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Daphne climbed in beside him, slapped the reins and sped off into the night.
“What if the servants are awake?” Pierce muttered as Daphne half dragged, half carried him up the stairs at Markham.
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take.” She urged him toward the landing, praying they would reach his bedchamber without incident. The ride home had been a nightmare, with Pierce in a semi-conscious state. Never before had Daphne been so grateful to arrive anywhere as she’d been when they passed through Markham’s iron gates.
With a physical strength she never knew she possessed, Daphne maneuvered Pierce down the hall and into his chambers. She locked the door behind them, her insides wrenching with apprehension as her husband collapsed on the bed.
She went to him at once, flinging aside her blood-soaked cape, and gingerly peeling off his coat and shirt. Then she fetched a basin of water and went to work cleansing the wounded area, simultaneously assessing the severity of the injury.
“A flesh wound.” Despite Pierce’s condition, he recognized the panicked look on Daphne’s face and attempted to assuage it. Averting his head, he stared dazedly at his oozing shoulder. “The bullet just grazed me.”
“Thank God. Still, you’ve lost a great deal of blood.” Schooling her features, Daphne continued to wash the wound, determined to conceal her distress.
Her hands shook as she rinsed out the cloth, watched the basin water turn a sickly shade of red.
“Daphne,” Pierce stayed her with his other hand, “I’m fine. Just weak.”
“I’ll bind the area,” she said in a quavery voice, rising to walk to his double chest. “It will help stop the bleeding.” She took out several clean handkerchiefs and returned to the bed. Carefully, she wrapped the injured shoulder, putting as much pressure on it as she dared without causing Pierce undue pain.
Her own head spinning, Daphne fought for composure, crossing the room to pour Pierce a brandy. “This will help the pain,” she whispered.
Gratefully, Pierce tossed off the drink, relieved as the spirits did their work, dulling the agony to a dull, tolerable throb.
“Is it easing?” Daphne asked, stroking Pierce’s jaw with cold, shaking fingers.
He nodded, turning his lips into her palm. “I’ve survived worse.” His glazed stare fell on his discarded coat. “Thompson. He’s expecting me in London.”
“Thompson?” A pucker formed between Daphne’s brows. “Mr. Thompson? The jeweler?”
Pierce gave her a slight smile. “Um-hum. The one who bought your brooch for so unexpectedly high a price.”
“How did you know—?” Daphne broke off, realization dawning on her face. “You were there.”
“Not only there, but the proud owner of that hideous pin.” A chuckle, despite his muddled senses. “You were remarkable for a novice.”
“Thompson.” Daphne was thinking aloud. “He’s your contact, isn’t he? The one who buys the jewels you take.”
“Passionate, beautiful, and clever.”
“That’s how you knew I donated the money to the school.” Rapidly, the pieces fell into place. “You followed me from Mr. Thompson’s shop. How could you be certain I’d choose his store in which to peddle Mama’s brooch?”
“I couldn’t.” Pierce caressed her fingertips. “ ’Twas not even a gamble, but a lucky twist of fate.”
“When is Mr. Thompson expecting you?”
“Before dawn.”
“And which workhouse had you planned to visit?”
Silence.
“Pierce, tell me.”
“The Faithful Heart,” was the reluctant reply.
“In the East End. I know the place.” Daphne inhaled sharply. “I’ll wash and change clothes. Then, I’ll take our booty, plus a bit extra, ride to London and perform both errands. I’ll be back by midday.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll tell the staff you took ill and need complete privacy and bed rest. That way you won’t be disturbed during my absence. Have I omitted anything?”
“Yes.” Pierce struggled to a sitting position. “I have no intention of allowing you to go.”
