said.
