“No, ma’am,” her savior had responded respectfully, “but this poor soul equally requires your tender care.”
A maid rushed in with a pitcher of water, washing cloths, and soap, evidently set on cleaning Emma’s wounds, while another maid brought in a clean nightgown and robe. It amazed Emma how easily this particular man commanded what was supposedly another man’s household.
“If you will set the young lady on her feet, we shall take care of her, sir,” the older woman instructed.
“That is just it, Mrs. Chester, the lady is not so secure,” he warned. “I fear she may not be able to stand alone for long. In addition to the obvious visible chaos, she possesses a large knot on the top of her head, which is seeping blood.”
“I see,” the woman said thoughtfully. “Then I wish you to stand with the lady in your arms, turn, and set her in the chair. Marjory, place two of the large towels down across the cushion. We would not wish to ruin Lord Orson’s favorite chair. His lordship has already had it reupholstered twice,” the woman said with a chuckle.
Within less than a half hour, Emma had been washed properly, or as properly as one might be while being balanced by one woman and washed by another, but Emma knew gratitude with their care. Though she could not speak to the reason for it, she had the feeling such would not have occurred at her own home. “Once the surgeon sees you, Marjory and I will wash your hair for you, unless you would prefer waiting until morning.”
Emma thoroughly approved of their efforts, but she wondered where Lord Orson had gone. For an odd reason, she found herself hoping for his quick return.
At length, she had been dressed in a gown and robe and had a blanket draped across her lap. “Might be best, miss, if you could continue to sit up,” the older woman told Emma as the younger one gathered the towels and the wash basin. “The surgeon will be here posthaste. I fear if you fall asleep, he cannot attend to you properly. He’ll likely have several questions.”
“I will keep her company,” said a voice she had easily come to recognize. She turned her head slowly so as to keep the darkness at bay.
“New coat?” she asked.
“Borrowed one from Lord Marksman’s quarters,” he said with a slight smile. “He and I are comparable in build.”
“Oh,” she said as she suddenly realized the need for Lord Orson’s different coat and cravat was her. “I did not mean to ruin your clothes.”
“No great catastrophe,” he admitted. “I am glad to have been of service to you,” he told her with a lift of his chin in apparent seriousness.
“Did you speak to Lord Duncan?” the housekeeper asked.
“Yes, ma’am. His lordship says he is happy to open his door to Lady Emma.”
It was all so odd: this take-charge man and his obedient stance when speaking of a man who was obviously his mentor or guardian or something similar. Even so, Emma knew regret, for she could name no one to whom she was held accountable. She thought she had dined with someone this evening; yet, she could not recall the person or the place or even if she had eaten. Nor whether it was on this day instead of another. What was worse, she had no memory of someone exacting violence on her or the reason for the attack.
“There is the bell,” Mrs. Chester said. “You should go down, my lord. Mr. Rheem will wish to speak to you before examining Lady Emma.”
“I shan’t be far,” he assured her, and with a nod in her direction, he left his place by the still-open door.
Once again, Emma felt the fear of the unknown. Who had caused the scrapes on her arms and elbows and the bruises on her knees and back? Had she made an attempt to fight off the person? Had the person taken her by surprise or had she known the fear of what was to come? Surely, she should remember a face. Had he worn a mask? This incident was not a one-strike attack. She did not think it was someone simply wishing to steal her reticule, for she had heard of street thieves simply cutting the strings of a woman’s purse and being gone within a matter of seconds. She was glad for that memory, but she felt a bitof panic when she had no idea where her slippers or her own reticule could be. The person or persons had evidently despised her enough to mean her real harm. Who in her life would wish such anger rained down upon her head? More importantly, why could she not recall a name, a face, or anything of significance? “Only Lord Richard Orson,” she told herself.
“My lady,” Lord Orson said as he led another man into the room, “this is Mr. Rheem, one of the finest surgeons I have ever encountered.”
“Do you require a surgeon often, my lord?” she asked as part of setting aside the examination.
Mr. Rheem chuckled, “Often enough that I now own a new horse and gig.”
“Must be excellent care, if Lord Orson recommends you,” she said, and attempted to smile, but belatedly realized her lip was split.
“I have a salve that will ease the pain of your lip and the obvious cuts and scratches that I can readily see. Shall we begin, my lady? Mrs. Chester will remain to assist me. Just stay where you are, and we may be about it.”
“I will be waiting nearby, my lady,” Lord Orson told her. “Outside the door.”
Though Mr. Rheem had touched each of her wounds, some quite roughly, Emma was able to tolerate the man’s examination. He studied her arms and legs and took notes on the bruises about her shoulders and back, but it was when he leaned across her and began to examine the cut on her head that fear officially arrived. “Stop! Stop!” she screamed as tears flooded her eyes. She grabbed the man’s wrist to push his hands away.
Immediately, Lord Orson was beside her. He caught her hands and held them in place. “All is well,” he coaxed. “Mr. Rheem simply means to study the cut on your head and examinethe size of the swelling. Remember, I warned you that I had found a wound there.”
“The red,” she rasped. “The red of his vest. It frightened me.”
Orson looked at Rheem. “You remember something about the color red. Did your attacker wear red? What is the significance of the color red?”
Emma knew the tears rolled down her cheeks, but she could not stop them. “I cannot say,” she whispered.
