by Joanna Shupe
“I didn’t know what else to do, my lord,” Jenkins blurted as Quint rushed forward. “Figured you’d want me to bring him ’ere. He’s lost quite a bit of blood.”
With a desperate lurch, Quint reached for her, the need to touch her overwhelming him. Thankfully, Jenkins did not question it, just placed the body in Quint’s outstretched arms. She was tall but thin, and stirred as Quint held her close. “I am fine,” she murmured against his shoulder. “Just need to rest a few moments.”
His chest seized painfully, this time from panic of a different sort. How badly was she hurt? He sucked in a breath and said to Jenkins, “Follow and tell me what happened.”
He pushed by both men and strode quickly for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He went to the chamber adjoining his and kicked the door open. Striding inside, he placed her on the bed. “Taylor!” he shouted.
“Yes, my lord,” Taylor said from directly behind him.
Quint began unbuttoning Sophie’s outer garments. “Send a footman to Barnes House for Lady Sophia’s lady’s maid, Alice. Then bring every medical supply we have in the house. Fresh cloths. Boiled water. Now!”
“Shall I send for a physician as well, my lord?”
“No,” Quint replied emphatically. “Absolutely not. I’ll tend to her—him—myself.” He slid the greatcoat off her arms, and she groaned at the movement. The slash in the fabric near her right shoulder caught his attention. Blood stained the fabric. Goddammit.
“What happened, Jenkins?” he barked, tossing the coat on the ground. He went for her boots next and noticed another slice in her trousers. Wet, dark crimson spread over her thigh. That laceration would need to be treated first. On the unused washstand, he found a clean linen towel. “Here, press this against the wound on his thigh.”
Jenkins came forward and did as instructed, which earned a groan from Sophie. “Apologies, my lord,” Jenkins mumbled and then continued his report. “He did exactly as your lordship said he would. Tried to give me the slip in the mews, but I was ready for him. Followed him to The Black Queen over in—”
A large, darker-skinned man burst in, a stack of clean towels in his arms. Quint blinked, paused in the process of removing Sophie’s boot. “Who the devil are you?”
The man drew himself up. “I am Vander, your lordship’s new valet. I have brought you fresh linens.”
His manner of dress was English, but the voice revealed his eastern heritage—India, specifically. Quint’s eyes narrowed on the interloper, helpfulness notwithstanding. “And you were to remain below stairs, where we would never cross paths with one another.”
Visibly shaken, the valet nodded and placed the linens on the bed. He hurried from the room, not saying another word.
“Quint,” Sophie gasped, regaining his attention.
New valet forgotten, he slipped off her boot. “Continue, Jenkins.”
“So The Black Queen. Do you know it?”
“Yes,” Quint gritted out. Had she completely lost her mind? A gaming hell in that part of town was no place to go alone, lady or no.
“Weren’t there even an hour before he came out and started toward the corner. I followed at a distance so he wouldn’t scent me. Then this big fellow come out from an alley and pulled a knife. Lad put up a good fight, but the fellow got in a couple good swipes before I came alongside.”
Quint removed her second boot and hurried to slide her arms out of the topcoat. “And where is this fellow now?”
“Dead, more ’n likely. I put a ball in his head, picked up the lad, and came straight here.” Jenkins chuckled. “The lad knocked that big ox off his feet. Never seen anything like it. Swiped his boots right out from underneath him. That’s a brave one right there, my lord.”
“Yes, very brave,” Quint muttered from behind clenched teeth. “I’ll take over now. That will be all, Jenkins. And thank you.”
“Happy to help, my lord.” Jenkins stepped back and Quint pressed on Sophie’s thigh to staunch the flow of blood. Quiet footfalls were muffled by carpet as Jenkins departed; then the door closed.
“Please do not be cross with me,” Sophie whispered, her voice quivering with pain.
“Cross does not begin to characterize what I am experiencing right now.” White-hot boiling rage. Paralyzing, debilitating fear. Frustration at his worthless inability to protect her. Regret he had not informed her father of these outings. So much emotion bubbled up inside him he thought he might choke.
