“You would do better,” the girl said, “to swallow your pride and allow your friends to carry you.”
Her shoulder did not bow beneath his weight. She was rather tall and slender, but she was no weakling. She was doubtless accustomed to hard manual labor. She was probably equally accustomed to cuffings and beatings for impudence. He had never heard the like from a servant girl.
He was well-nigh swooning by the time he reached the blanket the surgeon had spread on the grass beneath an oak tree.
“Lie down, your grace,” he instructed, “and I will see what damage has been done. I do not like the look of the positioning of that wound, I must confess. Or all the blood. I daresay the leg will need to come off.”
He spoke as if he were a barber who had discovered a tuft of hair that did not blend well with the rest of the head. He was a retired army sawbones, supplied by Lord Oliver. Bloodletting and amputation were probably his answer to every physical ailment.
Jocelyn swore eloquently.
“You cannot possibly know that from a single glance,” the serving girl had the temerity to observe, addressing the surgeon, “or make such a dire prediction.”
“Conan,” Jocelyn said, his teeth clamping tightly now in a vain attempt to control the pain, “fetch my horse.” It was tethered not far away.
There was a chorus of protests from his friends who had gathered around him.
“Fetch his horse? He is as mad as ever.”
“I have my carriage here, Tresham. Ride in that. I’ll go and have it brought up.”
“Stay where you are, Brougham. He is out of his mind.”
“That’s the fellow, Tresham. You show them what you are made of, old sport.”
“Fetch my damned horse!”Jocelyn spoke from between his teeth. He had a death grip on the girl’s shoulder.
“I am going to be very late,” she scolded. “I will lose my employment for sure.”
“And serve you right too,” Jocelyn said, throwing her own words back at her, his voice devoid of all sympathy as his friend strode away to bring his horse and the surgeon launched into a protest.
“Silence, sir!” Jocelyn instructed him. “I will have my own physician summoned to Dudley House. He will have more regard for his future than to suggest sawing off my leg. Help me to my horse, girl.”
But Lord Oliver appeared in front of him before he could turn away.
“I am not satisfied, I would have you know, Tresham,” he said, his voice breathless and trembling as if he were the one who had suffered injury. “You will doubtless use the distraction with the girl to throw dishonor on my name. And everyone will laughat mewhen it is known that you contemptuously shot into the air.”
“You would rather be dead, then?” Death was seeming to be a rather desirable state to Jocelyn at that particular moment. He was going to black out if he did not concentrate hard.
“You will stay away from my wife in the future if you know what is good for you,” Lord Oliver said. “Next time I may not accord you the dignity of a challenge. I may shoot you down like the dog you are.”
He strode away without waiting for an answer, while another chorus of “Shame!” came from the gallery, some of whose members were doubtless disappointed that they were not about to witness the sawbones plying his trade on the grass of Hyde Park.
“My horse, girl.” Jocelyn tightened his hold on her shoulder again and moved the few steps to Cavalier, whose head Conan was holding.
Mounting was a daunting task, and would have been quite impossible if his pride had not been at stake—and if he had not had the assistance of his silent but disapproving friend. It amazed Jocelyn that one small wound could cause such agony. And there was worse to look forward to. The bullet was lodged in his calf. And despite his words to the surgeon, he was not quite confident that the leg could be saved. He gritted his teeth and took the horse’s reins from Conan’s hands.
“I’ll ride with you, Tresham,” his friend said curtly. “You bloody idiot!”
“I’ll ride on your other side,” Viscount Kimble offered cheerfully. “And then you will have someone to catch you whichever side you choose to slide off. Well done, Tresh, old chap. You gave that old sawbones a right setdown.”
The serving girl stood looking up at Jocelyn.
“I must be at least half an hour late by now,” she said. “All because of you and your foolish quarreling and more than foolish dueling.”
Jocelyn reached for one of the pockets of his coat, only to be reminded that he was still wearing just his shirt and breeches and top boots.
“Conan,” he said testily, “oblige me by finding a sovereign in my coat pocket and tossing it to this wench, will you? It will more than compensate her for the loss of half an hour’s wages.”
