Frost Fair

by Edith Layton

  “Unhurt?” Lucian said, trying to see for himself, pushing away the cloth his face was being swabbed with, “but the babe…”

  “All’s well. Miraculously. Because of you. Elizabeth rolled a fair way in your arms—and don’t think I won’t twit her about that for an eternity. But you held her fast. She’s fine. She’s waiting in the carriage. I’m taking her home as soon as we know how you’ll do.”

  “I do fine. Have the doctor take a look at her,” Lucian demanded.

  “We’ll have our own physician come round tonight. There’s not a scratch on her, I promise you. She’s shaken, but nothing hurts but her heart—for you,” his friend Ian said soothingly, as though he was talking to a peevish child. He was kneeling on the cobbles next to Lucian. So was a portly man Lucian had never seen before. “Took you a long time to come around,” Ian said. “Anything broken under all that blood, Doctor?” he asked the other man.

  “No,” the doctor said. Lucian winced as he prodded his cheekbone. “Not here, at least. Can you see my hand?” he asked Lucian. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Too many,” Lucian said. “Let me up.” He didn’t know what was worse, the various pains calling in from all parts of his body or the fact that he was laying on the cobbles with a crowd of fascinating spectators gaping at him as though he were a raree show. But when the doctor put an arm around his shoulders and helped him sit, his ears began to buzz, the street tilted and he felt darkness rushing in from the edges of his vision.

  “Put your head down,” the doctor commanded, pushing on his neck. “We have to get him home,” he told someone behind Lucian.

  “I’ll take care of that,” Spanish Will’s deep voice said. “First, tell me if there’s anything needs tending to immediate.”

  “You!” Lucian exclaimed, trying to twist his neck to see the runner.

  “Aye. I just happened to be passing by,” Will said as Lucian struggled to stand, gave a strangled oath and sat again, “Ah. Something broken, then?”

  “Difficult to say,” the doctor said. “The light’s no good here. We’ll have to get him somewhere where I can work.”

  “We’ll take him back to his house,” Ian said. “My coach is ready, my wife’s already in it. She’ll want to thank him too.”

  “Good,” the doctor said. “Speaking of wives, get word to mine, will you? She’s waiting inside the theater. It won’t be the first time I’ve had to desert her, but she does have to know my direction.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Will said.

  Lucian began to rise to his feet, the runner at one side, his friend Ian, on the other. A keening cry interrupted them.

  “He lives! Thank Gawd! He lives!” a new voice intruded. “Gawd have mercy upon us, he lives! She never did nuffin’ like that before, good surs, on my life, never! She’s a good lass, the best, I swear it on my Mother’s grave!”

  Lucian peered at a ragged-looking man who stood wringing his floppy hat between his hands, his dirty face set in an almost comic mask of despair. “I caught her at the end of the street, blowing hard, her eyes rolling in her head. But she stood still like a statcher fer me, she did. Good as gold, my Bess. She’d never. Some villain set her off is wot it is. Look for yerself, she’s got a cruel wound on her poor rump. Aww, don’t take her,” he wailed, tears coursing down his seamed cheeks, “she never done nuffin’ like. Never! She’s all I got. But that ain’t it. She’s good, right as rain, she is. I’ve had her fifteen years! No, I lie. Sixteen, come next St. Swithin’s Day! There ain’t an ounce of meanness in her. She ain’t sick, neither, why, she eats before I does every day. Oh, have mercy!”

  “She’s got a wound?” Will asked with interest. “I’ll have a look.”

  “But she din’t do nuffin’!” the peddler wailed. “One minute we’s standin’ there like we always does, gettin’ ready to pack it in ’n go home. Next I know, she’s off. But it ain’t what she’d do on her own. It ain’t like her a’tall. Oh ’ave pity!”

  “What is he going on about?” Lucian said through gritted teeth as he was helped to his feet. He tested one leg. It hurt like blazes.

  “It was his horse went wild,” the runner said.

  “Lost all my fine fruit,” the old man gulped through his sobs. “Cart too. But that ain’t nuffin’. Don’t take my Bess, fine surs.”

  “Well who the devil wants your damned horse?” Lucian snarled, because try as he might, the leg didn’t take much weight.

