by Olivia Drake
Stifling his frustration, he watched the performance and found himself enjoying it. He chuckled along with everyone else as the pony-mounted jesters engaged in a chaotic battle, riding in circles and shooting at each other with toy pistols. To make the spectacle more real, there were occasional flashes of gunpowder that elicited shrieks of thrilled alarm from the audience.
Years ago as a young man, newly wed to a lady who preferred ballrooms to circuses, he would never have attended such a silly display. But seeing it with Tessa and Sophy changed all that. It transported him back to his childhood when he’d come here with his grandmother, who’d had the same fun-loving spirit as Tessa.
Just then, he noticed that Sophy was leaning too far over the ledge for his comfort. He bent forward with the intention of drawing her back to safety. At the very moment he moved, a sharp jolt struck his upper arm.
Knocked off balance, he bumped into Tessa and nearly jarred her from her seat. An instant later, a starburst of hot pain permeated his shoulder.
Glancing down, he saw a neat hole in his blue sleeve that was rapidly turning dark with blood. Good God, he’d been shot!
Tessa gave him a startled look. “What—?”
He seized hold of her and Sophy and thrust them to the floor. Sophy cried out in protest while Tessa protectively put her arms around the little girl.
“Stay down,” Guy urged. “Don’t move.”
Keeping one hand on their crouched forms, he sat up to take a quick glance around the arena. He fought off an encroaching wooziness and made himself concentrate. The show was in full swing with the jesters racing their ponies hither and yon and pretend-shooting each other. With all the tumult of the mock battle, the audience continued to cheer without having noticed that one of the shots had been genuine.
But Guy noticed. His arm stung like the very devil. He pressed a folded handkerchief to the wound to stanch the blood saturating his sleeve. All the while, he scanned the pit and the spectators, seeking the gunman.
The jesters were using fake weapons ingeniously rigged to appear to fire multiple times. Had one of them picked up a real gun by mistake? If it had happened once, it could happen again.
He stood up, intending to shout out to stop the show. A split second later, he saw one pony cut away from the others and trot toward the exit. The rider seemed hell-bent on escape.
That had to be the culprit. He must have realized what he’d done. Damn the blighter to hell! He could have killed Sophy or Tessa.
A rush of rage infused Guy. The intensity of his need to catch the shooter drowned out all pain. He bounded up onto the low ledge, gauged the distance down to the sawdust pit, and braced himself to jump.
Chapter 17
Tessa looked up in bewilderment. She couldn’t fathom what could have induced Carlin to thrust them onto the floor, and had been too busy soothing Sophy to ask, but when he leaped onto the ledge and then sprang out of sight, there was no way she was going to obey his order to stay down.
She lifted her head to peer over the wooden barrier. He’d landed in a crouch and now he took off running, keeping to the outer edge of the ring.
What in the world—?
A roustabout dashed forward to intercept the duke. So did one of the riders, who turned his pony into Carlin’s path and forced him to dodge. Viewing the chase as part of the spectacle, the throng thundered its approval.
Sophy tugged on Tessa’s skirt. “I want to watch! Why can’t I see?”
“Shh, dearie. It’s only for a moment.”
As she glanced down at the girl, Tessa spotted a blood-soaked square of cloth lying on the bench. Her eyes rounded in horror. That was Carlin’s handkerchief; she’d seen him draw it out and clap it to his shoulder. Quickly she pushed it out of sight so that Sophy wouldn’t notice.
All of a sudden, everything made terrible sense. Carlin had been shot! That must have been when he’d fallen against her. Now she could only guess he’d seen the shooter and had gone after him.
Her heart pounding, she looked out again to see that the duke was arguing with the roustabout, gesturing at his arm, and trying to get past him. Then the big bruiser bobbed his head, and they both took off running toward a small open gate in the ring.
Meanwhile, the performers had gotten wind of the incident and stopped the show, milling around and talking excitedly to one another. Several of them spurred their ponies after Carlin, who had disappeared from the ring.
