He pulled a small cylindrical flask from his apothecary, poured some of the yellow sulfur powder onto a slip of paper, curved the parchment, and funneled the contents into Valen’s wound. “Piece of good luck it didn’t hit the lung. A near thing.”
Elizabeth’s hand shook as she aimed a length of silk suture at the eye of a wickedly curved needle. She couldn’t help but envision the point stabbing into Valen’s flesh. Piercing the very shoulder she had rested her head against and felt so comforted and safe.
If only she hadn’t screamed.
She would be dead, but he might have been spared. It had all happened so quickly, before she had time to think. She had awakened and Merót stood beside her bed leering at her. The scream had torn out of her throat unbidden.
Who could have known Valen would be the one to hear? The one to race to her bedchamber? Merót must have guessed—vile fox. She bit down hard on the corner of her lip to suppress her tears. If only she hadn’t screamed.
She handed the doctor the threaded needle.
Five loose stitches, the doctor did not close the wound completely. “Seepage,” he explained, and unscrewed a jar of leeches. He placed three of the ghastly things atop the oozing wound.
Elizabeth cringed as the dark sluglike creatures settled themselves on Valen’s swollen flesh.
“Stops the bleeding,” the doctor claimed.
She grimaced, skeptical that anything so repulsive might serve a beneficial purpose.
“I have it on good authority that Napoleon’s surgeons used them on the battlefield all the time.”
A recommendation she could do without. Devil take Napoleon. If he hadn’t made war none of this would have happened.
After the servants mopped up the blood, and they padded the bed with extra linen and laid Valen back against a mound of pillows, Elizabeth whispered to the surgeon. “Will he live?” A foolish question. Who but God could answer?
“It’s possible. The extraction went well.” He rubbed at his scraggly side-whiskers and stared at their patient. “I must report to Lord Ransley.”
She nodded and sat down to have a good cry.
22
A Torn Tapestry of Foolish Dreams
Silent tears choked her, assailed her complexion, running in salty streams, crumpling her already haggard face. Wrinkles and lines no longer mattered to her.
I should not have screamed.
If she hadn’t screamed, Valen would be alive and well. She would be in the next world with her father, and that venerable gentleman would have the pleasure of scolding her for eternity and telling her exactly how she ought to have behaved. Instead, Valen lay dying, while the vicious marmot lived on—a mean waddling hedgehog with claws and a poisonous tongue.
It should have been me. Why had he stepped in the way of a bullet meant for her?
She stood up and brushed away the tears as she went to him. Her fingers gently trailed over the muscles of his arm. Why would he risk his life to protect a wretched useless marmot?
Elizabeth heard a commotion downstairs and didn’t care. The world might come crashing down around her ears. It didn’t matter. If Valen didn’t survive, none of it mattered. She wondered how she ever could have been so foolish to think she might trade her heart to repair the family fortune. She would have been no different from her father—chasing after money and neglecting those who really mattered.
Clattering outside the door, men talking, the sound of boots reporting on the stone stairs—none of it interested her.
She lightly brushed back Valen’s wavy hair.
“Izzie!”
“Robert?” She turned.
In three strides, her brother was at her side. “I failed you. The blighter got away from me.”
None of that mattered. “It’s over.” All that mattered was the future.
Robert still blustered his excuses. “Lost Merót’s trail on the outskirts of London. Had a feeling he’d come here. But we had to check all of the possibilities. It took too long. Then I heard that wretched screaming in my head and I knew.” He patted her. “Izzie! Izzie! Stop crying.”
She hadn’t realized she was. Robert clasped her shoulders and gave her a shake. She suddenly became aware there were two soldiers in the room with them and fought to compose herself.
Robert let go of her and turned to Valen. “How is he?”
“He has a chance.” She pressed her lips together to stop the trembling before attempting to say more. “The bullet didn’t strike his lung.”
Robert studied Valen as if he might divine the future if he stared hard enough. “That’s all right then, isn’t it? If there’s any chance at all, our captain here will take full advantage.”
