by Nicole Byrd
At least the bullet seemed to have gone quite through the flesh, ripping the skin and perhaps bruising a rib, but it had not lodged inside, so the man would not have to bear the pain of its removal. Despite all the blood, no vital area appeared to have been hit. Matthew did not think it would be a dangerous wound, so long as it did not suppurate.
When the maid brought warm water and clean linen strips, he washed the torn flesh. At last Matthew made a neat bandage over the wound, while the stranger lay back and gritted his teeth.
“Surely they ha’ some wine in this place?” he inquired.
“I’m sure they do.” Matthew nodded to the maid, who looked somewhat pale. She took away the bloody water and rags and went into the hall, hopefully to fetch some strong drink.
Gunshot wounds always ached damnably, Matthew knew from his own experience. “It was good of you to come to my aid,” he said.
The other man shifted as if seeking a more comfortable position, though the movement only made him wince again. “I would ha’ thought twice if I’d known I would stop a bullet for my trouble,” was the astringent answer.
Matthew laughed.
Then he looked over his shoulder, and his grin faded. Both the young ladies of the house stood in the doorway. He had hoped to avoid alarming them.
“My servants seem to be trying to shield me, Captain Fallon,” Miss Crookshank said. “But I will not be kept ignorant in my own house. Are you in some difficulty? Is there something we can do to help?”
Behind her, Miss Smith looked apprehensive. Matthew threw her an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry that we have had to trouble you, but my friend was injured by street ruffians, and I had to find help quickly.”
He stood and made a proper bow.
Miss Crookshank gasped.
Matthew looked around quickly. Had he not put away all the bloodstained rags? But nothing objectionable was in sight, and when he turned back, he saw their hostess was gazing at the man’s face.
“You?” she exclaimed.
“You know him?” Matthew realized that he, on the other hand, did not even know the stranger’s name.
“Lieutenant McGregor and I have met, yes,” Miss Crookshank said. Her cheeks had flushed.
“Colin McGregor?” Matthew asked, knowing his voice had sharpened. “Major Colin McGregor?”
“Don’t you know your friend’s name?” Miss Crookshank demanded. “But he’s not a major—”
“Not any longer,” the man on the settee muttered. He had closed his eyes. “How did you know?”
“I had a friend in the light infantry. It was a much-repeated story, you know, bound to be,” Matthew responded.
McGregor frowned and didn’t answer.
“Then surely you can share it!” Miss Crookshank demanded.
“Louisa, it may not be something that can be repeated outside military ranks,” Miss Smith put in. She sounded worried as she glanced from the wounded man to Miss Crookshank.
McGregor opened one eye. “It’s na’ anything improper, ma’am—miss—at least in the sense I think you mean. Only a near court-martial and a demotion in rank.”
“But why?” Miss Crookshank sounded genuinely disturbed. “Did you do something dreadful? I don’t believe it!”
Matthew took pity on her. The truth was less disgraceful than they would likely imagine, anyhow.
“McGregor disobeyed a direct order,” he explained. “Given by an idiot of a colonel, to lead his men into direct range of French cannon for no good reason whatsoever. They would have been cut down like wheat before a scythe.”
Both ladies made sounds of distress at the image.
“So the major led them round the flank, instead, and captured half a company of French and a score of cannon.”
Miss Crookshank’s expression warmed as she turned to the lieutenant. “But, you should have been a hero!” she exclaimed. “You should have been advanced in rank, not demoted!”
He did not meet her eye.
“Nonetheless, I still disobeyed an order,” McGregor explained, his voice low. “I was lucky not to be shot, but they needed officers, just then. It was a dicey time, and Boney—General Bonaparte—was still at the height of his power.”
“But it makes no sense,” she argued.
“It was the army, it does na’ ha’ to make sense,” McGregor retorted.
The housemaid returned with a decanter of wine and glasses, and Matthew motioned toward it. “If I may?”
“Of course,” his hostess said.
“And the surgeon is here, miss,” the servant added. “Shall I show him in?”
“Yes, indeed. Tell him to hurry.”
