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Chapter Eighteen
Thomas felt as though someone was trying to drive an ice pick through his skull when he awoke.
“Oh…” he moaned, lifting a heavy hand to his head. The weight proved even more disorienting, and the world swam in front of him. He felt as though he might be sick.
“Steady, there,” came a low voice from overhead. “You’ve been through quite the ordeal.”
Thomas blinked several times. He was at last able to make out the kindly face of an elderly, bespectacled gentleman. “Who—”
“My name is Henry Jones. I’m a physician. I was strolling through the nearby park when you were attacked. After the Constable chased off the assailants—who, I’m afraid, managed to evade capture—I offered to bring you back to my lodgings so that you might recover.”
Thomas heard only about half of this. He still felt too disoriented to make much sense of anything.
There was one thing that would not leave his mind, however. “The footman,” he managed, “did he…?”
Henry’s face pinched in confusion, before settling into something regretful. “Ah. I don’t…other than the attackers, there did not seem to be anyone else present at the scene of the crime. Is there anything you might be able to share with the Constable that might help this man?”
“I…yes. Hopefully. I can only try, at the very least.”
Henry left long enough to fetch the Constable who had remained nearby, waiting for Thomas to wake up. The Constable settled himself on the little stool beside Thomas’ bed. With as much detail as he could remember, Thomas recounted the attack, though he was certain that in the chaos of the moment, several important details had gone over his head.
“This footman,” the Constable said, “he was attacked also?”
“One of the men was holding a knife to his throat.”
“There were no bodies recovered from the scene. Nor did we find anyone else nearby who had suffered injury. Was it possible he escaped on his own, but ran away out of fright?”
Thomas tried to make his brain work to consider the matter. His thoughts still felt heavy, foggy. Was the footman the type to have just ran away and abandoned him to the attackers?
“I don’t know,” Thomas admitted at last. “He was employed by my family, yes. But I’ve only recently returned to London. I would imagine you would need to speak to my brother Gerard to get a full idea of his character.”
The Constable jotted something down on a little notepad. “Your Brother. Where might we find him?”
Thoughts of Gerard brought with them the reminder of what Thomas was meant to be doing right now. He tried to sit further upright, but a wave of dizziness hit him with such strength, his head flopped right back onto the thin pillow. “Elvington Manor. We were meant to meet and discuss some…family business, I suppose you could say. He’s probably wondering what’s become of me.”
At the mention of ‘Elvington Manor,’ Henry straightened up in apparent surprise. Had he not known who Thomas was?
Of course, he wouldn’t. To him, I am just a well-to-do gentleman who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Thomas couldn’t help the swell of goodwill toward Henry at the realization. With no obvious ulterior motives, this man had not hesitated to jump in and offer his assistance to help a fellow human.
The Constable looked surprised to learn Thomas hailed from Elvington Manor as well, but there was a guardedness to his face that piqued Thomas’ interest, and not necessarily in a good way.
“I’ve said something to make you suspicious,” Thomas said, before he could think better of it. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed. “What does me being the Duke of Elvington have to do with the situation at hand?”
“Well, Your Grace,” said the Constable, after a long moment of deliberation. “I will admit the circumstances do strike me as rather suspicious. Your Father, the late Duke of Elvington, met his end at the hands of carriage bandits as well… in that very same alleyway.”