The soldiers murmured their agreement.
“He’ll pull through. You’ll see.” Robert brought himself to attention, blind bravado filling his chest. “Not the sort to give up, is he.”
“Not bloody likely. Begging yer pardon, mum. Like as not the captain would give ole St. Peter a taste of his fives and march straight back down to earth.”
She turned at the familiar voice and was startled to see Lord St. Evert’s unlikely servant, looking much more likely in a soldier’s uniform. He tipped his shako and bowed. “Don’t you worry, miss. His Grace has enough backbone for three men.”
The others agreed.
His Grace. Some muddled part of her mind felt compelled to correct him. He’s not a duke. But she silenced the babbling marmot. Valen was far more noble than any duke she knew. Let the man call him His Grace.
Robert nudged her. “See here, Izzie. Watch over St. Evert, will you? I’ve got to take this lot and haul Merót’s carcass back to Whitehall. There are several gentlemen there very anxious to see the rascal has been recovered.”
“Must you leave so soon?”
He nodded, kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I’ve been relieved.” Her brother and his men stormed out as suddenly as they had entered.
The room lay silent, but not nearly so bleak as it had been before her brother arrived.
A few moments later Lady Alameda glided in and stood beside Elizabeth at Valen’s bedside. “His color is passable.” She prodded her nephew with one finger. He stirred in response and then sank back into his stupor. “Out till tomorrow, I expect. And I, for one, have had enough excitement for one evening. It’s back to bed for me. Surely you don’t intend to stand here all night staring at him.”
“I doubt I could sleep.”
“Perhaps not, but you ought to try. You look positively ghastly, my dear, like you’ve been dragged through a briar patch.”
An interesting compliment coming from a lady whose uncombed hair resembled a thistle gone to seed. “Thank you. I shall take it under advisement.”
“Yes. Well, good! Go ahead and lie down then.”
“A small problem.”
The countess arched a brow and waited.
“There is a rather large man in my bed.”
“It is a very big bed.”
Elizabeth drew back, a hand to her breast. “Are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting you get some rest.” Lady Alameda sniffed imperiously. “I daresay we’ve taxed the servants enough for one night. Rather than selfishly rouse an army of them to attend to your needs, simply because you are too high in the instep to curl up next to—”
“Surely not in the same bed?”
“Pooh. Don’t be so missish. He’s unconscious. What could happen?”
“No.” All the lessons from her youth screamed at her. Her father’s birch rod waved an invisible warning in front of her face. “It wouldn’t be at all proper.”
“Good heavens, child. If you’re concerned about the proprieties, you may come sleep with me in my room. But I warn you, I have no wish to be woken again until the sun is well up tomorrow.” Lady Alameda crossed her arms and thrummed the toe of her slipper on the floor. “I daresay you will insist on pattering down here every ten minutes to see how he fares.”
&n
bsp; She was right. Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to sleep for worrying about whether he was catching fever or in pain. “Very well. I’ll sleep in the chair.”
“My dear, there is only one chair, and the doctor plans to use that one as soon as he has put my brother at ease.” Lady Alameda glanced sharply around the room and pointed. “Well, I suppose you might use that little writing chair at the desk. Really, Elizabeth, be practical. The doctor makes a perfectly proper chaperone.”
Elizabeth went and got the straight-backed wooden chair and plunked it firmly on the floor beside the bed.
“Suit yourself.” Honore shrugged and bent to kiss Valen on the forehead. “You’re almost as obstinate as this one here. Stubborn boy.” She ruffled back his newly shorn hair and murmured, “If you weren’t my favorite nephew, I might be quite peeved at you for putting us through all this turmoil.”
Valen remained silent.
Lady Alameda straightened and cast a viperous look at Elizabeth. “It is well you plan to watch over him. Should anything happen to him, I might blame you for all this.”
“No more than I already do.”
“Humph.” The countess’s features cooled as rapidly as they had turned vicious. “Well then, I shall leave you to wrestle with your conscience in peace. And for heaven’s sake. Get some rest.”
