Countess So Shameless (Scandal in London)

by Liana Lefey

  Before Alessandro could react, Herrington’s other hand, which had lain concealed, lifted. In it was another pistol.

  “I shall n-not go to hell alone,” Herrington whispered, a malicious grin stretching his bloodied lips. “I’ll take the bastard with me.”

  With a shout of alarm, Alessandro flung himself aside at the same instant Herrington shifted his aim and squeezed. Even as the fire in his enemy’s eyes died, a high, sharp cry sounded from behind Alessandro and something heavy fell against him, sliding down his back. His heart contracted in terror as he turned to see Mélisande sprawled on the grass. Crimson bloomed from her right shoulder, rapidly spreading across her bodice and down the sleeve of her gown. “Amora!” he whispered, peering down at her bewildered face. Dio, no! Please...

  “Alessandro?”

  Before he could answer the weak inquiry, Mélisande shuddered, her eyes rolling as her body went slack.

  A wordless bellow burst from his throat as sudden tears blinded him. Dashing them away, he shouted for Pelham. He must work quickly.

  The moment Pelham arrived, Alessandro grabbed the satchel out of his hands, thrusting it at Bittle, who stood close by. “Make yourself useful and find the bandages!” he barked. As Pelham knelt down, Alessandro gently transferred Mélisande’s limp body into his grasp. Turning her on her side, he produced a small knife and used it to cut the cloth at her shoulder, peeling back wet silk to expose pale, bloodied flesh. The bullet had ripped through her right shoulder just below the collarbone and passed out the other side.

  “Come and stanch the wound,” he commanded Bittle. When the little man did not move, Alessandro reached up and tore the sack from his limp hands. At last he found a wad of clean cloth. He used it to sop up the blood welling from the wound, and then bade Pelham press down on it while he again looked in the satchel.

  Drawing forth a small glass bottle filled with a dark liquid, he tipped some of the fluid into the wound.

  Mélisande moaned, her dark brows drawing together. Before she could rouse completely, Alessandro had Pelham press a fresh bandage to the wound while he turned her over to repeat his ministrations on the side from which the bullet had emerged.

  Mélisande again groaned before slipping back into oblivion.

  “Help me wrap it—tightly,” Alessandro ordered.

  Together, they swaddled her shoulder and upper arm. It was appalling how quickly those immaculate white cloths turned red.

  Alessandro looked down at the blood drying on his hands and swallowed, suddenly ill. He’d seen far more horrific wounds, witnessed firsthand the stinking fields of war, waded through knee-deep bodies, bathed in mud mixed with the blood of dying men. He’d been covered from head to foot in blood, but this was somehow different. This was the lifeblood of his beloved drying on his hands.

  “It looks a lot worse than it is,” Pelham muttered. “The bullet passed through cleanly and the bleeding is not as bad as it appears. We must get her to a doctor immediately. Help me lift her and move her to the carriage.”

  Alessandro tried and winced at the sudden burning in his arm. Glancing down, he saw his sleeve was drenched in blood—his own.

  Pelham looked up and swore.

  Alessandro gritted his teeth against the pain as he let the man pour the remaining fluid from the bottle over his arm and bandage him up. It would have to do until he could get proper treatment.

  With Bittle’s help, he and Pelham carried Mélisande to the carriage. Alessandro got in and they laid her across the seat with her head cushioned on his lap.

  “Go to my house,” Pelham advised. “It is the closest. I will be there as soon as we take care of Herrington’s body.” His jaw tightened. “I would leave the refuse for the thieves and crows, but that would only do you ill when the king heard of it.”

  Bittle finally broke his silence. “Take one of Herrington’s horses,” he told Pelham. “I’ll follow behind with the body. You’ll go much faster on horseback. I think it far better for the dead man to arrive late rather than the doctor, do you not?”

  Pelham agreed. Closing the door, he shouted instructions to the driver. A moment later, the conveyance jolted forward and began its slow journey.

  Not too long after, Alessandro heard the approach of rapid hoofbeats from behind. Peering out the window, he saw a flash as Pelham thundered past at an all-out gallop. The man rode as if the devil were at his heels.