  “They said as to how ye’d put her down!” the peddler grieved.

  “Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “He said as to how they needs to test her,” the peddler whined, gesturing at Will. “Test her—live or dead, says he when I says I don’t want to give her over to him, for how’m I to earn my bread if I do? I’m an old man. She’s all I got!”

  The peddler’s keening made Lucian wince. “Tell you what,” he said wearily, “take her round to my place. Give him my direction, Mr. Corby. Bring her to my stables and tell John James, my groom, that I said he should have a look at her. There’s no better man for horses in London. Then you may take her home.”

  “Y’won’t press charges ’gainst us?” the old man asked fearfully.

  “I shudder at the thought of pressing anything at the moment,” Lucian said as he began limping toward the carriage with the help of his friend and the runner.

  “Well, sounds like you’re yourself again,” Ian said with relief.

  “Unfortunately,” Lucian said.

  The ride to his home was an unpleasant blur to him. Elizabeth thanked him repeatedly. Ian thanked him whenever she paused for breath. Lucian tried not to groan because of that, and because he couldn’t decide what part of his body hurt most.

  “You kept me safe as an egg in a chicken,” Elizabeth marveled for at least a third time. “Between your coat and your body, all I felt was a thump when we landed. But your poor head! I heard it hit. It sounded like a—I don’t want to remember what it sounded like.”

  “Poor darling,” her husband said. “You’re the child’s godfather, Maldon,” he said fervently, “and you have my eternal gratitude.”

  “How brave!” Elizabeth said. “I cannot imagine how you had the courage.”

  “Nor can I,” Lucian grunted, because the ride, smooth as it was, was making him sick to his stomach.

  “The old man said someone hit his horse, he said there’s actually a slash mark!” Ian marveled.

  Elizabeth began to thank him again. But Lucian was trying not to empty his stomach, and so all he could do was nod. But not too vigorously, lest his head fall off.

  The runner and the doctor saw him to his house and helped him inside. His valet came at a trot, all the servants were astir. Lucian waved them off, and refused to go to his bedchamber.

  “If you don’t, I’ll let the doctor here have your pants down in your parlor,” Will vowed. “I’m not leaving until we know the tally. You look green about the gills, my lord.”

  He looked far worse, the runner thought. One side of the viscount’s face was badly abraded and already beginning to swell. He favored one shoulder, and limped, leaving bloody bootprints. His smile was crooked as he looked at Will. “Truth is,” Lucian admitted, “I don’t care to face the stairs. But you’re right. Best sooner than later. Come along, Doctor, will you? I’ve ruined your evening at the theater, might as well let you to your work. Let’s see what I’ve got left. Mr. Corby, you can entertain me as I crawl upstairs by telling me some long and pretty tales about why you were so close tonight.”

  “Can’t a man go to the theater of an evening?” Will asked innocently, making Lucian realize it hurt to chuckle.

  They helped him to his bedchamber. His valet helped him to undress. The doctor took inventory. Will stood by, taking a professional inventory of his own. The viscount wasn’t a broad or heavily muscled man, but was well muscled, an entirely different thing. He was lean and sinewy strong, with not an ounce out of place. He’d do well in the rin
g, Will thought. He was stronger than he looked, and took pain well. He had to, tonight.

  “I don’t think the shoulder’s broken,” the doctor finally concluded. “A few ribs on the right, I’ll strap them tight. I’ll set some stitches to close the gash in the leg, and ask you to keep off it for a spell. If it putrefies, that’s another matter. I’ve some salve for it and the face. I’d suggest a leech on that cheek tomorrow. Still, a few days rest and you should do well enough. Your head took quite a knock. If you begin seeing double, call me quick. Have your own physician call in the morning or I’ll drop round if you like. You’re a fortunate fellow, my lord.”

  Lucian smiled crookedly. “Indeed. I keep my teeth, my bones, and my lovely nose remains unbent.”

  “I’m not jesting,” the doctor said. “A few inches more and you might have lost that leg, entirely. I’ve seen it happen.”

  “A few seconds more and you might have lost your life entirely,” Will said. “That’s what I thought would happen. You moved fast, and thought well.”