Lady Alameda meandered slowly out of the room, turning out the extra lanterns as she went, and blowing out the candles.
She stopped in the doorway and turned. “He really is a fine specimen, is he not?”
“Good night, my lady.”
She bristled at Izzie’s dismissal. “I believe that uncomfortable desk chair is no more than you deserve.”
The countess chuckled, and the wicked sound of it echoed down the hall as she walked away. Elizabeth shook her head.
* * *
A few minutes later, the doctor assisted a distraught Lord Ransley into the room. Breathing with great difficulty, he hobbled to his son’s bedside. “This is not like him at all. He doesn’t look well. Normally he’s strong as two bulls and an ox. He looks so... so pale.” Lord Ransley’s own complexion blanched even whiter.
The physician checked Valen’s pulse. “It is precisely as I told you. Lord St. Evert is resting comfortably.”
Lord Ransley stared at his son, hesitantly brushing the side of Valen’s face with his knuckles. A sliver of water ran down the father’s gaunt cheek and sluiced down onto the lace of his collar. “You must get well,” he whispered. Then he turned his head away to cough.
“You’ve expended all your energies, my lord.” The doctor placed his hands on Lord Ransley’s shoulders and tried to guide him away. “You can do no more for him tonight.”
Valen’s father was not ready to be ushered away. Elizabeth touched his sleeve. “Thank you, my lord, for saving us. We would both be dead, if it were not for you.”
Lord Ransley pressed his hand over hers and met her gaze.
“Do what you can for him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. If he knows you are here, perhaps he will...” Under the weight of his despair, the gray rings under Lord Ransley’s eyes burrowed deeper. “Please. He is all I have that matters.”
She nodded, an answering tightness in her chest making it impossible to speak.
“Come, my lord. You must rest.” The doctor prevailed upon him, and patting the frail man’s shoulders, took Lord Ransley away. He returned with a fresh bowl of water and a stack of white linen rags. “His Lordship tells me you are a healer—familiar with herbs.”
“Only in passing, sir.”
He nodded. “Just as well. One must remember, some of those old remedies do more harm than good.”
She nodded obediently but wondered, somewhat annoyed, how a man who just set three hideous leeches to suck on Valen’s chest might judge the validity of using a little garlic to strengthen the lungs.
“However, I’m glad you know something about tending the infirm.” He set down his supplies and scratched at his side-whiskers. “We must ward off fever. Throughout the night, it is essential to wet these cloths and wipe him down every hour or so.” He opened his watch and set it on the table beside the pan of water. “I shall be glad of your assistance.”
He showed her how to do it and then sat down in the padded armchair. Stretching out his legs, he crossed them at the ankles, yawned, stretched, propped his head to one side and promptly dozed off. Obviously, he was quite used to sleeping in a chair.
Elizabeth had no such similar success. The writing chair was hard, and the wooden back annoyed her spine when she tried to lean against it. She got up and rummaged through her belongings until she found a book. She pulled it out, squinted at the title, and wished she might find something more stimulating than a book of lectures on the proper conduct of young ladies. She dug again and produced a book of Shakespearean sonnets.
As much as she admired William Shakespeare, his poetry did not prove as riveting as she had hoped. Her head drooped and the text blurred. At last she stopped struggling and closed the small volume.
She turned down the remaining lamp, leaving just enough dusky light to radiate over their patient. She sat down and stared at Valen. Soon the silence teemed with small sounds, his erratic breathing, the tick, tick, ticking of the doctor’s pocket watch as it resonated against the table. The steady undulation of the physician’s snores as they fluttered and whistled, going in and out against his heavy mustache.
Elizabeth massaged the ache in her neck and shoulders and leaned back, hoping to close her eyes and ease some of her weariness.
Valen murmured, a loud garbled set of consonants Elizabeth couldn’t comprehend. She checked the time, and it surprised her that an hour had passed so quickly.
Checking his brow for fever, she sighed with relief to find he was not too hot. She drenched a rag and wrung it out to wipe him down. The task passed quickly. Once more she returned to the small chair and resumed her vigil.