“I am not seriously injured, Quint. A few nicks. I bumped my head on the ground when I fell, and it made me a bit dizzy.”
“Oh, is that all?” he drawled.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips. “I am relying on your levelheaded reasonableness. Do not get upset over something so trivial.”
He was not feeling particularly levelheaded or reasonable at the moment. “You are bleeding all over the coverlet. I would not call that trivial.” Using one hand, he loosened her cravat to make her more comfortable. “I shall wait for your maid to remove the rest of your clothing.”
“Not necessary.” She yawned, likely an aftermath of the energy expenditure as well as the concussion. “Do what you must. I need to return home before I am discovered missing.”
He stared at her, studied the dirt and smudges marring creamy skin. Exhaustion etched her fine features, while the bedclothes turned crimson with her lifeblood. Someone had tried to kill her. Quint had known the risks, yet allowed her to carry on regardless. This was every bit as much his fault as hers. “Aiding you in this deception has lost its appeal, considering what happened this evening. Perhaps if you are discovered missing, it will prevent future acts of harebrained recklessness.”
Her lids snapped open, the brown irises cloudy with pain. “You would not dare. If I were found here—”
Taylor knocked and entered, thankfully cutting off Sophie’s objections. Whatever her argument, Quint did not want to hear it. Taylor set a large tray down on the bedside table, and a maid came in to light the fire. After asking the girl to hold the towel on Sophie’s thigh, Quint busied himself by taking stock of the strips of linen, salves, and herbs. The butler had wisely included a bottle of brandy. “Bring me a knife, Taylor.”
Quint strode to his chambers and thoroughly scrubbed his hands with soap and fresh water. When he returned, he found Sophie’s lady’s maid by the bed, pressing the cloth on Sophie’s wound. Sophie’s lids were closed, her skin pale. He knew she was in pain, yet she was admirably determined not to show it, her body clenched to bear the agony. A fire now blazed in the long-forgotten hearth to bring some warmth to the musty space. A small knife had been placed on the stack of linens.
He uncorked the brandy and splashed a large amount in a glass. Selecting a vial, he sprinkled some powder into the liquid, stirred it, and handed the glass to the maid. “See that she drinks it.”
The maid sniffed it. “What is it?”
“Peruvian bark.” Knife now in hand, he moved to Sophie’s side.
“Pardon me for asking, my lord, but shouldn’t we give her laudanum instead?”
“With a head injury, I’d rather not. The opiate will slow her responses. And we’ll accomplish more in a shorter amount of time if you follow my instructions without questioning them.”
“It’s fine, Alice,” Sophie rasped. “I’ll drink it. I trust his lordship.” The maid helped Sophie raise her head enough to throw back the brandy in one mouthful. Quint would have wondered over Sophie’s familiarity with spirits if he weren’t so petrified about her bleeding out on the bed.
He put the blade to her trousers, preparing to rend them.
“No!” Sophie said. “Do not cut my clothing. Pull it off instead.”
“Which will be infinitely more painful for you. Do not be ridiculous, Sophie.” He raised the knife to the wool once more.
She made a feeble attempt to clutch at his arm. “Quint, stop. I need my clothing to wear home.”
His gaze locked with hers. Stubborn, maddening female. He
was of half a mind to let her stumble home dishabille. It would serve her right for embarking on the mad scheme in the first place. “Please,” she whispered.
“Remove her clothing,” Quint ordered the maid and moved to the far side of the room.
He stood with his back turned, listening to fabric rustle and Sophie’s gasps of pain each time she was forced to move. With anyone but her, Quint would have felt vindicated by those tiny expressions of abject misery. But the sounds she made twisted his insides, the idea that she’d been attacked strangling him.
A thump followed a grunt. He heard the maid move the bedclothes. “There, my lord.”
Spinning, he found the injured side of her body exposed, while bedding covered the rest of her. Skin gone the color of flour, Sophie’s eyes were screwed shut. She panted in obvious torment. The wound on her shoulder had started bleeding again, while a steady stream of blood dripped from the cut on her thigh.
