Chapter 21
Lizzie awoke in the middle of the night. For a moment she wondered where she was. The viscount had gone. She had fallen asleep in his bed and he had left her there to be found by his valet or even the duke, if he chose to visit. Could he have gone to her bed? Had he left her as soon as his lust was sated?
So much for his desire to sleep with her! He couldn’t have had another urge while she lay sleeping, could he? Had he gone in search of other amusements?
She carefully put aside the problem of her own lust for now. Learning to control it might take more than cold baths and the spare diet advised by holy men and saints. She doubted the viscount would agree to such a regimen for himself.
London.
Whores, clubs, gambling, and more whores. She scrambled out of his bed. His dressing gown lay over a chair. She wore it without stopping to tie the belt. Drat the man! Where had he gone?
Her bedroom was empty.
Of course. Did she really think he had moved there so she could sleep? A wave of loneliness swept away her longing for him. If only she could trust him.
Lizzie washed with cold water and dressed. She chose the simplest of clothes. A dark day dress, which had buttons she could manage by herself, except for the ones in the middle of her back. She draped a shawl over her shoulders and marched down the stairs. Two footmen guarded the hall in the middle of the night.
They snapped upright at the sight of her. A clock chimed the half hour. Lizzie gave a nod of greeting. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Half past two, my lady.” The young man waited stoically for her to say something else.
They were probably wondering what she was doing, dressed and wandering the hallways. The thought of searching London for her errant husband suddenly seemed foolish in the extreme. How did one find a man in such a huge city? Without other men to aid her, she could not enquire for him in any of the clubs and brothels that littered the place. Did she expect to find him fornicating conveniently in the park across the street?
One of the young men said, “The surgeon has not arrived yet, ma’am. Lord Felmont is waiting for him at his house. Do you wish to send a message to him.”
Lizzie intended to check for herself. Surgeons could not operate at night. It seemed an unlikely excuse. Angel Anston had not wanted a surgeon during the day, why would he suddenly need one in the middle of the night?
“I must go to help,” she said. “Is the duke there?”
“His grace had not returned home. As far as I know, he is not with Lord Felmont,” replied the young man carefully.
“I need you to accompany me to the door.” Her voice sounded cool and collected.
One young man lit the lantern and the other swung open the door. Lizzie went carefully down the stairs after refusing her protector’s arm.
The door to the viscount’s house was unlocked. The young man opened it and stepped back for her to precede him. She thanked him and bade him return. She didn’t want a witness to what came next.
“Molly?” called the viscount. “Come and help. Molly!”
Lizzie pushed the door open to Angel Anston’s bedroom. He lay like a fallen giant across the big bed. The white sheets were spattered with blood. Her husband held Mr. Anston’s arms down on the mattress with all his might. He had shed his coat. His shirt, open at the neck, showed his casual attire and haste in dressing.
“Going to pull it out!” Angel Anston fought against the viscount’s restraining grip. “Let go of me! Damn you!
“Hellfire, Lizzie! What are you doing here? Fetch Molly, there’s a good girl.”
Lizzie did as she was bid. She turned and ran for the kitchen, almost falling down the few steps separating the servants quarters from the rest of the house.
Molly knelt sobbing by the settle. She looked at Lizzie. “I can’t do it! He’s going to die like my Will!” Gulping sobs made the rest unintelligible.
Lizzie turned to run back to the bedroom. She threw her shawl onto the chair by the fire. “Molly is unwell, she cannot aid you. What must I do to help?”
“Got to grab it, every time he moves it disappears.” The viscount let go of Mr. Anston’s arms only to receive a blow to the side of his head that made him reel. He cursed and knelt on one upper arm while he wrestled with the other, almost knocking a decanter of brandy from the bedside table with his feet.
Lizzie pulled the wounded man’s nightshirt up. Blood seeped from a small opening in the scar which circled his torso. Old blood under the skin. Fresh blood oozed around a glint of slivery metal which appeared briefly only to sink below the surface again.
“Stop it, Mr. Anston.” She laid her hands against the sides of his face. “Don’t move.” Calmly, she held him. She met his gaze. “We are here to help you, Edward. If your mother were here, she’d help you, but she is not. We are her emissaries. Let us help you.”
The wounded man’s eyes filled with tears. “Pull it out! Quick death or live pain free. Either one. Don’t care. Pull it out!”
“Let my husband tie your arms to the headboard. If you lash out at me, you might kill me.” She stroked his tears away. “I am going to take hold of it for you. Before I begin, you will drink some brandy with laudanum.”
The viscount tied Angel Anston’s wrists to the headboard with strips torn from a clean sheet. He took care not bind too tightly, and it was quickly done, but Lizzie thought Goliath would have been hard put to move after he had finished. With a rueful shake of his head, and one last test of the bonds, the viscount took himself off to get the laudanum.
No sooner had he gone than Angel Anston’s belly began to cramp. The ornate headboard creaked as he struggled to lower his hands. “It’s there, it’s there! Get hold of it!” he moaned.
“Lie still, let it rise. I am going to catch it for you.” Lizzie quickly cleansed her hands with brandy from the decanter. She climbed onto the high bed to kneel next to him and placed her fingers on either side of his wound. The metal edge surfaced, she tried to nip it between her fingers but it sank below the surface of his belly.
She took a calming breath.
Slowly, a silvered shred of metal appeared again. She pressed down on either side of it and slid her fingertips into the gore, to catch the metal fragment between her nails.
“Have you got it?” Angel Anston asked eagerly. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his sides. A spurt of warm blood splashed up.
Lizzie swallowed her bile. “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I shall not let it go.” Her fingers were inside his wound. The edges of her vision began to go black.
Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1) Page 31