Sometime later she awoke, her chin bowed against her chest, surprised to find she had drowsed. Valen thrashed his head from side to side, muttering incoherently. She tapped on the clock to make sure it was working correctly, finding it hard to believe she had slept so long. She prepared another wet cloth.
When she pulled down the bed sheet, Valen grabbed her wrist and his eyes flashed open, glazed, wild. Elizabeth knew at once that he was not seeing her, but some phantom.
“Leave her be, Merót!” he tried to shout, but it came out in the husky half whisper of a nightmare.
“Shhh,” Elizabeth crooned, wiping his brow. “It’s over. Merót is dead. It’s over.”
He let go of her and rocked his head from side to side. “Izzie,” he muttered and drifted back into a fitful sleep.
She bathed the sweat from his neck and carefully dabbed away the crusting blood at the outer edges of his wound, flinching at the sight of the pulsating brown-black leeches. She averted her eyes from the grotesque creatures and softly ran the rag over the muscles of his abdomen.
An irony, that so much power should lie helpless, dormant beneath her fingers. She traced her fingertips lightly over the powerful ridges. When they contracted under her touch, a jolt of heat flamed into her cheeks. A lady ought not touch a man thus. Especially an unconscious man. Any man. Conscious or not. Elizabeth glanced guiltily at the doctor. Undoubtedly she ought to have selected the Lectures On Proper Conduct For Young Ladies to read.
Her chaperone snored rhythmically, completely at peace. The house might burn down, and she guessed he would sleep through it. Oh yes, he was a perfectly proper chaperone.
Elizabeth quickly pulled Valen’s covers up and straightened her aching shoulders. She was exhausted. Otherwise she never would have ventured to... to what? All she did was merely wipe down a feverish patient. Yes. She was making much ado about nothing.
Precisely. She would adhere to Mr. Shakespeare's wisdom and not make mountains out of molehills. Or something along those lines. Gad. She was tired.
Elizabeth plopp
ed down on the hard chair. The pocket watch ticked. The doctor’s mustache quivered as he snored. The oil lamp hissed and flickered because she’d set it so low. Valen muttered in his sleep. She stared down at her toes and wondered how she would get through the night. She decided to make a game for herself and squinted at the tapestry hanging on the wall behind the doctor. It was a medieval hunting scene. How many antelope did the lords and ladies chase? How many whippets with lovely arched necks surrounding the hunters? How many horses...
Perhaps she might just rest her head on the edge of his bed, use it as a pillow of sorts to add a bit of comfort while she sat. Elizabeth curled her arm up beneath her head and fell asleep.
* * *
“Izzie?” Valen asked, his voice groggy. “What are you doing in hell?”
Her eyes blinked open. She struggled to comprehend and sat up, rubbing her eyes. “We’re not in hell, dearest. You’re alive.”
He dragged down the sheet and stared at his wound.
She jumped up and tried to cover him, but he stopped her.
“Not in hell? Then what are these demons doing on me?” He snatched off two of the leeches and threw them across the room. The engorged slugs splattered against the tapestry and oozed down the stone wall.
“No. Valen you shouldn’t. The doctor said they will stop the bleeding.”
By then he’d yanked the third leech off. The sucking sound made her flinch.
“Saw injured men who ought to have lived sucked to death by these vermin.” He said as he hurled the wiggling creature.
Elizabeth watched in horror as it plopped onto the shirt of the doctor, who stirred and brushed at his mustache as if a mosquito had flown past.
“No,” she whispered. “The doctor should decide. I’ll wake him.”
Valen grabbed her arm. “Don’t bother. I won’t allow it anyway.”
The stunned leech came to life and slithered across the physician’s waistcoat, leaving a trail of red.
Elizabeth shook her head. “I ought to wake him.” At the very least, she ought to retrieve that leech before it found a new home on the physician. But that would mean picking it up. She wrinkled her nose. With a tiny bit of good fortune, the hideous thing would simply crawl away and die.
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