  He peered down at Mélisande’s ashen face. How he wished they could make such speed! But without a saddle, it would have been impossible to stay astride with her before him, even uninjured. There was nothing for it but to wait—and pray.

  The doctor, a small, bespectacled gentleman named Burroughs, emerged from the bedroom, his expression grave.

  “Will she recover?” Alessandro asked.

  “She’ll be fine, provided there is no infection,” Burroughs responded. “The bullet passed through the tissue cleanly, just missing the bone, so there were no fragments to contend with. Be sure she gets plenty of rest. She should not be moved from this room until she’s able to stand on her own and walk.”

  The doctor peered at him over the rims of his spectacles. “My compliments to you, Your Grace, for your excellent battlefield care. Your immediate cleansing and binding of the wound may very well have saved her life. Now, if you will come with me, I’ll have a look at your arm.”

  “I want to see her. At once,” demanded Alessandro.

  “Very well. My instruments are already in the room with her. You may see her while I treat your wound.”

  Entering the chamber, Alessandro saw Mélisande’s pale form propped up against a pile of pillows. A sheet was draped across her chest and held in place beneath her arms, exposing both shoulders. One was hidden by the dark tangle of her hair, the other was swathed in bandages. Upon close inspection, he saw her chest rising and falling beneath the sheet, though only shallowly.

  “I’ve given her laudanum to help with the pain and allow her to rest,” Burroughs said, leading him over to a chair. Carefully, he removed the layers of blood-soaked bandages. “The bullet only pierced the outer flesh, a minor wound that will heal well, as long as it is kept clean. It has already stopped bleeding. May I assume the same treatment given the lady was also given to you?”

  “Yes,” Alessandro replied absently, all his attention focused on the supine form in the bed. She was pale, so pale.

  The physician rewrapped Alessandro’s arm with clean strips of cloth. “I shall give Lord Pelham instructions for her care and return in the morning to check the wound. If at any time it should begin bleeding again, or if she begins to grow feverish, send for me and I will come immediately, whatever the hour.” Packing up his instruments, he departed.

  Alessandro sat beside the bed, his face bleak. Provided there is no infection... He’d endured the horrors of an infected wound twice, both times barely surviving the ordeal. His tired eyes roamed aimlessly about the room, coming to rest on a pile of scarlet-stained cloth in the corner. He blanched anew. She’d lost a great deal of blood. He began to pray. He’d not sought divine intervention this much since he was a child.

  “Take some rest, I’ll keep watch,” Pelham promised.

  Alessandro did not even flinch, though he’d not heard the man come in. “I will not leave her.”

  “It could be days, even weeks,” Pelham objected. “You yourself must rest and recover.”

  “I will not leave her,” Alessandro repeated.

  “Will she truly recover?” Reggie asked, eyes dark with worry as he entered the room, Charlotte at his side.

  “As long as there is no infection,” Alessandro echoed the physician’s words, unwilling to feel any sense of relief. The danger was still very real. If the wound festered, Melly would likely not survive. “He said the same of me.”

  “Bittle told us what happened,” Reggie murmured, awkwardly patting his sister’s arm.

  “You were right. He never loved me,” Charlotte said quietly, her red-rimm
ed eyes brimming with tears. “Sir Bittle told me what he said just after—after...” Her hands flew to her mouth as she turned into Reggie’s shoulder.

  “Charlie, it’s not your fault,” he said gently.

  “He lied to me,” she sobbed bitterly, “and I believed him rather than my own brother and m—my dearest friends! I’m sorry, sorry for the h-horrible things I said!”

  “I’m sure she knows you didn’t mean it.”

  She shook her head. “You tried to explain why His Grace challenged Herrington, but I didn’t believe you. I called you a liar, my own brother! Then I saw the bruises when they brought Melly in, and I heard Sir Bittle say to the doctor that she’d been shot, and”—she gulped air for a moment—“that he’d done it and—and what he said!”

