First Comes Scandal

by Julia Quinn

  “I can do that,” Georgie said.

  He looked at her.

  “His shirt. I can cut it off. That way you can tend to his face while I’m doing it.”

  “Good idea.” Nicholas handed her the scissors.

  Georgie grinned and got to work.

  “It would go faster with proper shears,” Nicholas said.

  “I’ve got it,” she assured him, and indeed she did.

  Nicholas turned his attention back to Oakes’s forehead. The main wound definitely needed cleaning. He took out the small flask of whiskey he kept in his medical kit and sloshed some on a handkerchief.

  “This will—”

  “Sting, I know,” Freddie said grimly.

  Nicholas gave him a vaguely approving nod. It was possibly the most sensible thing he’d said all night.

  Freddie flinched while Nicholas cleaned the blood from his face, but that was to be expected. Nicholas had never seen someone not flinch when presented with whiskey on an open wound. At his side, Georgiana was still working diligently on the shirt, making tiny cuts with the tiny scissors, moving in a perfectly (and unnecessarily) straight line.

  “Almost done,” she said.

  Nicholas could hear the smile in her voice.

  “I’m not sure this needs stitches,” he said to Freddie, peering more closely at the wound, “but you’re probably not going to want to show your face at the club anytime soon,” he said.

  “That bad?” Freddie asked.

  “It’s more the ink. It doesn’t come off as easily as the blood.”

  “He does look diseased,” Thamesly said.

  “And you’re sure the cat didn’t bite you, lick you, anything like that?” Nicholas asked.

  “Is it dangerous to be licked by a cat?” Georgie inquired.

  “Only if it’s in an open wound.”

  “Thank goodness,” she said. “I’d be dead in a week.”

  Freddie muttered something under his breath. Nicholas could not fully make out the words, but it was enough for him to splash a little extra whiskey into the wound.

  “You were saying about the cat?” Nicholas murmured.

  Freddie glared up at him. “I am quite sure it did not bite, lick, spit, piss—”

  “Done!” Georgie announced, expertly cutting Freddie off as she made her final snip with a flourish. She looked over at Nicholas. “Now what do we do?”

  “If you would avert your eyes,” Thamesly said. He motioned wanly toward Freddie’s now bare chest.

  “I can’t treat him if I can’t see him,” Georgie said.

  “Mr. Rokesby is here to treat him.”

  “And I am his assistant.” She gave Nicholas a rather fierce look. “I am your assistant, am I not?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. And he meant it. She was doing a brilliant job. “We’ll need something to act as a splint.” Nicholas looked up at the two butlers. Thamesly was holding the lantern, so he directed his request to Wheelock. “Could you find a stick or something about yea-long?”

  Wheelock squinted as he took in the measurement Nicholas had indicated with his hands. “Right away, sir.”

  Nicholas turned back to his patient but spoke to Georgiana. “We need to set the bone before we splint it.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “Move closer to his head,” Nicholas directed. “I need you to hold his upper arm. Firmly. It is vital that you keep him immobile. I’ll pull on the lower part of his arm to create traction. That will separate the ends of the bone so that I can fit them back into the proper alignment.”

  She nodded. “I can do it.”

  “Could one of them”—Freddie flicked his head toward the butlers—“hold my shoulder?”

  “It’s Miss Bridgerton or no one,” Nicholas said sharply. “Your choice.”

  Freddie hesitated a moment too long, so Nicholas said, “It’s a two-person job.”

  It wasn’t, strictly speaking, but it was certainly easier with two people than one.

  “Fine,” Freddie ground out. “Do your worst.”

  “I should think you’d want our best,” Georgie quipped. She shot Nicholas an adorable little smile, and he realized—She’s enjoying this.

  No, she was really enjoying it.

  He smiled back.

  “Are you ready?” he asked her.

  She nodded.

  He looked down at Freddie. “It’s going to hurt.”

  “It already does.”

  “It’s going to hurt worse. Do you want something to bite down on?”