Awareness rippled among the spectators, followed by cries of shock and fright. It was clear that the news was spreading about someone having been struck by a real bullet, so Tessa decided it would wise to whisk Sophy away at once before panic ensued.
“Come, the show is over. It’s time to return to the carriage.”
“But where’s Papa?” Sophy said with a tragical air. “We can’t leave without him!”
“I promise, he’ll find us. Here, I’ll carry you.”
When Tessa picked her up, Sophy didn’t object but wrapped her small arms around Tessa’s neck. Though Tessa talked cheerily, her worry must have been sensed by the girl because she didn’t whine or fuss. She merely clung tightly as Tessa left the box and made her way through the crush of people gathering in the corridor.
Exiting the building, she blinked at the afternoon sunshine, so much brighter than the interior torchlights. An attendant summoned their vehicle, and they were soon nestled inside after having told the coachman what had happened. The footman went dashing off into the throng to help the duke. Meanwhile, she kept Sophy entertained by discussing which performance had been their favorite, all the while keeping a watch out the window for Carlin.
Where was he? How badly had he been hurt? And how had it all come about? She could only think it must have been a terrible accident.
To her great relief he appeared at last, taking his leave of a stout, fawning gent who kept bowing to him. The footman then assisted the duke into the carriage. Carlin sat down opposite them, his neckcloth tied around his upper arm in a makeshift bandage. The fine linen was stained an alarming red. “Ah, I’ve found you, Lady Monkey. I feared you and Miss James had run away with the circus.”
Sophy stared with saucer eyes. “Papa, why are you bleeding?”
“A mere scratch. Once we arrive home, Jiggs will fix it and I’ll soon be as right as rain.”
The girl seemed satisfied, although Tessa thought he looked entirely too pale beneath his sun-bronzed skin. She could tell that his smile was forced, his manner stiff from pain. He sank against the cushions, using his good arm to support the afflicted one. Although she itched to know if he’d caught the shooter, and how such a mishap could have happened, she thought it best to divert Sophy with reviews of the most amusing acts they’d seen.
It seemed to take forever to reach Grosvenor Square, and from the instant of their arrival, the household was in an uproar. The footman no sooner opened the carriage door and helped them out than he dashed into the house, and a moment later Roebuck came hastening down the front steps to meet the duke halfway.
“Pray lean on me, Your Grace,” the butler said, his usually dignified features taut with shock. “You look to be on the verge of collapse.”
“I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“Don’t argue, Carlin,” Tessa said firmly, having noticed his unsteady gait. “You will accept his help.”
The duke flashed her a grimace; then he grudgingly submitted to the butler’s steadying arm as they all proceeded toward the house. Tessa was a little surprised that Carlin would heed her decree. Either he truly was dizzy, or it had done him good to have his coldhearted proposal rejected.
Once inside, Roebuck barked orders that had the other footmen running for bandages and hot water. Another was dispatched to summon the family physician. In the mysterious way of servants, the news spread like wildfire and in the time that it took for the butler to assist Carlin across the expanse of marble to the grand staircase, a number of the staff had found some excuse to scurry out to
the entrance hall to gawp at their wounded master.
Winnie came dashing down the corridor, and Tessa bent down to give Sophy a kiss on the cheek before transferring her into the nursemaid’s keeping. “Winnie will fetch your tea, dearie, and later I’ll read you a book.”
“I want jam tarts,” Sophy said, ever on the alert for a way around the rules. “A dish big enough for a giant!”
“One tart,” Tessa corrected.
“Two,” Carlin countered, having brushed away Roebuck to take hold of the staircase railing. “A special treat since a girl only celebrates her fifth birthday once.”
“Thank you, Papa, and for taking me to the circus, too.” Without prompting, she flung her arms around his waist and tilted an earnest look up at him. “I hope your booboo is better soon.”
“It shall be, never you fear.”