“Was it worth it?” He picked up a fresh cloth and pressed it to her leg.
“Yes,” she gasped, turning even paler.
“Liar.”
Working efficiently, Quint cleaned the wound thoroughly. Then he stitched it neatly, Sophie gritting her teeth with each pull of the needle. When he finished, he bound the leg tightly. Thankfully, the cut on her shoulder was shallow and did not require stitches, merely cleaning and bandaging.
He handed the jar of salve to her maid. “Use this on the wounds when you change the dressings, but you absolutely must wash your hands each time. Do not touch her unless you’ve done so.”
The maid’s mouth tightened. “My hands are clean, my lord.”
“Not clean enough. Wash them. Soap and fresh water. Every time.”
“She will, Quint,” Sophie rasped. “Won’t you, Alice?”
“Yes, of course, my lady,” Alice said, still frowning at Quint.
“Alice, would you mind waiting in the corridor a moment? I’d like to speak to his lordship.”
Alice looked as if she wanted to argue, but, after a warning glare in Quint’s direction, she left the room.
“I don’t believe your maid likes me,” he remarked when they were alone and was pleased to see a small smile twist Sophie’s lips.
“Do not take it to heart. She is not accustomed to having anyone else fussing over me.”
He reached for the bedclothes and started to pull them over the injured side of her body. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to really look at her. All creamy, soft skin. Tight linen encircled her chest to flatten her breasts. A pity, that. But it was what she wore over her hips that did him in. A plain pair of men’s smalls—without doubt the most erotic sight he’d ever beheld. Her maid had pushed the thin fabric up Sophie’s leg to expose the injury and left the garment on for modesty. It had the opposite result on Quint, however; heat suffused his body, his shaft coming to life.
He’d never seen a woman dressed in men’s clothing before, and it was strangely arousing. And when had he lowered himself to lechery? For God’s sake, she was injured and all he could do was ogle her. He dropped the bed linens as if they were hot, covering her.
Her lids fluttered open. “Thank you for your assistance. But I cannot stay. As much as I dread the walk home, I must go.”
The idea of letting her out of his sight had him gritting his teeth. But he had no way to keep her here, short of tying her down. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “What time do the servants rouse?”
Her eyes fell shut once more, as if the lids were too heavy to lift. “Shortly before five.”
He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. “It’s half past twelve. Sleep for three hours. I’ll have my coachman take you home before four.”
She did not respond and he stood there, feeling ten thousand times a fool. How could he have allowed her to carry on in this ridiculous game, a lark that could very well get her killed? Whatever investigation she was pursuing was not worth her life.
“I can hear you frowning,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Come and sit with me. Stop thinking for five minutes, Quint.”
He brought a chair over and placed it at the side of the bed. He sat and focused on her beautiful face, the long, brown lashes fanning her cheeks. The luscious lips that had kissed him so passionately only a few nights ago. She was lovely, normally so full of vibrant energy and intelligence. He’d never seen her this quiet before. “You’ll have to tell me, you know.”
Her mouth hitched. “Only if you promise to help me—not try and stop me.”
“Sophie, you cannot think to continue. Not after tonight. Whatever you’ve stumbled upon is too dangerous.”
“I’ll do what I must. And if you are worried about my safety, then come with me.”
He stiffened, his muscles protesting at the mere suggestion of going outdoors. “You know I cannot.”
“I know no such thing.” She yawned. “I think nearly dying after the shooting affected you, but you can recover.” Her words were slurring together, a sign of her exhaustion.
But something she said caught his attention. “Wait—how did you know I almost died?”
She did not answer, however. Her breathing had evened out. She’d fallen asleep.
Chapter Ten
Last night could only be categorized as a disaster, Sophie thought the next morning. If she were making a list of things never to repeat, getting knifed—twice—in the streets of East London would be at the top. Who had attacked her? A random footpad?
