I lifted my head.
She might have said more, but a knock rattled the door. To our surprise, a maid entered with her mobcap askew.
“Please, miss ... Something dreadful has occurred, and the colonel isn’t in tonight to tell us what to do.”
Grandfather was not in the townhome? I rose, as did Freddy.
“It’s the young Mr. Grenville, miss. Someone shot him.”
We ran to the kitchen, my heart pounding as dread clawed its way through me. When we reached the doorway, the sight before me made my stomach lurch.
Edward’s form lay slumped over the scratched wooden table, his head resting at an unnatural angle. A pool of blood spread beneath him, dark and viscous, staining the worn grain of the wood and dripping onto the floor with a slow, sickening rhythm.
“Send Hitchens for the physician,” I brusquely ordered the maid. “And tell the footman to make haste for Mr. Sinclair and the colonel, if they have not returned.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t bother Sebastian at this hour, but his name immediately came to mind.
The maid nodded, the frill of her cap bopping before she darted out of the kitchen. Freddy, at least, had brought a candlestick. She brushed past me and set it on the table with a clatter.
“Edward ... can you hear us? It is me, Freddy.”
A low moan answered my friend, and she locked a terrified gaze on me. “We must remove his coat.”
Grasping the lapel, I did my best to tug his arm free, wincing when he released an inarticulate cry.
“Wake up, Edward,” I demanded, frightened by his unearthly pallor. “We cannot get this coat off you if you do not help us.”
He braced his palms against the table edge and pushed back, allowing us to ease the coat from his shoulders. It was not his usual attire—I had never seen my impeccably dressed brother in such a disheveled, motley garment.
But his waistcoat—a fine gray damask—was ruined. A dark stain had spread across his back, the rich fabric saturated with blood.
So much blood.
“Kit,” he grated, his voice so weak it sounded foreign. “It’s ... not as bad as it looks.”
I knelt beside him. “You’re bleeding.”
Freddy tugged the candlestick closer, the light illuminating his shaking form. Then she set it down and moved to unbutton his waistcoat, her hands fumbling and slow.
“Let me,” I managed, though my words were barely above a whisper. I tugged the dampened fabric aside, and there it was—a gaping wound on the right, just beneath the ribs. My stomach twisted, and bile threatened my throat.
Freddy gasped. “We must stop the bleeding.”
He tried to sit up, wincing as the effort sent a shudder through his body. “It’s shallow ... a graze, I think.”
“Edward, you’re not in a position to judge that,” I snapped, thesharpness of my tone fueled by fear. “Freddy, fetch the cleanest linens you can find. We’ll need bandages.”
She ran off without hesitation, leaving me alone with him. His head lolled back against the chair, his eyes glassy but focused on me.
“Kit... listen,” he mumbled.
“No,” I said firmly, tearing strips from my underskirt to press against the wound. “You’ll listen to me for once. You must not move. You’ve lost too much blood—”
“They’ll know ... They’ll know you’re my sister,” he interrupted, his words slurred yet insistent. “I overheard something at White’s. About a shipment. Bribes, Kit. The Company’s dirtier than anyone knows.”
“Edward,” I said, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. “You’re not making sense.”
“I went to Limehouse,” he continued, ignoring me. His hand fluttered toward mine, grasping at the bloodied fabric I pressed to his side. “Saw the crates. They’re hiding something big, Kit. Wilberforce—he needs to know the truth.”