  Fresh tears flowed from Charlotte’s miserable eyes. “If I’d only listened to you and trusted you, she wouldn’t have confronted him, she wouldn’t be dying. None of this would have happened! I beg your forgiveness. I’ll ask hers, if I’m ever given the chance.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Alessandro told her. “You were deceived. You could not have known what would happen. Please don’t blame yourself. She wouldn’t want that.”

  “I shall help care for her,” she announced, swiping at her eyes. “You have also been injured and cannot stay with her the entire time. You must let me,” she begged. “She’s my best friend, and after what has happened, it’s the least I can do. Please...”

  “She will need your help as she recovers, certainly, but not tonight,” Alessandro said, looking at Bittle, who’d quietly come in behind the brother and sister. “We’ll see what the doctor says in the morning. In the meantime, let us all pray there is no infection and that she rests well.”

  Bittle stood there, looking awkward. “I should be leaving.” He paused, shuffling his feet. “But first, I want to apologize,” he stammered, flushing. “Please believe me when I say I would never have agreed to second Herrington had I known the truth.”

  “I hold no complaint against you, for you were also deceived,” Alessandro told him. “Indeed, you have only my gratitude for your assistance.”

  Bittle nodded, clearly relieved. “It was the least I could do. I will also speak on your behalf when the time comes,” he promised. “You should not be condemned for what happened.”

  “It will be greatly appreciated,” Alessandro answered, nodding at Pelham, who, taking the hint, proceeded to clear the room.

  After a moment, quiet footsteps retreated and the door closed, leaving only the sound of Mélisande’s shallow breathing to break the silence.

  Just before dawn, she began to burn with fever.

  TO RUN THE GAUNTLET

  ON LOOKING AT the patient, Burroughs shook his head.

  “I’m afraid there is nothing more to be done except watch, wait, and use the laudanum to help make her ladyship comfortable.”

  Refusing to accept this, Alessandro had Pelham dispatch a runner with an urgent message to His Majesty, begging assistance. Two hours after Burroughs pronounced doom, the runner returned with Sir Hans Sloane, the king’s own physician.

  Alessandro watched intently as the ancient man examined Mélisande’s wound.

  “No sign of infection,” muttered Sloane. “The fever is likely due to something else. But the wounds will fester if left open.” He dug in his case for a moment and retrieved a bottle, then lifted her eyelid to peer beneath it briefly before slipping another spoonful of laudanum between her cracked lips.

  Not a drop was spilled. In spite of his age, Sloane’s movements were precise, his hands steady as stone. Removing several cauters from his case, he prepared for battle, moving to the hearth to position their tips among the hot coals. While they heated, he methodically cleansed the wound with strong spirits, reopening it and causing it to bleed afresh.

  Mélisande did not even stir.

  “You”—Sloane gestured to the men—“make certain she cannot move.”

  Alessandro and Pelham each took a side while Burroughs lay across her feet. All watched in horrified fascination as Sloane retrieved one of the cauters and carefully inserted its glowing tip into the entry wound.

  Mélisande, though heavily drugged, let out a ragged cry of agony and attempted to rise up off the bed as her flesh was seared by the red-hot metal. The three men held her down through her brief struggle until she slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Alessandro fought down nausea as he watched a wisp of smoke rise, filling the room with the stink of charred meat.

  Sloane tipped another few drops of sleep between his patient’s lips and waited.

  When the physician repeated the process on the other side, where the bullet had exited her body, Mélisande remained quiescent. She was beyond the reach of all pain, slumbering peacefully in the arms of the laudanum.

  Sloane redressed the wounds and bade the gentlemen keep her as cool as possible until the fever passed. Now there was nothing to be done but wait.

  Alessandro remained at her side as she raved incoherently in her delirium. He held her hand as she shook with chills until her teeth clacked violently and a cloth-wrapped stick had to be inserted between them. He spooned laudanum and water between her cracked lips, rubbing them with grease to keep them from bleeding. He plied her face and body with damp cloths to keep her temperature down, to stop the burning of his beloved.

  It took two days. Two days of hanging between hope and despair. At last, on the morning of the third day, she burned no more.