  “I didn’t think at all,” Lucian said ruefully.

  “That fruit seller should have his noble beast in your stables by now,” Will said, moving toward the door. “I think I’ll have a look at it whilst you’re being put together again.”

  “A charming excuse,” Lucian commented, “since we all know it’s because the sight of blood is so disturbing to you. I’m happy to spare your tender sensibilities.”

  Lucian was relieved to see the runner smile, and leave. He was fairly sure he could control his reaction to the pain of the doctor’s ministrations, but preferred Spanish Will Corby to be far away if he couldn’t. With good reason. By the time Will returned, Lucian was sitting back in his chair, exhausted and shaken. The doctor was putting his instruments away.

  “Sewn, strapped, salved and settled,” Lucian greeted him with a tired, lopsided smile. “You may safely enter, Mr. Corby.” His voice grew harder. “I’ve been doing some thinking. I was too rattled to do much before. And so I’m very interested to know what state you found the so reliable Bess to be in.”

  “I almost asked the doctor here to have a look at her,” Will said, “but your groom swears he can tend to it. Someone jabbed her right flank, my lord. Hard, and sudden. Too deep for a whip stroke. Now, why anyone would want to do that to a poor broken down old prad like her, I don’t know. She’ll take no lasting hurt, he says. Someone just wanted her attention, and fast. She’s to pass the night in your stable so he can watch over her. Her owner will sleep nearby. He’s so grateful he’s vowing to keep you in oranges for the rest of your days.”

  “I prefer peaches,” Lucian said, but he wasn’t thinking of that. His eye had swollen halfway shut, and the bloodied scrape on his right cheek was turning black. But that wasn’t the only reason his face grew dark and shuttered. He was remembering the sudden thunder of the horse bearing down on him. He doubted he’d ever forget it. He wondered if he’d have been able to do what he had done if he’d thought about it. That thought tormented him. As did another. He raised his eyes to Will. The runner nodded and answered the unspoken question.

  “Aye,” Will said, “it’s possible. Like I said, I didn’t think you could move out of the way that fast, myself. She was running mad. Straight for you. And you were the only ones in her path. All it took was a downward stroke of a knife or a sword stick. Could have been done by a passing horseman or a man on foot. It could have been an accident too. Or just some stray and random mischief. Such things happen in London. There was a crowd at the head of the street, barrows, pushcarts and horse-drawn carts. Vendors comparing notes at the end of the day. They were huddled together because of the cold, and it was dark outside the bonfires they made to keep from freezing to death. Even if I could talk to them all, I doubt anyone saw anything. But I’ll ask around anyway, tomorrow night.

  “As for now, I think you need to rest. Can you give him something for sleep?” Will asked the doctor.

  “I could, but I won’t,” the doctor said. “Nor do I advise it. Sleep heals all but head wounds. It can deal eternal sleep in such cases. In fact, I’d have him wait a few hours before he sleeps at all. He won’t have any trouble then.”

  “Care to sit up and try a hand at cards with me?” Lucian asked Will half-humorously.

  “A fine idea,” Will said, “but it’s too easy playing cards with a man so mazed. No challenge. Let’s make it Chess.” He grinned like a wolf. “Stoke up the fire, get me some Scot’s spirits or any good booze, and I’ll win this house out from under you by morning.”

  Lucian raised an eyebrow. He winced at the pain, then laughed. “Chess?” he said. “But how will you be able to tell if I’ve dropped off to sleep? Still, yes. Certainly. I hope you’re not too attached to your boots. Because you won’t even own them by dawn.”

  They were settled down to their first game at a table set up by the hearth in the bedchamber, when Lucian’s valet came in. He bore a tray with a decanter of spirits, and wore a worried expression.

  “My lord,” he said nervously, “there’s a messenger from your lady mother to see you. He says your mother says it’s urgent.”

  Lucian groaned. “Has rumor that many feet? Tell the fellow to tell her I do well, I am well, and she can see for herself in the morning. Your move, Mr. Corby.”

  “But it’s not that…” the valet said hesitantly. “She wants you to come to her, you see.”

  “What’s the trouble?” Lucian asked, and scowled. “Devil a bit, where are my wits? Send him up here, I’ll ask him myself.”

