‘No!’ Hartley scoffed. ‘It’s so small, it’s hardly worth bothering with.’
‘And yet someone built a chapel on it?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘All ruined now,’ agreed Derwent as their destination neared and she could see only thick woods and no buildings.
‘If I had an island, I’d choose Longholme. Derwent, get going.’ With this brisk order, the younger boy grabbed a rope and jumped over the side.
‘What!’ protested Dora, seeing her youngest charge go under– and bob up again.
‘It’s not got a dock. You have to tie up to a tree,’ explained Hartley. ‘This is the easiest way. Derwent can pull us in.’
Accepting she was in the hands of the local experts, she piped down. There were no other boats in sight, but she didn’t know how long they had to search. If she made a fuss, she’d only slow them down.
Hartley lowered the sail while Derwent made fast the boat. The smooth place on the overhanging bough suggested this wasn’t the first time it had been put to such use. Hartley looked at Dora, then looked at the gap between boat and shore, and bit his lip.
‘Miss, do you need a hand? I don’t think I can carry you.’
With a sigh, Dora got up, wriggled out of her skirt to reveal the breeches underneath, and clambered up onto the branch. Finding her balance, she stood up on it and walked to the shore. The boys gaped at her in admiration.
‘Oh, good-o!’ cried Derwent.
‘You’re nothing like our mother,’ said Hartley. ‘I mean that as a compliment.’
Pleased to have delighted the boys, she brushed off her hands. ‘Lead me to the chapel, Mr Coleridge. Let’s find out what’s been hidden.’
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Elleray
Operating on his brother in the butler’s pantry was the last thing Jacob had expected to arise out of an argument about marriage. Seeing his assistance wasn’t needed inside, Alex had taken charge of the search for the gunman while Jacob battled to save the life of the new viscount.
Using the cook’s scissors, Jacob cut away the shirt, then ripped off the rest. The bullet had entered the right side of Arthur’s chest, but there was no exit wound. Jacob bent down to hear if it had caught a lung. His brother’s breathing was laboured but that was normal for a man in pain. Good. He gently probed the wound.
Arthur swore.
‘Sorry, brother. This is going to get worse before it gets better.’
‘You need to work… on your bedside manner,’ gasped the viscount. Furness helped him to a swig of brandy.
‘You’re getting my battlefield one. It’s the one you want as I will do this quickly and save your shoulder.’ Jacob could feel an object wedged between the clavicle and the second rib. That’s where the bugger had gone.
‘Finished the brandy?’
‘Yes,’ rasped Arthur. ‘Be quick.’
‘That’s the idea. Put the belt between his teeth,’ Jacob instructed Lord Furness. ‘Hold him down,’ he told the footmen. ‘Have the instruments been boiled?’ As the pincers had last been used by the cook to pluck shot out of gamebirds, he thought it as well to make sure they were cleaned thoroughly.
‘Yes, sir,’ confirmed the butler, presenting the pinchers on a silver tray like a duke’s calling card.
‘One moment.’ Jacob rolled up his shirt sleeves. Unlike many a battlefield, here he had the luxury of being able to wash his own hands thoroughly. No one was sure why, but infections were less likely if the surgeon took these precautions. He rinsed his hands and towelled off.
‘Tell Diana and the children I love them,’ croaked his brother.
‘None of that maudlin stuff. You will tell her yourself.’ Jacob counted to three, quickly probed into the wound with the pincer, clamped the bullet and whipped it out. Arthur swore with a fluency that surprised Jacob. Fresh blood welled now the wound was unplugged. Jacob dropped the bullet on a tray. ‘Good man.’ He patted his brother’s uninjured shoulder. ‘Is it in one piece?’ he asked the butler as he pressed a swab to the injury.
‘I don’t know, sir. I can’t tell.’
