“Steven?” she whispered after shutting the door and he had not stirred. She had the sudden thought that he had been injured after all and that in all his grief, he had not noticed it, but when she went to him, she saw that he was sleeping, his eyes darkly circled and his young face sagging.
“Oh, Steven,” she murmured. She removed his shoes, which were very worn, and tucked his feet up onto the lounge and pulled the blanket further around him. His pants were ragged, she noticed, and she remembered that he had been dressed much smarter the night before, so she found this dress of his rather odd. But her mind was so filled that it was not working at all. She pulled the chair in her room up to the open window to wait and sat staring out at the moon, her mind skittering around nervous edges.
Presently, she heard the sound of a horse's nicker through her opened window, and then the fast beat of hooves that were pulled to a sharp halt. Andrew's muttered curse floated up to her. “What the devil!”
Miss Murdock rose from her seat, shoved her head out the window and looked below just in time to catch Andrew's eye as he looked up. He had caught the reins of a cob, a beastly looking thing that was as ugly as it was small. Even from this distance she could see the dark stains of blood soaked into the worn saddle leather, and the dark sheen of it smeared upon the horse's flanks. On impulse, she said, “Wait! I'm coming also!”
“Lizzie!” he hissed. “I haven't time!”
“Well, you can't leave that horse there at any rate,” she argued. “It'll be much quicker if you wait just one moment!” and she ducked her head back inside, forestalling any further argument. But then she faced another problem, for to get into her riding habit would be time consuming and pointless at any rate as the horse below had no sidesaddle. Then she glanced down at Steven still sleeping deeply.
A very few minutes later, she let herself out the front door as she had the night before and Andrew, having evidently anticipated her way of exit, was there waiting. “Hurry!” he ordered, not at all happy to be taking her along, and full of questions as to what a strange horse was doing below her window at any rate.
She had pulled on a cloak, and stuffed a wadded bundle partway down her sleeve so that her arm stuck out from her side, but as he started to slide down to assist her in mounting, she forestalled him by jumping into the saddle and landing astride. Her cloak floated to settle around her. Andrew raised his eyebrows a good deal at this maneuver, and she pulled her cloak back to reveal a pair of tattered breeches tucked into her fashionable riding boots.
“Where—?”
“Oh, Andrew, not now!” she exclaimed, and put her heels to the horse, which lumbered into as fast a pace as it could manage after its long and tiring night.
Andrew caught her in an instant, his temperamental colt overtaking the older cob with ease, and he held his gloved hand out to restrain Miss Murdock's reins. “Slowly,” he cautioned. “We need not draw attention to ourselves. Not with you along, at any rate,” he added, “for if it had just been myself, I could have adequately covered.”
Lizzie agreed, a little contrite, and kept her horse to a trot, which was not an uncommon gate in Town. Her hood had fallen back and she brought it up once again over her head, wishing that it was anything but mint green in color. “You are right, of course, Andrew. I fully appreciate that no respectable female should be out this time of the night, and alone with a man.”
“And wearing men's breeches and riding astride,” he finished sounding irritated. Miss Murdock found that riding more slowly was not at all to her liking, for not only was she anxious to get to St. James, it also gave Andrew opportunity to begin asking questions. “You may also like to tell me how it came about that you had a horse beneath your window.” He glanced over at her, his blue eyes in his otherwise similar to the duke's face annoyed. “And where you got those breeches, also! They certainly are not a pair of mine, which is the only logical explanation I could come up with.”
“Well,” Miss Murdock replied with impatience, “it should be
obvious that there is someone visiting in my room.”
Andrew pulled his mount up short. “The devil there is!”
“A boy, Andrew,” Miss Murdock explained. “St. James' messenger
boy.”
He relaxed somewhat. “And that is how you are aware that St. James has been injured,” he said, kicking his horse again into a trot. Miss Murdock coaxed the cob back into keeping pace, for it had stopped of its own accord when his horse had.