  Neither man watched the chessboard, though both pretended to study it until the messenger, an unhappy looking young footman, arrived in the room. His eyes widened when he saw the viscount.

  “What’s toward?” Lucian asked immediately.

  “My lord… Your mother requests your immediate attendance on her. See, it’s young Mr. Arthur. Someone tried to kill him tonight.”

  They argued all the way down the stairs and into the viscount’s coach.

  “The fellow said your brother is mostly unharmed,” Will said. “He said he lives. But you’ll die if you career about like this. Look at you, man!” he thundered as Lucian let his head fall back against the leather padding in his coach.

  “No, ” Lucian groaned, “it would upset my stomach more. Listen, Mr. Corby.” He paused to get his breath back. “I live. I will live. But I refuse to live in a state of apprehension, wondering what happened ’til dawn. Nor will I send messengers back and forth like badminton cocks all night. Nor have my mother come out at this hour, in this cold, even if she could pry herself from my brother’s side. And what of him? I’ll see for myself and hear the story first-hand. Someone tried to kill him? He was pushed in front of an oncoming hackney coach? He’s hurt, but not mortally so? Bad enough my head rings like Christmas morning. I will not sit and wonder about that all night.”

  Will mumbled something bitter and vulgar under his breath. “I must be mad letting you go.”

  “The only way you could have stopped me is by flooring me, and that might well have killed me. Listen. I made up my mind. Think on, my Bow Street friend, if you’d made up your mind, do you think I could change it?”

  Will grinned, until he looked at the viscount. It was a painful thing to do now, even by the meager unsteady light inside the coach. The flickering lantern was bright enough to show he was ashen and his bruises were beginning to darken. But his eyes burned. Will hoped it wasn’t fever. He nodded. “Lay on MacDuff,” he sighed.

  Chess and Shakespeare? Lucian thought, amused. Then he sat back, hanging on to consciousness, hoping he wouldn’t lose it before he got to his mother’s house.

  Will helped him limp in the door. By the time they arrived at the salon where the viscountess was waiting, Will was half holding him up. Lucian shook himself free, and straightened. He stood in the doorway looking at the scene by the fireside.

  He sighed in relief. Arthur was there, looking whole, at least from what he could
see. But he was wrapped in a blanket, holding a cup of something to his lips. His mother, in a dressing gown, sat beside him. They both stared when Lucian and Will walked in.

  “Good God, Maldon!” Arthur said in a strangled voice.

  Even his mother looked shaken. “What have you done to yourself, Lucian?” she asked in astonishment.

  “An accident,” he said, tilting one shoulder in a shrug, and immediately wincing for it.

  Her face grew tight. She sneered. “I see. An accident with a bottle too many, I don’t doubt. I knew something of the sort would come of your constantly associating with fist fighters. Bruisers, you call them. Ruffians, I say. Sparring? Science? Going to a mill is not like going to a horserace. It is watching two grown men battering each other with their bare fists. Bear baiting is more seemly, because at least you are wagering on animals. Champions or not, fashion or no, it is not a thing a gentleman ought to be doing.”

  Will stared. But Lucian only said smoothly, “Just so. But what of my brother? Don't tell me you were indulging as well, Arthur?”

  Arthur began to speak, but his mother cut him off. “Before we get into that,” she said acidly, “might one inquire as to why you’ve brought Mr. Corby to my home, at this hour of the night? Or is he perhaps one of the boon companions associated with your ‘accident’?”

  “Your pardon, Mama,” Lucian said, as Will bowed, perfunctorily. “But surely, if Arthur was attacked, Mr. Corby should know of it immediately, you’ll agree?”

  The dowager huffed, accepting the logic with a nod. But she drew her voluminous dressing gown around herself, as though she expected the sight of an inch of her flesh would drive the runner to transports of lust.

  “In spite of the hour, I felt we might have need of him,” Lucian went on, “at least from what I understood of the message you sent to me. May I sit down, do you think?”

  She waved him to a chair, and Lucian sank into it gratefully. Will sat next to him, and took out his notebook.

  “Yes,” the dowager said approvingly, “so you ought write down what happened. Someone tried to murder my son tonight.”