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“I think they might need it more in there,” he said, nodding toward the closed door.
“Jem’s already bringing it, my lord.”
“Where the hell is Bertie?”
The new footman looked at him uneasily. “He should be back at any moment.”
He washed his hands, frowning as the bowl of water turned red, and then he heard a quiet moan. Enough was enough. He rose and pushed open the door, ignoring Mrs. Harkins’s hiss of outrage.
She lay there, her eyes closed, her face creased in pain. His little spy, Russell’s daughter, moaned softly. Bryony. Was Bryony Russell going to die in his bed?
Mrs. Harkins had removed her hideous dress and most of the ridiculous undergarments women found it necessary to wear, and she lay in her blood-stained shift, her left arm on a layer of toweling that was soaking up the steady flow of blood. He stared at the wound in disbelief.
“Someone’s shot her!” he said, moving to her side and staring down in shock.
“So it seems, my lord,” Mrs. Harkins said. “Would you have any idea how this came to happen?”
He jerked his eyes up to look at the woman. Anyone else would fire her for her impertinence. “Of course not!” he snapped. “Why would you ask?”
Mrs. Harkins didn’t answer, turning to one of the maids. “Emma, you take her clothes down and have Becky start soaking them in cold water. Her underthings are of very fine quality—it would be a shame to have them ruined.”
He spared a moment to imagine those very fine underthings on her body, taking them off one by one, and then concentrated on the business at hand. “I don’t think we
can wait for the doctor,” he said, ignoring Mrs. Harkins’s efforts to get between him and Bryony. He simply moved her out of the way very gently before he took the seat someone had pulled up next to the bed. “Where’s Jem with the water?” he demanded.
“Right here, yer lordship,” the boy announced from the door, carrying a large, steaming pot of water. One of the new maids followed with a pile of fresh toweling and a large bowl.
“Bring them here.”
“Your lordship, you can’t—” Mrs. Harkins said.
“Be quiet. I might need your help, but I’ll have you bodily removed if you get in my way.”
Mrs. Harkins subsided with a sniff.
He washed the blood away, taking a good look before it welled up again. As unlikely as it seemed, it appeared his little spy truly had been shot.
Whoever had done it had been at a fair distance, or the bullet would have gone straight through her arm. As it was, the blasted doctor was going to have to dig it out, and it was going to hurt like hell. At least the man had been a poor shot—he hadn’t managed to hit any vital organs. That still didn’t mean she was safe—more people died of the infection that could follow such an injury rather than the injury itself.
He wiped the blood away again. The bullet was lodged in her upper arm, and he couldn’t tell whether it had broken the bone or not. He pressed the cloth against the wound to slow the bleeding and she moaned again. He glanced up, and found she’d turned to look at him, her eyes full of pain.
“What…?” The word was choked out.
“Don’t talk,” he said, his voice steady. “It’ll only wear you out, and you’re going to need all your strength. The doctor is coming, though I have no idea why it’s taking him so bloody long, and he’ll get the bullet out and you’ll soon be right as rain.”
“Bullet?” she gasped.
“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet? Yes, you’ve been shot, and when you’re feeling better you’re going to tell me whom you’ve annoyed so much that they decided to take a gun to you. In the meantime be still, and if the sawbones doesn’t come soon enough I’ll dig the bullet out myself.” He wasn’t ready to consider the fact that she was lying there because of him. More than likely there was some connection between this and Cecily’s disappearance. And he’d wanted to get her away from him, away from danger. He simply hadn’t had the time.
He turned his head. “Collins!” he shouted. “Bring me the goddamned brandy.”
Collins had just appeared with the tea tray, and he started to turn back, when Kilmartyn snapped, “Leave the tea. That’s for me. The brandy is for Mrs. Greaves.” Funny how easily that false name came to him. Maybe he was better off thinking of her by that name. Because Bryony suited her too well. Bryony was soft and sweet and delicious. Mrs. Greaves was dangerous.
“Yes, my lord.” Collins set the tea tray down on the table.
He turned back to the woman lying in the bed. “I thought that I’d better stay sober in case I’m the one who’s going to operate on you.”
She managed a hoarse cry, and he reached over and touched her face, stroking the side of it with a gentle hand. “Don’t worry, my angel,” he said under his breath, for her ears only, “I promise to take good care of you.”