  “Don’t need it,” Freddie scoffed.

  Nicholas brought his face closer to that of his patient. “Are you sure?”

  “I . . . think so?” Freddie was starting to look concerned.

  Nicholas turned back to Georgie. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  “On the count of three. One, two—”

  Oakes let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  “We didn’t even do anything yet,” Nicholas said in disgust.

  “It hurts.”

  “Stop being such a baby,” Georgie said.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Freddie said, “I’d think you were enjoying this.”

  Georgie leaned in close, baring her teeth. “Oh, I am,” she said. “I am definitely enjoying this.”

  “Bloodthirsty—”

  “Don’t say it,” Nicholas warned.

  “If it makes you feel better,” Georgie said to Freddie, “my enjoyment is primarily of an academic nature. It has very little to do with you.”

  “Speak for yourself, Miss Georgiana,” came the voice of Thamesly. “I am enjoying Mr. Oakes’s pain and distress immensely.”

  Wheelock’s head popped into view. “As am I.”

  “The merry band of butlers,” Freddie muttered.

  “Quite,” Wheelock said. “In fact, I would go so far to say that I am as merry as I have ever been.”

  “Not such a difficult achievement,” Nicholas was compelled to point out. “You are not generally known for your merry countenance.”

  Wheelock smiled, so broadly that Nicholas nearly flinched from the sight of it. “Good God,” he said, “I didn’t know you had so many teeth.”

  “All thirty-two, sir,” Wheelock said, tapping against an incisor with his knuckle. “One does not need to attend medical school to understand the importance of good oral hygiene.”

  “Can we get back to it?” Freddie asked, all piss and petulance.

  “We haven’t even started,” Nicholas said. “You screamed last time before we could do anything.”

  “Fine. I’ll take something to bite down on.”

  Everyone paused and looked about.

  “I have a stick,” Wheelock said. He held up a medium-sized twig. “I took the liberty of collecting it when I was looking for a splint. Which I also have.” He held up medium-thick stick, a few inches shorter than Oakes’s ulna. Nicholas nodded approvingly. It would be perfect.

  Freddie jerked his head to indicate that he wanted the twig. Wheelock brought it to his mouth pointy-end first.

  “Wheelock,” Nicholas scolded.

  Wheelock sighed and made a great show of turning the twig the proper way. Oakes took it between his teeth and grunted for Nicholas to continue.

  “Ready, Georgie?”

  She nodded.

  “One . . . Two . . . Three.”

  There was a wrenching groan on the part of Freddie, but Nicholas got the bone into place on the first try. “Excellent,” he said to himself, checking the limb to be sure. “Splint?”

  Wheelock handed him the stick.

  “Can one of you rip his shirt in two? We’ll use one part for the stick and the other to fashion a sling.”

  “I can cut it,” Georgie said.

  “It’ll be quicker this way,” Nicholas told her. “I would have just torn it before, but I was concerned about jostling the break.”

  “Oh. Good. I would hate to think all my work was
for nothing. Or worse”—she paused to make a snip in the edge of the fabric to make it easier to rip—“that you were just giving me something to do for the sake of giving me something to do.”

  “Not at all. You were indispensable.”

  She beamed, and for a moment Nicholas stopped breathing. It was the dead of night, pitch black save for the lantern and the moon.

  And her smile.

  When Georgiana Bridgerton smiled like that, he wanted to reach into the sky and grab down the sun, just to hand it to her on a platter.

  If only to prove that it did not compare.

  “Nicholas?”

  What was happening to him?

  “Nicholas?”

  This was Georgie, whom he’d never thought to marry. Georgie, who, when he did think to marry her, had said no.

  Georgie, who—

  “Sir!”

  He blinked. Wheelock was glaring at him.

  “Miss Bridgerton has called your name at least twice,” the butler said.

  “Sorry,” Nicholas mumbled. “I was just . . . thinking . . .” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. What is it?”

  “The splint,” Georgie said, holding up a piece of Freddie’s shirt.