Matthew poured the wounded man a glass of wine. “You may need this,” he muttered.
A stout man carrying a surgeon’s bag appeared in the doorway. “Madam, sir. Ah, this is my patient, is it? Had a run-in with some street thugs, I understand? Dreadful, the way these scoundrels roam the city without a ‘please’ or ‘thank-you’ from anyone. Where is the watch when you need them, I ask you!” He shook his head, then suggested that they might wish to withdraw while he examined the injured man.
Sure that the women did not wish to watch poor McGregor be tormented further as the doctor probed at his wound, nor observe a half-naked man, and even surer that McGregor would not wish witnesses to his discomfort, Matthew ushered the ladies out, even though Miss Crookshank showed signs of wanting to stay and hold the fellow’s hand.
But when the doctor, his expression adamant, shut the door, their hostess sighed and led them back to the drawing room. They sat down, and she poured a cup of cooling tea for Matthew.
Matthew accepted it and took a polite sip, though he would have preferred wine, himself. Their little adventure at the inns of court had made for a trying day.
“Why did those men set upon you?” Miss Smith asked. “Do you think it was a mere coincidence?”
He shook his head and put down the tea cup. “No, I do not. One of the men admitted they had been paid to put me out of action.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Miss Crookshank looked shocked.
Matthew hesitated, then glanced toward Gemma Smith. “I am attempting to find a solicitor who has behaved dishonestly and who has information I very much need. It may be that I have annoyed him enough so that he is trying to retaliate.”
“You must take care,” Miss Smith told him, her tone anxious. “What are you going to do now?”
“I shall hire a Bow Street runner and send him to watch the tavern my attacker mentioned. I do not know if I have a good enough description of the solicitor Temming to make the watch pay fruit, but I cannot ignore any possible lead.”
Gemma nodded. “And Lady Gabriel Sinclair has been to see us. She and I are going back to the foundling home tomorrow! I have hopes that the matron of the home will be more cooperative when dealing with a lady of influence than she was with me.”
At the mention of the home, Matthew looked up and knew his gaze had sharpened. “Then I think you should have a male escort,” he suggested.
She smiled at him, and her tone was warm. “I’m sure Lady Gabriel will appreciate your protection.”
“I will be here,” he promised.
When the surgeon reappeared and proclaimed that Lieutenant McGregor was fit to travel—“You didn’t leave me much to do, sir,” he told Matthew jovially—he accepted his fee and took his leave.
Matthew thanked the ladies again, settled the time to meet for their journey tomorrow, then he and McGregor departed in another hackney.
Since the lieutenant had said he could not return to his lodgings, Matthew had no better idea than to take him back to his own rooms at the hotel. When they arrived, he helped him out of the cab, and with one arm supporting McGregor, Matthew led the way up to his door. He had taken a suite—a bedroom and sitting-room, with another small room off the bedroom for his valet’s use.
His man was waiting. Short and stout and graying, he nonetheless reflected the air o
f quiet competence that had made him so indispensable aboard ship.
“This is Pattock, my purser during my last years at sea,” Matthew explained to the wounded man leaning on his arm. “He was good enough to follow me into retirement when I left the navy.”
To the servant, Matthew said, “My friend has had an accident. He came to my aid when I encountered a gang of thugs. His wound has been looked after, so let’s get him into one of my nightshirts and put him to bed.”
“Yes, sir,” Pattock murmured. “And what, Captain, if I may ask, about you?”
“Tell the chambermaid to bring up a cot for me, for tonight, then we’ll see.”
McGregor protested, but his voice was still weak. Ignoring his objections, they stripped him, pulled a nightshirt over his head, and careful not to dislodge the bandage, tucked him into the bed. The doctor had given them a dark bottle of noxious liquid guaranteed to help the wounded man rest, and now Matthew poured out a spoonful. McGregor swallowed it, though he choked a little and swore briefly at the taste.
Then the lieutenant lay back against the sheets and sighed. “Have na’ had a bed this comfortable in years. Not bad, this place. Beats my little rooms all hollow. Came home with prize money, did you?”
