Page 19 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

Violet, with a tut-tut, removed her upper body from the window, closed it, and vanished. A minute or two later the front door opened, after the sound of several bolts being drawn back, to reveal a tall, middle-aged woman in a faded-blue dressing gown over her nightgown.

Gabriel uttered a deep sigh. “At last. I fear I’m about to faint.” And he slid down the door lintel to form an ungainly heap on the doorstep.

Violet met Phoebe’s eyes. “You’ll tell me what’s going on here after we’ve got him inside. You take his legs, and I’ll take his shoulders. We have to get him inside the door so I can shut and lock it. This isn’t an area where you want to leave your door open at night, nor linger on the street, I can tell you.” To illustrate this she looked up and down the road, but it remained empty as far as they could see. Although anything could be lurking in the fog, Phoebe supposed.

“Be careful,” Phoebe said. “His arm seems to be broken, I’m afraid. His forearm, that is. His right forearm.” What was she going to say when this stern-looking woman asked her how it had happened?

She’d think about that later. For now, Phoebe did as Violet had asked her and, between them, they half dragged and half carried Gabriel inside and laid him flat on the tiled floor of the entrance hall, his head lolling to one side, his eyes closed. He’d definitely fainted. Violet closed the door and shot the bolts across with a note of finality. Phoebe suppressed another shiver. She was now locked inside a house with a woman who seemed to think a broken arm was nothing. Was she ever going to get out of there again or was she stuck forever? Again, she’d just have to think about that later.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Two more women were halfway down them, both in dressing gowns over their nightgowns. One was an older woman with iron-gray hair, and the other a much younger version of her leaning on a walking stick. Mother and daughter, perhaps. Well, that made the three women Gabriel had said ran his orphanage. Was that where she was? Had he brought her to his orphanage?

“Good heavens,” the older woman said, hurrying down the last few steps. “His Lordship. Whatever’s happened?” Her accusing gaze came to rest on Phoebe. “And who might I ask are you?”

At least she could answer that. “My name is Lady Phoebe Nicholson and it’s me you have to thank for bringing Lord Gabriel here. He wanted to come alone but I wouldn’t let him.” She looked back down at his inert form. “Which it seems was just as well. His right arm is broken and I think he must have fainted from the pain.”

The younger woman had reached the bottom of the stairs as well. “Gabriel? Is he dead? Oh no!” Her fingers curled around the wooden banister, the knuckles whitening.

Violet had dropped to her knees beside their patient and had her fingers on his throat under his chin. “He’s not dead you silly girl. Open the door into the parlor and let’s get him in there onto the settee. Someone needs to go and fetch Doctor Armstrong. Make yourself useful, girl, and go and wake young Yann up. Quick now. We must send him for the doctor as it’ll not be safe for any of us women to go out at this time of night.”

Phoebe swallowed. Again the worry about how she was going to get home arose, only to be pushed aside. No one seemed to be paying her any attention now, so she probably could have left Gabriel in their capable hands, had the carriage still been outside. She had no intention, though, of venturing out into the frightening dark where these ladies seemed to think danger lurked. She had no problem believing their words.

“Come along, milady,” Violet ordered. “Take one leg and Bessie will take the other. I’ll take his shoulders again. Quick before he comes to his senses.”

Between them, the three of them managed to get Gabriel, who was heavier than he looked, onto a somewhat threadbare settee in a small parlor, in time for the younger woman to return with a tousle-headed boy of about twelve rubbing sleep from his eyes. The young woman threw Phoebe a scornful glance and shouldered her way past to place a cushion under Gabriel’s head with something that looked suspiciously like loving care.

“Now,” Violet said, puffing from the exertion. “You fetch some blankets, Bessie, and put the kettle on. This young lady looks like she could do with a nice cup of sweet tea.” She indicated a chair. “Sit down, my dear, and tell me what happened.”

Phoebe sat down, but she didn’t answer. What was she supposed to say? Did these women even know how Gabriel came by the money he used to support them? If she said anything, would she be giving away his secret? Damn him for having fainted just when she needed him.

Bessie hurried off, and Phoebe closed her eyes as exhaustion draped itself over her. It was, after all, still the middle of the night and she’d had very little sleep. Best to err on the side of caution. “I’m afraid I don’t really know what happened.”

Violet nodded. “We’ll find out when he comes to himself. I’ve smelling salts but I won’t use them yet. Best he’s out for the count for the moment.”

Phoebe looked back at Gabriel. His face wasn’t quite so gray now, and she could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed. That was a relief. She’d been starting to think the possibility still existed of her being charged with murder.

Bessie returned with the tea, and a large pound cake, at the same time as her daughter. This young woman took up a position on a low stool beside Gabriel’s head, staring down fixedly into his face. She seemed very proprietorial.

Doctor Armstrong couldn’t have lived far off, for he was with them within ten minutes, by which time they’d all drunk their tea and Phoebe had eaten three slices of cake and tried very hard not to say anything she shouldn’t.

A tall, thin man in his forties with straggly graying hair, the doctor arrived carrying a well-worn black bag that matched his equally well-worn suit of clothes.

“Yann tells me you’ve a patient for me,” were his first words as he entered.

The four women parted to allow him a view of Gabriel still unconscious on the settee, and, without another word, he set about examining him.

Phoebe stood back silently in a corner, with somewhat mixed feelings.

Gabriel began to stir as the doctor carried out his examination, but she stayed where she was, instinct telling her he needed to see the faces of those he knew. He also probably didn’t need reminding that she was the one who’d done this to him. Not that he hadn’t deserved it, creeping into her bedroom in the middle of the night. She was not going to feel guilty about this. Probably.

The doctor seemed skilled, despite his shabby appearance. He removed her makeshift sling and, with total disregard for Gabriel’s expensive clothing, produced scissors with which to cut the sleeve of his coat and shirt up to the shoulder in order to get access to his arm.

Peering around the ladies, Phoebe saw the arm was already swollen and reddened. It would very soon go purple with bruising. To match his face. Doctor Armstrong’s firm fingers felt up and down it, tutting as he did so. “Both bones are broken and misaligned,” he said, looking up and addressing the girl with the walking stick. “I’ll need to pull them back into line, and then I’ll need thin slices of wood and bandages to make a splint. Off you go, Miss Eliza, and find the things I need. I know you’ll have them stored from when I had to set that fractured ankle on the last child His Lordship brought here.”

So he was used to being called to help. He must be the regular orphanage doctor. If he was even a real, qualified doctor. Lots of practitioners were not, as she well knew. It was to be hoped this one was.

Eliza threw Phoebe a resentful glance, even though Phoebe was still hanging back out of the way, and hurried off as fast as she could on her lame leg. The boy followed her, perhaps hoping to find some sort of edible reward for having been disturbed in the middle of the night and sent running for the doctor. As Eliza had taken the tea tray and the cake with her, he was probably more than just hopeful.

Gabriel’s eyes opened and his gaze met Phoebe’s over the doctor’s shoulder. For a moment he looked surprised, before recognition dawned. “You’re still here?” He’d regained some of his old cockiness, if that was what you could have called it.