  Mélisande opened her eyes to the beams of an unfamiliar ceiling. Someone breathed softly at her side. Turning her head, she saw Alessandro fast asleep, his head resting on his arm. Smiling, she lifted her hand to touch his hair and winced at the sudden fire that erupted in her shoulder.

  Memory flooded back.

  “Alessandro?” she croaked. The ragged sound surprised her.

  He stirred, his eyes blazing back to life at the sight of her awake. “Amora! How do you feel?”

  Mélisande observed the deep violet bruises beneath his eyes, the hollows in his unshaven cheeks, and thought him the most beautiful man she had ever seen. “I’ve been better,” she whispered, giving him a weak smile.

  On the far side of the room behind her, a chair scraped across the floor. “Herrington is dead,” she heard David say.

  She shifted slightly as he came into view, closing her eyes against the pain. “How long?”

  “Three days,” answered Alessandro. “Try not to move. You don’t want to reopen your injury.”

  “I’m thirsty,” she whispered from parched lips. Alessandro brought her a glass of water and held it to her mouth while she drank.

  A short while later, Charlotte peeked around the door. “Melly?”

  “It’s good to see you, Charlotte,” Mélisande said, smiling before she thought about it. If Herrington was dead, then that meant... “Are you all right?” she inquired.

  “Oh, Melly! Can you ever forgive me?” the girl pleaded. “I’ve been such a fool!”

  Mélisande’s eyes stung. “The fault was mine. I should have told you everything from the beginning.”

  “And how is the invalid?” Reggie chuckled from the doorway, somber eyed despite his cheery smile. “You certainly gave us a good scare. What were you doing out on the field?”

  “I should have listened when you told me to wait for you in the carriage,” Mélisande replied. Guilt filled her as she looked at Alessandro. “I thought Herrington was already dead when I saw him fall.”

  “Well, he’s dead now, and good riddance,” said Charlotte.

  Mélisande’s heart wrenched at the bitterness in her voice. “I’m so sorry. I never meant—”

  “Don’t be,” the girl urged. “The man was a blackguard. He never loved me. I know that now, and I’m glad he can no longer hurt us.”

  David moved to stand beside her. “I’ve some news to tell you, Melly. I’ve spoken with Reggie and asked for Charlie’s hand.”

 
“Oh, David! How very wonderful!” Mélisande exclaimed. “When?”

  “Would you object to a double wedding?” asked Charlotte.

  Mélisande’s smile faded only slightly. “I think that would be grand.”

  “You must recover first,” David admonished. “And then there is the small matter of the king’s inquiry to get through before anything else can happen.”

  Mélisande looked to Alessandro, worry creasing her brow.

  “I must answer for Herrington’s death,” he explained. “All will be well, I am certain. I had just cause for my action. In any case, I possess diplomatic immunity,” he assured her. “The worst that can happen is expulsion.”

  Her heart did not grow any less heavy at his words. Perhaps she might be able to intervene on his behalf, especially since the entire debacle was her fault.

  “It will be several weeks, at least, before we can see the king,” David informed her. “I’m certain we will be able to win his favor, given the situation.”

  Exhaustion suddenly swept through Mélisande. So tired... The bedroom door opened, admitting a servant. The tantalizing scent of chicken broth filtered throughout the room. Her stomach growled audibly, causing Charlotte to giggle.

  “I guess it’s been a while since I last ate.” Mélisande chuckled, her smile returning.

  “Then you’d best have something immediately,” replied Charlotte, taking the tray and moving toward the bed.

  Mélisande first became bored and then cantankerous in very short order.

  Two weeks had passed when Sloane began receiving his patient’s first complaints. A week of bed rest had done her a world of good; her surface wounds had closed and the scabs looked healthy—and she was weary of her confinement.

  “Things are progressing quite nicely indeed. Just a few more days in bed, I think,” Sloane muttered as he examined her, nodding in satisfaction. “Then we’ll see about walking—gentle, slow walking, to begin with,” he added.

  Mélisande let out a sigh. “It’s my shoulder that’s been hurt, for heaven’s sake,” she groused, “not my legs! I don’t see why I can’t go down to the gardens now and sit there doing absolutely nothing!”