Matthew nodded.
“I should ha’ gone into the navy instead of the army,” the man on the bed muttered.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Nae enough good sense. Besides, I’m afraid of water,” came the drowsy answer.
Matthew looked at his valet. “Go and get us some wine, and tell the kitchen to make up some broth for the lieutenant. When he wakes from his nap, he will likely be hungry.”
After Pattock departed, Matthew drew a chair up to the bed. “When you’re on your feet again, I can advance you some blunt to pay your rent.”
The other man shook his head. “ ’Fraid I don’t know you well enough to borrow money,” he muttered. “Nae offense.”
Matthew swallowed a laugh. “None taken. Then how do you plan to get back into your lodgings, at least until you draw your next—”
“Pitiful half-pay packet? When my mind is sharp again, we’ll have a hand of cards. Nae doubt I can win a few pounds off you.” The lieutenant flashed a sudden grin.
“Don’t be too sure,” Matthew told him, still amused. “I’m a fair hand with a deck, myself. What were you doing at the Inns, this morning, if I may ask? Not that I’m not pleased you were there, as it turned out.”
“So I could take the bullet meant for you?” The lieutenant scowled for a moment. “I’d been called there by a damned solicitor. Seems a lady I’ve been seeing has a father who wanted to warn me off—threatened action against me if I pursued any further the fair lady’s hand.”
Matthew nodded in comprehension. Many men married for money when they had no other prospects, but the lady, and her family, had to consent, of course. “Sorry to hear that. Bad luck for you.”
“Oh, as to that, the lady in question has the disposition of a warthog, so I’m not totally devastated, I must admit. I may lack capital, but I’m still only human.” McGregor grinned, displaying no sign of a bruised heart. “Inconvenient, however, as I’d spent the last of my funds—hence the small problem of the missing rent money—dining her and taking her to the theater in order to advance my suit.”
“Then I suppose I must wish you a more amiable, and still wealthy, lady,” Matthew suggested, watching as the other man yawned. The medicine seemed to be taking effect. “I’ll leave you to rest, now.”
The wounded man did not reply; his eyes had shut. Matthew went back into the sitting room, determined to think more about the duplicitous solicitor he sought, and how he might run him to earth. And if the image of a certain blue-eyed, dark-haired lady came often into his thoughts, instead—well, as the lieutenant had said, Matthew, too was only human. . . .
After everyone had left, and the excitement had faded, Gemma and Louisa were left to talk over their amazing day. Because Lady Gabriel had decided that she must go equipped with, as she said, every ammunition, she had told them she had some letters to write before their journey. For that reason, she had postponed their trip to the foundling home until the following morning. Gemma had been ready to set off at once, but she had to believe that Lady Gabriel had good reason for the delay.
So Gemma and Louisa, along with Miss Pomshack, shared an intimate dinner at home and discussed both the wounding of the brave lieutenant and Lady Gabriel’s visit again in every detail.
“I would wager his war record is most distinguished,” Louisa declared. “I just knew he must be a gallant soldier.”
“Why, because he dallied with you in a shop?” Gemma murmured.
Her friend threw her an indignant look. Gemma grinned but kept silent as Louisa continued.
“And he was so modest, never mentioning his heroic incident before this. I do hope the wound is not severe, and there is no infection.”
“Of course, we wish for a full recovery,” Miss Pomshack agreed. “I will add his health to my nightly prayers. We all will, I am sure. Although—” A new thought made her pause with a spoon halfway to her lips. “I trust, when the captain attended to his wound, you were not allowed to see him unclothed, Miss Louisa?”
“Of course not.” Louisa kept her face impassive, and Gemma tried not to giggle.
“That would have been most improper,” the older lady went on. “For two unmarried ladies to witness a man not in full dress—”
Gemma thought it best to change the subject, so she remarked, for the dozenth time, “Lady Gabriel is being so generous.” And indeed, the thought of Lady Gabriel’s assistance made Gemma feel almost giddy.
Her ploy succeeded admirably.