“Yes. But he is quite overwrought and I could not get more out of him than that his lordship was badly injured, and his own father is even now lying dead in some alley. I can only surmise that his father must have been employed by St. James in some capacity also, and was killed trying to aid his lordship.”
Andrew let out a curse. “But you have no idea what came about.
. .?”
Lizzie shook her head.
Andrew, with a sudden thought, struck his forehead lightly with his gloved hand. “The boy. Is he still in your room?”
“Yes. But he is sleeping soundly on the chaise lounge. All the same, we shall have to figure out what to do with him when we return, for it will not do for Jeannie to come in with my chocolate in the morning and find him there.”
“I should say not,” Andrew agreed. “Boy or no, there would be more questions than we would ever manage to answer! Turn left here, Lizzie, and it is just up the street.”
Lizzie only nodded, too tense now to even speak. She feared finding St. James on his death bed and Andrew's questions had at least enabled her to squash them back some, but now she was trembling.
Andrew slowed his horse to a walk and Miss Murdock did the same. “We'll go to the stables first, for we shall have to put the horses up at any rate,” he whispered as they turned into the narrow mew to the side of a very large and imposing home. “Mayhaps Tyler will be there, and will have some knowledge of what is going on.”
“Of course!” Miss Murdock said, suddenly heartened.
“Otherwise,” Andrew worried, “I am not sure how we will ever gain admittance without disturbing the household.”
“It is very quiet,” Miss Murdock observed, having expected to see some sort of frantic activity, and a doctor's carriage outside the home. The mew ended in front of the stables' entrance, and to both of their surprise, the doors were open and St. James' carriage stood half in and half out of the entrance, his black horses still harnessed, but there was no one about to be seen at all.
Earl Larrimer dismounted and Lizzie, after a brief second of feeling a great deal of queasiness in her stomach at this somehow foreboding sight, followed suit. They led their mounts single file along the side of the carriage, for it blocked the most of the doorway and there was only just enough room for them to be able to get the horses through. Andrew paused beside the door of it. “Look,” he said and pointed to the ground. There was a trail of blood coming from the now closed door and puddled half on the cobblestones of the drive and half soaked in where it lay on the floorboards of the stables.
Then he took his horse on through and Lizzie followed him. They found an empty stall for each, and only loosened the girths of the saddles and removed the bits from their mouths before closing them into their confines. In the next stall, a fine, coal black filly stuck her head over the door, her ears twitching forward as she observed what had wakened her.
Miss Murdock spared her a pat, no more able to walk past a fine horse without petting it than a doting parent could go past their child without ruffling its hair. “You are a fine lass, are you not?” she said, then dropped her hand as Andrew came out of the stall. They went back to the carriage, and Andrew opened the door. Together they peered in. One leather seat was covered with a dark, still sticky wet, stain. The rug on the floor was soaked with blood, and somehow most alarming to Lizzie was a bloody hand print half smeared on the side window.
Andrew closed the door. “This carriage will have to be cleaned,” he said. “And befor
e morning.”
“Oh, Andrew,” she said, her voice quavering. “That is too much blood!”
“C'mon. Let us see if we can gain entrance somehow.”
They went first to the back servants' entrance, as it was closest, and it seemed only perfunctory to try it, though they each had their doubts that it could be so easy. But Andrew tried the handle and to each of their amazement, it swung readily in. Then they looked down, saw the trail of blood over the doorstep, and it was apparent that whoever had brought St. James in had had his hands just a bit too full to be able to be throwing home the bolts.
“Where now?” Miss Murdock whispered as Andrew closed the door behind them and they hurried as quietly as possible through the kitchens. “They wouldn't attempt to haul him up the stairs, would they?”
