Page 151 of A Perilous Passion

Her mother said, “I know all about dueling, even though you gentlemen pretend it no longer goes on. Was Lord Culverdale injured, as well?”

Perfect. He’d far rather Mrs. Allston believed her own version of the truth.

Catching Charlotte’s eye again, he said, “He was, but not so gravely as I. No doubt he’ll put about some concocted story to explain his embarrassing injury.”

Mrs. Allston huffed. “You aristocrats with your honorable code of silence. Did you not even have a physician on hand? For you appear greatly in need of one.”

Rafe tilted his head toward the parlor sofa. Instantly understanding, Charlotte helped him to it, and he sank gratefully onto the cushions, stretching his bad leg out before him. It was starting to lose feeling. The tourniquet must come off as soon as possible.

Charlotte’s aunt stepped forward. “Sister, allow me,” she said. “I’ve heard Dr. Campaign’s lectures and have read a little in his book of remedies. I’ll soon know if the earl needs more help than we can give. Pray, get Adam to undress him—with your permission, my lord—and put him in my bed. As soon as he’s comfortable, Adam can light the fire up there, and I’ll come up to examine the wound.”

A look of astonishment passed between mother and daughter. Evidently, they were not used to Flora taking charge.

Rafe set his teeth against the pain as an elderly manservant was called to help him upstairs. Blast it all. He wished he’d been permitted to remain on the sofa.

After a grim struggle up the seemingly endless steps, he was helped into a bed, undressed, and engulfed in a clean but rough night shirt, rolled up to expose his bad leg. The wound felt hot and raw, but little blood had escaped from under the makeshift bandages, which must be a good thing.

As he lay staring up at the pitted plaster ceiling, he thanked Fortune for preserving him and questioned his folly in attempting to take down Culverdale alone. He dreaded to think what would have happened, had Charlotte and her maid not been there.

Charlotte was his guardian angel, no matter what her father might have done. If she’d deliberately changed her identity, she must want to distance herself from her past. After tonight, he was in her debt. He owed her the benefit of the doubt, at the very least.

After far too long a wait, she came in, dressed in her nightgown and bundled up in a thick woolen shawl. As she stood by the bed, he crept his hand out from under the covers and grasped hers. He held on tight, concerned at her pallor. Now that the shock of their adventure was over, she must be feeling faint.

The maid bustled in with hot water and towels, while the bewildered manservant fetched and lit as many lamps as would fit in the modest room.

Aunt Flora came in when all was prepared, with Charlotte’s mama hovering in her wake. After a cursory glance at his leg, Flora ordered everyone to stand aside and be quiet while she worked.

Rafe bore the probing and cleansing of his wound with as much fortitude as he could muster against the pain. His physician proclaimed, in a very professional way, that the limb must be elevated and the tourniquet gradually removed, lest gangrene or infection set in. Mrs. Allston was sent off for cushions, while Flora clinked about under the bed, emerging triumphantly with a bottle labeled Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Famous Nostrum for Bloody Wounds.

He rolled his eyes. Another quack remedy? He’d already had a taste of the stuff Charlotte gave him to reduce his reaction to horses. Admittedly, the potion had worked—his reaction to the hired horse earlier had been confined to that one short spell in Charlotte’s garden—but it had tasted vile, and he dreaded to think what it would do to his insides if forced to drink a large amount.

After a close examination of his cleaned wound, Flora said, “I believe the ball’s passed right through the flesh. There’s nothing lodged in the hole. I’ll dab the wound with Ephraim’s nostrum and seal the edges with cobweb, if someone doesn’t mind fetching some.”

Jenny curtsied and hurried out of the room.

“Oh dear,” Flora said sympathetically. “You must be in considerable pain. No, don’t deny it, your lips are quite white with the strain. I must warn you, this medication will sting. You’re not teetotal, I take it?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Lucinda, the brandy, if you please. Bring two glasses—I think Charlotte has need of some, too.”

Having given her orders, she dived under the bed again, and after a deal of clinking and muttering, another bottle was retrieved, which she claimed to be a painkiller.

“How many bottles have you got under there?” Charlotte’s mother asked with a frown. “Are you planning to start a pharmacy?”

Not too many more, he hoped. It would be ironic if he survived a shooting, only to be poisoned by a plethora of quack remedies.

Flora colored, and replied, “You’ll thank me for them one day. The doctor has written an excellent treatise on domestic and emergency medicine.” She turned back to him. “Sir, I’m going to apply the physick to your leg. As I said, it will hurt. Do you want something to bite on?”

And look like a coward in front of Charlotte? He’d rather die.

The noxious-smelling liquor was applied, and he struggled not to crush Charlotte’s hand with his, but soon mastered himself and fell back against his pillows, closing his eyes.

Gradually, his mind began to drift as the brandy—of which he’d been given a plentiful dose—took effect and the pain eased. He was aware that activity in the room had lessened, although he could still hear movement going on downstairs.

Flora disappeared, then returned to his side. As he wafted in and out of consciousness, he heard her telling Charlotte, “We’re drying out the earl’s clothes, and Jenny will sew up the rent in his breeches. We’ve hidden his weapons, lest anyone demand access to the house to search. If anyone inquires, anyone in authority, that is, we’re going to tell them Beckport—”

“Mr. Seabourne, please, Aunt,” Charlotte reminded her. “Even in private, we must use his alias.”