  “Right. Of course.” Nicholas took it from her and looked down, both eager and relieved to have something medical upon which to focus.

  He wrapped the arm, using the cloth to hold the makeshift stick in place. “You’ll want to see a doctor as soon as possible,” he said to Freddie. “He’ll be able to get you sorted with a proper splint.”

  “You don’t think Mr. Oakes will wish to use a branch for the duration of his convalescence?” Georgie teased.

  “It would work if it had to,” Nicholas said with half a smile. “But he’ll be more comfortable with something other than needs-must medicine.”

  “Well, I’m impressed,” Georgie said, watching Nicholas as he fashioned a sling for Freddie’s arm. “Anyone can set an arm in the comfort of their home.”

  “Anyone?” Nicholas murmured.

  “Anyone with a little training,” she amended. “It takes talent to do it in the dead of night with nothing but a stick and a lantern.”

  “And whiskey,” Nicholas said, holding up the flask in salute.

  “I thought that was for his face.”

  He took a swig. “And to salute a job well done.”

  “In that case . . .” She held out her hand.

  “That’s right,” he said. “You’ve never had it.”

  “Mr. Rokesby,” Thamsely said with palpable disapproval. “Surely you are not offering spirits to Miss Bridgerton.”

  Nicholas looked up at the butler. “We’re outside in the dead of night, tending to a man without a shirt, and that’s what you object to?”

  Thamesly stared at him for a long beat and then snatched the flask right out of his hand. “As long as I have a drink first,” he muttered. He popped one back, then handed it to Georgie. “Miss.”

  “Thank you, Thamesly,” she said, her eyes darting back and forth between the butler and Nicholas as if to say—Did that really just happen?

  She took a dainty sip before handing the flask back to Nicholas. “That’s vile.”

  “You get used to it.”

  “Some for me?” Freddie asked.

  “No,” everyone said in unison.

  “Buggers,” Freddie said sullenly.

  “Language, Mr. Oakes,” Thamesly said.

  “Please don’t step on me again,” Freddie moaned.

  “Keep your mouth shut and we have a deal.”

  Nicholas caught Georgie’s eye, and they both stifled a laugh.

  “If I might interrupt,” Wheelock said, “we do need to decide what to do with him. Much as I’d like to leave him to the wolves, we cannot simply abandon him.”

  “There are wolves?” Freddie asked.

  “You’re speaking, Mr. Oakes,” Thamesly warned.

  “There aren’t wolves,” Georgie said, somewhat impatiently. “Good heavens.”

  “One of us is going to need to see him home,” Nicholas said. “Or at least to a coaching inn. I assume he can take care of himself from there.” He turned to Freddie. “It goes without saying that you will never breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  “If you do,” Georgie put in, “I’ll tell everyone you were felled by a housecat.”

  Freddie looked ready to snarl, but Thamesly nudged him with his toe before he could speak.

  “Load him into the cart,” Thamesly said. “I’ll take him to the Frog and Swan.”

  “Are you sure?” Georgie asked. “It’s a two-hour drive at least. The Musty Duck is much closer.”

  “Best if he’s out of the area,” Thamesly said. “Plus, he’ll be on the main road. It will be easier for him to hire transport to London.”

  Georgie nodded. “If you take the cart, though, how will I . . .” She looked over at Nicholas.

  “I will see you home,” he said. “Wheelock can ride with us, if it makes you more comfortable.”

  “It will make me more comfortable,” Thamesly said.

  “For heaven’s sake, Thamesly,” Georgie said. “Are you worried for me or for my reputation? Because if it’s for me, surely you know that Mr. Rokesby is as honorable a man as you will ever meet. And if it is for my reputation, my God, what is left to ruin?”

  Thamesly regarded her for a long moment, then stepped on Freddie’s leg again.

  “Bloody hell! I didn’t say a word!”

  “That one,” Thamesly said, “was just for fun.”