But just then, they came upon the back servants stairs and there was a trail of blood going up them and disappearing around the abrupt twist they made halfway up. And from above them, they heard the soft, furtive sounds of a scrub brush being used with hasty diligence. The dim, very dim glow of a lamp shone forth from above. Andrew took her arm and they moved together, squeaking a step here and there, and when they went around the twist, they observed Tyler on his knees, a low burning lamp by his side. His shirt was covered with blood, his cap off and his gray hair mussed considerably, with a great deal of red streaks in it. He was working hard and fast with the brush while at the same time trying to do it as silently as possible, and it was obvious from the degree of red in his bucket of water that he had been at it for some time.
They had only a second to observe all this, for he looked up, nearly overturning his bucket, and his hand did a little dance toward his waist as someone who were used to keeping some weapon in his belt would do. Then his eyes narrowed and his brows rose, and from his knees, he exclaimed in a whisper, “Bloody Hell, Miss Murdock, is that you and Earl Larrimer?”
“Yes. Do not be alarmed,” she said in hushed tones back. “I would ask if his lordship were injured as we had heard, but I believe it is rather evident that he has been.”
He looked at Andrew. “Take her out of here, Earl. His lordship will kill us all if he finds she is even aware of this state of affairs, let alone here in the midst of it.”
“He's alive then?” Andrew asked.
“For now,” Tyler returned and began again to scrub as though if he managed to clean the blood up, then it would magically return to his lordship's body. “Now you know. You better go. I'll send word 'round as soon as I can.”
Miss Murdock was very disturbed, for she noticed that Tyler had not even asked how they knew of St. James' injury to begin with. It indicated just how very distracted he was, and hence, how bad off the duke must be. “No, I'm not leaving,” she said. “For I can not see how you are going to get along handling this yourself.”
“I've Effington to help. We'll manage,” Tyler returned, but there was a great deal of doubt in his voice.
“Take me to St. James,” she asked and placed a hand on his shoulder.
His relenting was brusque. “All right Miss, I haven't time to be arguin' with you, but you'll see he is unconscious and therefore yer trip wasted. All t'same, if you'll leave after seeing him, then see him you shall.”
“Thank you, Tyler,” she said.
He got up from his knees and she realized that he was getting too old for these shenanigans. He seemed to realize it also, for he looked very tired. Then he led them into the hallway and to his lordship's rooms where he tapped on the door. A furtive voice said, “Tyler?” and then they heard the click of a key turning in the lock as Tyler whispered to the affirmative.
The door opened with caution and a very tall, thin man in a long sleeping gown, smeared with blood, and a crumpled night cap upon his head said, “I nearly have all the clothing burned as you said, and—oh, heaven! Who are these people?”
“T'duke's cousin, Earl Larrimer, and Miss Murdock,” Tyler answered. “It's all right, Effington, let 'em in.”
Effington said, “Ah, the slapper,” and he grinned a little, but his face was concerned and his smile died quickly.
“Yes,” Miss Murdock replied ruefully. “I fear it is I.”
Effington opened the door wider and admitted them into milord's bedchamber. The clock began to strike the hour, three strokes, and then settled into ticking again. The fireplace crackled and an unpleasant smell came from it, a mixture of fabric and blood. A pair of scissors were set on a table, and the remnant of what had been a red wine velvet jacket was on the floor. It was a dark, unsettling color, not at all as Lizzie remembered it being just a few hours ago.
St. James lay in the large four poster bed, his eyes closed, his face and torso as white as the linens that were wrapped around his shallowly breathing chest. The sheet of his bed was pulled to just above his hips, and Miss Murdock saw that his skin was papery thin and dry. He had been sponged, but there was still a great deal of stiff, dried blood in the dark hair that lay in a brief pattern down his belly. His face was still welted from her hand, but instead of being red, it was now a washed out purple. Most alarming, she could see that blood had spread through his bandage, the source of it seeming to come from just over his heart. And his left arm was also wrapped.
She moved toward him, removed her cloak and the bundle she had kept stuffed in the upper part of her sleeve, laid them both aside. She had tucked her billowy night costume into the breeches she wore, and now she lacked only an eyepatch to complete the illusion of a rather small pirate. She was not at all aware of how ridiculous she looked, only reached two fingers to his lordship's throat, found the pulse that was there and was not reassured by the erratic faintness of it. His neck was very hot and her fingers burned.