“Indeed, I am so distressed that I missed her call,” Miss Pomshack muttered as she sipped her soup. “A very distinguished patron, Louisa. You are most fortunate. Why, the Hill family goes back three centuries, at least.”
Louisa nodded, but didn’t encourage her companion to indulge in flights of genealogy. “She is a truly gracious lady, and I am so gratified that she has decided to sponsor me. And her friend Mrs. Forsythe must be a charming lady, as well.”
Gemma’s thoughts were on the coming return visit to the foundling home. “I cannot imagine what Lady Gabriel—Psyche—meant by ‘ammunition’? Do you have any idea, Louisa?”
Her friend did not appear to hear. “I shall not sleep a wink for the next week; wait until I tell Lucas!”
“Lady Gabriel has such a commanding presence. I can’t think what else she would need. I find it most hard to call her by her first name. I am more apt to feel I should prostrate myself before her like some Eastern serving girl before the Pasha,” Gemma mused.
Louisa looked up from a bite of boiled lobster. “Fie, Gemma. She may very well turn out to be your sister-in-law. You must try to be more at ease with her.”
“I will try,” Gemma agreed. “But it would be much easier—or I hope it will—if I knew for sure about my birth and my family. When the housekeeping book arrives, with my mother’s handwriting in it—”
Louisa’s thoughts had already strayed. “Oh, I must order a new ball gown! There is just enough time, I should think, to get a new one made up—”
“The Hill family supported the king during the Civil War,” Miss Pomshack was saying as she sliced her beef into thinner pieces. “They were not among the Roundheads, I am glad to say. Even my father, the vicar, did not think much of the dictator Cromwell, I must tell you, despite the general’s incessant Bible reading—”
“If the handwriting is the same, perhaps Lord Gabriel will give more credence to my story,” Gemma said. “I wish he would receive a reply from his older brother, the present marquess. How long do you suppose it takes to get a letter back from Constantinople?”
“Perhaps a very pale pink—pink becomes me, don’t you think, Gemma?” Louisa asked, taking a sip of her wine.
“And then, under the dear departed Queen Anne, there was a Hill, w
ho was ambassador to Russia, no, I think it was Sweden?” Miss Pomshack continued her account.
Gemma looked from one of her companions to the other and tried again not to giggle. No one was paying heed to anyone else.
As if to disprove her, Louisa looked up suddenly. But it turned out, her mind was still focused on the weighty subject of attire. “It just occurred to me. Do you have a ball gown, Gemma?”
Aware of her wardrobe’s deficiencies, Gemma flushed. “We had very few balls at the school for girls.”
Louisa nodded. “Of course not, but don’t worry. I have a ball gown from last year that we could alter very easily to fit you, and no one here has seen it.”
“You’re very kind,” Gemma told her and meant it. But she was much more concerned with the imminent return visit to the foundling home than with the upcoming ball.
Gemma spent a restless night. At last morning dawned, and she could rise and dress and wait for Lady Gabriel—Psyche—to appear with her carriage. At least this time, she would not have to worry about a hackney deserting her miles from London, Gemma told herself as she sipped a cup of tea in the dining room. There was food on the side table, but she was too nervous to be able to swallow more than a bite of toast.
On the other hand, if the cab driver had not left her there, she could not have shared that ride home with Captain Fallon, snuggled so close against him as the horse trotted back to the city. Just remembering that close contact made a thrill run through her, her body reacting to the memory of his nearness. She had never before felt that response with any man.
When Louisa came downstairs, she greeted Gemma cheerfully. “You are up early! Are you sure that you do not wish me to accompany you? I would be happy to do so.”
Gemma shook her head. “I shall have both chaperone and protector,” she pointed out. “You might as well spend your day on more cheerful pursuits.”
Louisa filled her plate and sat down. “An amazing story, is it not?”
Gemma looked at her. “What?”
“About Lieutenant McGregor. You must agree he was dreadfully wronged. Do you think his wartime experiences might account for his somewhat cynical approach to life?” Louisa looked dreamy.