As he stroked the girl’s hair, the softening of his harsh features brought a lump to Tessa’s throat. These past few days she had used every opportunity to erase the damaging hatred instilled in Sophy by Lord and Lady Norwood, and to replace it with gentle reminders of how kind her papa had been in showing her the parrots even though Sophy had broken his window. He had let her collect feathers in the conservatory, and he loved her enough to take her to the circus for her birthday. Having never known her own father, Tessa was determined that Sophy not feel alone and unloved. Today, seeing the little girl climb into his lap during the tightrope act had been a marvel beyond compare. Nothing had ever touched Tessa’s heart more than fostering a closeness between Carlin and his daughter.
Yet one searing question remained. Now that she’d accomplished her purpose, what else was there to keep her here?
Only the prospect of never seeing him—or Sophy—ever again.
Nevertheless, Tessa knew she could not remain in his employ much longer. Although she loved Guy, the man who had kissed her with such tender passion, she bitterly resented the stern duke who viewed marriage to her as a duty. Ever since her rejection of his callous offer, he had attempted to charm her with books and cream buns. But it was all pretense designed to cajole her into doing his bidding. She would not be duped into accepting him for anything less than love.
And perhaps not even that was enough.
Even if he pledged his undying devotion to her, wedding Carlin had one insurmountable obstacle. It required her to be a duchess. She would become mistress of this grand house, the recipient of bows and curtsies, the receiver of noble visitors, the hostess of balls and dinner parties and who knew what else? She would be pitchforked from the bottom rung of the social ladder all the way to the pinnacle. The very thought was unnerving.
Besides, his cavalier dismissal of her dreams still smarted. Becoming a shop owner can hardly compare to becoming a lady. Of course you must give it all up.
She knew that a career of any sort was forbidden to a duchess. The swells despised even a whiff of trade among its exalted members. Yet all she had ever wanted was to design hats, to own her own millinery, and as the wife of a duke, she would be barred from doing so.
That quandary flew from her mind as she saw Carlin favoring his left arm while carefully mounting the grand staircase. Roebuck shadowed him, and she hastened to follow the two men up the marble steps. For now, nothing else mattered but the need to see to Carlin’s health and comfort.
Jiggs met them at the top of the stairs. With his eye patch and leathery skin, his short legs planted wide, he resembled a miniature pirate. “Well, ain’t ye a pretty sight, Duke? Sent ye off t’ the circus an’ ye come back half dead.”
“Pray don’t hasten my death with any of your blasted remedies.”
“Ye were grateful for ’em that time ye got poisonous sap on yer hand. Darn near blistered yer skin right off.”
“The manchineel tree in Mexico.” Carlin gave a strained chuckle. “And you were grateful when I saved you from being eaten by that shark near Australia. A tough little morsel you’d have been.”
They continued to trade outrageous insults as Jiggs badgered him down the corridor. In the midst of her anxiety, Tessa had to bite her lip to stop the unseemly urge to laugh. The situation was far from amusing, but they did look ridiculous, with tall, broad Carlin leaning on the gnome-like Jiggs.
As they disappeared through an open doorway, Roebuck marched close at their heels. He turned to close the door, but Tessa stuck her foot into the opening, earning herself a rare scowl from the usually stoic butler. “Miss James! You cannot enter the master’s bedchamber.”
She conjured a haughty duchess stare. “I was present when His Grace was shot, and I intend to see to his care. Now step aside.”
“Certainly not. That would be beyond the pale.”
“Let her in,” Carlin called out. “When Miss James gets a bee in her bonnet, there’s no sense trying to stop her.”
Tessa sailed past the perturbed butler, though an antechamber, and into a splendid room fit for a duke. The furnishings were heavy and masculine with chests and tables and a writing desk. Dominating the chamber was a canopied four-poster bed—on a dais, no less—with royal blue hangings and gold silk fringe. A shield above the headboard displayed the Carlin coat of arms, an eagle with outspread wings, flying ribbons, and a ducal coronet.
Carlin sat on a chaise near the hearth, where a maidservant was pumping a bellows to coax the glowing coals into flames. Jiggs had untied the makeshift bandage and was now tugging off the duke’s coat, which Carlin tolerated with a clenched jaw.
