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A half-hearted attempt was conducted with a bloodied shirt. “Can’t…” A groan. “Hurts too much, and I’m certain Miss Beaujeu won’t faint at the sight of my handsomeness. Made of stern stuff, your governess.”
His stern-stuffed governess bit her lip, eyes wide, but it was true that the crease to her brow looked to be more one of concern at the gory wound rather than appreciation of Hugh’s muscled torso.
“Can I help? That appears…painful.”
“Not unless you have a special cure-all governess salve?”
“I do, actually. An apothecary in Piccadilly makes it to my recipe and it’s healed many a charge’s injuries – grazed elbows, head lacerations and burns from curling irons.”
Hugh grinned. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind–”
“Yes, she would,” snapped Rhys. “Miss Beaujeu had a fright today and–”
“No, not at all. I’ll return in one moment.” And off she hastened to the stairs, a light sway to her gait.
Rhys swivelled with a glare. “What are you playing at?”
“Me? I’ve been shot! She has a cure.”
With a narrow of eye, Rhys prowled over. “I’m surprised you haven’t been shot more often with all your meddling.”
“Hmm. We never did discuss that…scene I witnessed in here during the ball.”
“There was no scene.”
“Looked like a rather piquant scene to me,” he drawled. “Apologies for interrupting but try the library next time. Softer couch.”
Rhys scowled. “Please tell me you’ve not made use of my library couch in any way.”
“I’ve not made use of your library couch in any way.” Hugh dabbed at a trail of blood. “But my vocation, as you know, is one of lies.” He winked.
Rhys was sorely tempted to add another wound to his heir.
But Miss Beaujeu might insist on tending to it.
“Here it is…” She scampered in with a vast jar of what appeared to be glutinous brown sludge.
Divine retribution?
Hugh reared. “Er…”
“Don’t be a child,” scorned Miss Beaujeu. “One of my charges was so busy ogling Lord Byron that she walked into the Doric column of Number Five Grosvenor Square. Blood everywhere and she was obliged to have this applied thrice daily but it healed in no time. And without a scar.” She peered at his chest. “’Tis a pity no one has ever used it on you before.”
Unscrewing the cap, a whiff of the Thames at low tide infiltrated the room.
Rhys smirked.
Then didn’t – as with graceful fingers, she smoothed a wodge onto Hugh’s wound.
“Ouch! Has that got alcohol in it?” the patient wailed.
“My charges make less fuss,” she muttered, now slathering the stuff on like butter to bread. “Tell me, Mr Cadwalader, how did this transpire?”
Oh, hell. Please, no.
But too late.
Hugh embarked upon a tale of truly epic proportions – the inevitable climbing of rose trellis, skulking on exterior windowsills, a pistol-wielding Austrian diplomat and his scantily clad lamenting wife, a knödel dumpling of all things, before culminating in a duel at dawn.
