2
HE EARL OF DURBURY HAD TAKEN ROOMS ATthe Pulteney Hotel. He rarely came to London and owned no town house. He would have preferred a far less expensive hotel, but there were certain appearances to be kept up. He hoped he would not have to stay long but could soon be on his way back to Candleford in Cornwall.
The man standing in his private sitting room, hat in hand, his manner deferential but not subservient, would have something to do with the duration of the earl’s stay. He was a small, dapper individual with oiled hair. He was not at all his lordship’s idea of what a Bow Street Runner should look like, but that was what he was.
“I expect every man on the force to be out searching for her,” the earl said. “She should not be difficult to find. She is just a green country girl, after all, and has no acquaintances here apart from Lady Webb, who is out of town.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the Runner replied, “but there are other cases we are working on. I will have the assistance of one or two other men. Perfectly able men, I assure you.”
“I would think so too,” the earl grumbled, “considering what I am paying you.”
The Runner merely inclined his head politely. “Now, if you could give me a description of the young lady,” he suggested.
“Tall and thin,” his lordship said. “Blond. Too pretty for her own good.”
“Her age, sir?”
“Twenty.”
“She is simply a runaway, then?” The Runner planted his feet more firmly on the carpet. “I was under the impression that there was more to it than that, sir.”
“There certainly is.” The earl frowned. “The woman is a criminal of the most dangerous kind. She is a murderess. She has killed my son—or as good as killed him. He is in a coma and not expected to live. And she is a thief. She ran off with a fortune in money and jewels. She must be found.”
“And brought to justice,” the Runner agreed. “Now, sir, if I may, I will question you more closely about the young woman—any peculiarities of appearance, mannerisms, preferences, favorite places and activities. Things like that. Anything that might help us to a hasty conclusion of our search.”
“I suppose,” his lordship said grudgingly, “you had better sit down. What is your name?”
“Boden, sir,” the Runner replied. “Mick Boden.”
JOCELYN WAS FEELING QUITEsatisfyingly foxed. Satisfying except that he was horizontal on his bed when he preferred the upright position while inebriated—the room had less of a tendency to swing and dip and weave around him.
“’Nuff!” He held up a hand—or at least he thought he did—when Sir Conan offered him another glass of brandy. “’f I drink more, th’old sawbones will have m’leg off b’fore I can protest.” His lips and tongue felt as if they did not quite belong to him. So did his brain.
“I have already given you my word that I will not amputate without your concurrence, your grace,” Dr. Timothy Raikes said stiffly, no doubt aggrieved at being referred to as a sawbones. “But it looks as if the bullet is deep. If it is lodged in the bone…”
“Gerr irr—” Jocelyn concentrated harder. He despised drunks who slurred their words. “Get it out of there, then.” The pain had been pleasantly numbed, but even his befuddled mind comprehended the fact that the alcohol he had consumed would not mask the pain of what was about to happen. There was no point in further delay. “Ged on—get on with the job, man.”
“If my daughter would just come,” the doctor said uneasily. “She is a good, steady-handed assistant in such cases. I sent for her as soon as I was summoned here, but she must have left Hookham’s Library before the messenger arrived.”
“Blast your daughter!” Jocelyn said rudely. “Get—”
But Conan interrupted.
“Here she is.” There was marked relief in his voice.
“No, sir,” Dr. Raikes replied. “This is merely a housemaid. But she will have to do. Come here, girl. Are you squeamish? Do you faint at the sight of blood as his grace’s valet does?”
“No to both questions,” the housemaid said. “But there must have been some mis—”
“Come here,” the doctor said more impatiently. “I have to dig a bullet out of his grace’s leg. You must hand me the instruments I ask for and swab the blood so that I can see what I am doing. Come closer. Stand here.”
Jocelyn braced himself by grasping the outer edges of the mattress with both hands. He caught a brief glimpse of the housemaid before she disappeared beyond Raikes. Coherent thought vanished a moment later as everything in his body, his mind, his world exploded into searing agony. There was nowhere, no corner of his being, in which to hide as the physician cut and probed and dug deeper and deeper in search of the bullet. Conan was pressing down with both hands on his thigh to hold his leg immobile. Jocelyn held the rest of himself still by dint of sheer willpower and a death grip on the mattress and tightly clenched eyes and teeth. With dogged determination he concentrated on keeping himself from screaming.
Time lost all meaning. It seemed forever before he heard the physician announce with damnable calm that the bullet was out.
“It’s out, Tresham,” Conan repeated, sounding as if he had just run ten miles uphill. “The worst is over.”
“Damn it to hell!” Jocelyn commented after using a few other more blistering epithets. “Can’t you perform the simple task of removing a bullet, Raikes, without taking all morning over it?”