And the journey had been for naught because Molly hadn’t wanted to help. Sophie would need to write Pearl, see if the courtesan knew of any other girls who might speak with Sir Stephen.
Alice entered just then. “Good morning, my lady. Would you care for breakfast?”
The thought of food turned Sophie’s stomach. “No, not yet. I would like your help getting up, however.”
Her maid nodded and helped Sophie get out of bed. Each step on her injured leg sent sharp pain throughout her lower body. By the time she relieved herself and returned to the mattress, she was gasping, wet with perspiration.
“You best stay in today, my lady. You’re not fit—”
A knock sounded before the Marchioness of Ardington, Sophie’s stepmama, peeked in. “Oh, good. You are awake.” She entered, closed the door behind her, and approached the bed. “You’ve had two deliveries this morning, Sophie. I knew last night’s ball would be a success.”
“Deliveries?”
“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Her stepmama beamed, clearly hopeful this would be the year Sophie would find a husband. “A huge bouquet of flowers arrived. Here’s a card. Along with another note delivered for you this morning.” She held out two pieces of paper.
Sophie took them both, frowning. The only person who would send her anything would be Quint. But the idea of him sending flowers was laughable. Quint was not the hearts and romance type. She would sooner expect him to fly to the moon than ever write a sonnet to her eyes.
“Well, open the note from the flowers. Let’s see who they’re from,” her stepmama urged.
Sophie tore the seal and read the short note. I very much enjoyed our dance last evening. Your servant, Lord MacLean. Before she thought better of it, she smiled.
“You’re smiling. That must be a good sign. I’m dying to know who sent them.”
“Lord MacLean. We danced last evening.” The last dancing she’d do for a while, considering her leg.
Her stepmama’s face fell. “Oh, Sophie. I am not certain he’s the right man for you. I know he’s well titled and fairly handsome, but really, his reputation is less than desirable.”
“You needn’t worry. I have no intention of marrying Lord MacLean.” But that reminded her of something. “All anyone could talk about last night was how Papa has picked my husband. In fact, I hear the betting books are full of wagers as to who the unfortunate man might be.”
“He’s of the mind you do not believe him. He thinks by making it public, it’ll convince
you.”
Well played, Papa, Sophie thought. She hadn’t expected that. “Why is he so eager to get rid of me? Can I not just live here a few more years?” Like until death.
“Darling.” Her stepmama came forward and clasped Sophie’s hand. “Marriage is not so terrible, as you seem to think. Your father and I have great affection for one another. We both want you to have it as well, but you cannot wait forever. And do you not want children of your own?”
A flash of rumpled, brown-haired boys with telescopes and test tubes went through her mind. Sophie was surprised by how much the image appealed to her. But then she thought of explaining her stupidity to the one man who valued intelligence above all else . . . and the pleasant warmth in her veins turned to a chill. He deserved better than a woman so cork-brained as she.
“Now, shall we do some shopping today? I was thinking we could go to the milliner first and then—”
“I cannot,” Sophie blurted. “I am unwell.”
“Oh, dear.” Her stepmama’s forehead lowered in concern. “You do appear flushed. Have you a fever?”
“No, nothing so serious. It’s my monthly courses.” She felt bad for the lie, but she had been bleeding after all. From her leg, of course, but still. And this way, no one would question her staying in bed all day.
Understanding lit her stepmama’s face. “Of course. I’ll have Alice prepare a posset for you. You rest and feel better.” She smoothed a hand over Sophie’s brow and stepped back. “I’ll check on you later.”
Now alone, Sophie started to roll over and then realized she still held the unopened note. Pulling it apart, she saw neat lines of random letters in rows down the page. It was . . . a code. She huffed a laugh. No doubt who had sent it. Only Quint would fashion her a note in the form of a cipher.
Smiling, she reached to ring for Alice, who had discreetly retreated earlier. When the maid arrived, Sophie requested her writing supplies. Quint hadn’t provided any sort of key or clue to the puzzle, so an answer might take some time. Soon, she was propped up in bed with her traveling desk, studying the patterns of letters to arrive at a solution.