“What happened?” Andrew asked Tyler.
“An assailant plugged him from the alley beside Almacks,” Tyler explained. Lizzie flinched at the fact that she had been so close by and so oblivious.
“Is that where Steven's father lies?” Andrew asked.
Tyler's tired eyes shifted and he didn't answer. Miss Murdock filled the silence by saying, “This is not right. I fear he needs a doctor.”
Effington said in a doleful voice, “As I had pointed out, miss, an hour ago.”
But Tyler gave an adamant shake of his head. “No, miss. We can't do that to him.”
She turned her anxious brown eyes to him. “We can't let him die either! He's still bleeding. He's running a temperature which has me quite baffled for surely he can not have the infection already and I fear that he is fast dehydrating also.”
“De-what?” Tyler asked.
“Not enough fluid in his body,” Miss Murdock tried to explain. “He needs to drink and with his being unconscious, I do not know how we can endeavor to get anything into him.”
“Well, that should not be the problem,” Tyler told her with relief in his voice, “for I saw to it myself that he had quite a bit of whiskey before I soddered him.”
Miss Murdock gave him a very strange look, the same look she gave her father before launching into an acerbic attack at some utterly foolish, irresponsible, lamebrained, idiotic action of his that had managed to set her back two steps for every one she had worked so hard to go forward. But she reminded herself that he had done what he thought was best, and indeed, in the older school of thought that he was a product of, had been accepted as the proper action to take. So she drew in a breath, said with a great deal of control, “I see that you took every necessary precaution, but I still think he should see a doctor.”
“Can't do it, miss,” Tyler said reverting to a certain obstinacy that his lordship had seen many times but that Miss Murdock had not yet encountered. “He'd rather die than risk having whatever enemy is out there find out that he is laid up and helpless, a sitting duck. And there's other factors involved too. He'll not have no doctor and I won't go against his wishes.”
Andrew broke in. “You seem to know uncommonly much about this sort of thing, Lizzie. I mean, dehydration. I'd never h
eard such a word.”
“I do have a knack at vetting,” she admitted, “but surely you must see this is far, far different.” But as they only stared at her, she said, “You do see that, don't you?” Then she sighed, for she could see very well that they did not. She sank into the chair at St. James' bedside and put her forehead in her hand for a long moment, chewing on her lip. It was madness to even consider it. He was not a horse or a cow or a pig for heaven's sake. But she could not just leave him as he was either. “All right,” she said less than graciously when she looked up to the three men that had unconsciously put her in charge. “This is what I should need, and this is what we should do.”
She stood up again, but her hand fluttered down to rest on St. James' brow. “Tyler, you know the stables best. I'm supposing you have supplies there for minor veterinary incidents.”
“Oh! Aye,” he nodded. He picked up his cap from where at some point it had been tossed onto a chair and placed it on his head.
“Bring me up some clean needles and suturing thread. Also an antiseptic agent, Borax if you have it.”
“Yer gonna stitch him then?” he asked.
“Yes. I fear with his wound being constantly aggravated by the breathing movements of his chest that your method, a very good method usually, mind you, is not holding.”
Tyler nodded but he looked worried again. “I've the carriage t'see to first, miss, if you think he will be all right in t'meanwhile.”
“No. There's no sense cleaning out the carriage until you and Andrew go and retrieve the body of Steven's father from the mew. I can not think that his lordship would wish to abandon that man who gave his life helping him to lay there until someone finds him in the morning. It will be a miracle if no one has stumbled upon him already,” she added, then shook off this horrible thought. “So gather what I need and then Andrew will accompany you to fetch the. . .,” and she stumbled a little here, as she realized just what she was discussing, “the corpse. You shall have to wake an undertaker and assure him that he will be settled with upon the morrow, and that he will receive extra for his discretion.”
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 34