  Chapter 11

  “A word, Mr. Wheelock?” Georgie placed her hand on the butler’s arm before he could go to help Nicholas and Thamesly load Freddie Oakes onto the cart.

  “Of course, Miss Bridgerton. What is it?”

  She gave her head a little tick, motioning to the side. “In private, if you don’t mind.” She didn’t think that Nicholas could hear her, but better to be safe than sorry.

  Wheelock nodded his assent, and they moved a few steps away.

  “Ehrm . . .” How to start? What to say? She settled on: “I have an unusual request.”

  Wheelock said nothing, but his brows rose, signaling that she should continue.

  Georgie cleared her throat. This was far more difficult than it should have been. Or maybe it was exactly as difficult as it should be. She’d made a big mistake this afternoon, and no one had ever said that fixing one’s mistakes was supposed to be easy.

  “You might be aware that Mr. Rokesby has asked me to marry him,” she said.

  “I was not aware,” Wheelock replied, his face betraying no emotion, “but I am not surprised.”

  “Right, well . . .” She cleared her throat again, trying to decide how best to continue. She couldn’t very well tell Wheelock that she had rejected the proposal. He loved Nicholas like a son. In fact, she’d always suspected that the youngest Rokesby was his favorite of the brood.

  “I didn’t give him an answer,” she fibbed. Not the correct answer, at least.

  Again, Wheelock’s brows rose. This time, Georgie thought, because he judged her to be either insane or a fool for not having accepted Nicholas immediately.

  “I should like to have the opportunity to speak with him about it this evening,” she said.

  “It cannot wait until morning?”

  She shook her head, hoping he would not press for further clarification.

  “May I assume that you do not plan to disappoint him?”

  “You may,” Georgie said quietly.

  Wheelock gave a slow, considering nod. “It would be difficult for you to find the right moment if I accompany you to Aubrey Hall.”

  “That was my thought.”

  “But you don’t want Mr. Thamesly to be aware of the lapse of propriety.”

  “That was also my thought.”

  Wheelock’s lips pursed. “I try to live by a certain set of rules and standards, and this, Miss Bridgerton, goes against almost all of them.” />
  “Only almost?” she said hopefully.

  “Indeed,” he said, quite clearly against his better judgment. He sighed, but it was overdramatized and obviously for her benefit. “I shall devise some sort of nonsense once Mr. Thamesly has departed with the cart. You shall have your moment alone with Mr. Rokesby.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wheelock.”

  He stared down his nose at her. “Do not make me regret my decision, Miss Bridgerton.”

  “I would never,” Georgie vowed.

  True to his word, once Thamesly rolled away with a disgruntled Freddie Oakes sitting next to him in the seat of the cart, Wheelock “noticed” that his mount was favoring his right foreleg.

  Nicholas looked over from where he was checking his own mount’s saddle. “Are you certain? She seemed unhampered on the way over.”

  “I thought I—” Wheelock pointed. “There. Did you see that?”

  Georgie didn’t see a thing, and she was quite certain Nicholas didn’t either, but Wheelock gave them no opportunity to contribute further to the conversation. “I will have to walk her back,” he said. “We risk injury, otherwise. I don’t think she can take my weight.”

  “No, of course not,” Nicholas murmured. But he looked slightly conflicted since the original plan was for all three of them to ride to Aubrey Hall to drop off Georgie. “I suppose we can all walk to Aubrey Hall, but . . .”

  “We don’t have time,” Wheelock said with a shake of his head. “It’s already too close to sunrise. The servants will be rising soon.”

  “I trust you,” Georgie said to Nicholas. It seemed like the right time to chime in. “And honestly, it’s not like we’ve never been alone together.”

  His blue eyes met hers. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you going to attack and ravish me?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then I’m sure.”

  “Jesus, Georgie,” Nicholas said under his breath.

  “Don’t you scold me for language.” She let out a little huff. “After everything that’s happened tonight, surely I’m entitled.”

  “Of this night,” Wheelock pronounced, “we shall never speak.”