A footman delivered a pitcher of hot water, while another brought a quantity of rolled lint along with linen bandages. Both servants found reason to dawdle, no doubt hoping to learn news to relay belowstairs. Mrs. Womble, the stout housekeeper, scurried in with a basket containing a variety of ointments, salves, and other mysterious bottles, and immediately started touting their various restorative properties.
Tessa stood off to the side, wishing there were a service she could contribute to justify her barging in here. Removing her bonnet, she tied knots in the ribbons out of a desire to do something. One thing was certain, she wasn’t budging before knowing how badly Carlin was hurt.
Jiggs cast a baleful glare at the hovering servants. “Out, all o’ ye. This ain’t no Punch-and-Judy show.”
The maidservant scurried from the room at once, as did the footmen, though Roebuck firmed his lips as if to argue. But apparently recalling that this chamber was the valet’s territory, the butler promised to leave a footman stationed outside the door should His Grace require anything. He himself would wait downstairs and bring up the physician the instant he arrived. Even Mrs. Womble was sent on her way by Jiggs, after being assured that he knew all of her remedies and then some.
Once they were gone, Tessa flung her bonnet onto a chair and went to help Jiggs, who was having trouble tugging the duke’s shirt up over his head without hurting his arm. The valet cast her a quick, one-eyed glance, but she was beyond caring what he might think of her presence.
She reached in her pocket for the scissors, then realized she’d left them behind for the excursion to Astley’s. “Pray fetch me a pair of shears,” she told Jiggs. “The shirt is already ruined, so it would be better to cut it off.”
“This’ll be quicker,” he said, whipping out a dagger.
“Give that to Miss James,” Carlin said. “You may be able to spear a grape from a distance of twenty-five yards, but I’d sooner trust her with my neck than you.”
Jiggs chortled as he passed the weapon to Tessa. “Mind, ’tis sharp.”
The small grip fit her hand perfectly. “Is this the knife you used to carve the wooden animals that His Grace gave to Lady Sophy? She plays with them every day.”
“’Tis pleased I am t’ hear it. Mayhap I’ll whittle her a few more.”
As Tessa leaned over Carlin, the blade sliced easily through the front side of the linen garment. Seeing the tightness of pain at the corners of his mouth, she chattered to distract him. “I’ve often thought it would be helpful for men
to have buttons down a shirt. Tell your tailor, and you might start a new style.”
“A novel notion if only I cared a fig for fashion. Blast! Are you trying to kill me, Jiggs?”
Now that the shirt was cut, the valet had lost no time in peeling it off. “’Tis stuck t’ yer hide, is all. There, that’ll do.”
With Carlin’s broad torso bare, Tessa could see the long, ugly gouge on the outside of his upper arm. Blood oozed sluggishly from the wound, and she unrolled a length of soft lint, using it to apply pressure. Her mind grappled with the horror of how much worse the injury might have been. If the bullet had struck just a few inches over, in the middle of his chest … no, that nightmare did not even bear considering.
“Let me see,” Carlin said, craning his neck as Tessa obliged him by lifting the absorbent gauze. “What’s the verdict?”
Jiggs peered closely. “Bullet plowed a deep furrow, but went straight through, so I won’t be needin’ t’ dig it out. Demmed lucky, I say. Beggin’ yer pardon, milady.”
“Miss James,” she murmured.
“Might as well accept milady as your due,” Carlin advised. “Or would you prefer Your Grace? I can arrange for that if you like.”
Her gaze flew to his to see a glint of dark humor in the midst of his pain. She hardly knew whether to laugh or scold. “I’d prefer you keep silent and preserve your strength.”
Marching to the bed, Tessa brought several feather pillows and propped them beneath his injured arm. He flinched a little, then blew out a sigh of relief once it was elevated. Yet that telltale twinkle lingered in his eyes. “I’m surprised you aren’t trying to coax me into bed.”
His gravelly chuckle made her cheeks burn, and Tessa gave him a quelling frown. “You must be delirious, sir. All the more reason to be quiet.”
Luckily, Jiggs wasn’t paying attention. He’d gone to a nearby table to pour a glass of brandy, which he delivered to the duke. “Ye’ll need this when the sawbones starts pokin’ ye.”