“I worked as fast as I could, your grace,” his physician replied. “It was embedded in muscles and tendons. It is difficult to assess the damage that has been done. But haste on my part would almost certainly have crippled you and rendered amputation unavoidable.”
Jocelyn swore again. And then felt the indescribable comfort of a cool, damp cloth being pressed first to his forehead and then to each of his cheeks. He had not realized how hot he was. He opened his eyes.
He recognized her instantly. Her golden hair was dressed with ruthless severity. Her mouth was in a thin line as it had been the last time he saw her—in Hyde Park. She had shed the gray cloak and bonnet she had been wearing then, but what was beneath them was no improvement. She wore a cheap, tasteless gray dress, primly high at the neckline. Despite his inebriation, which his pain had largely put to flight, Jocelyn seemed to recall that he was lying on his own bed in his own bedchamber in his own London home. She had been in Hyde Park on her way to work.
“What the devil areyoudoing here?” he demanded.
“Helping to mop up blood and now sponging away sweat,” she replied, turning to dip her cloth in a bowl and squeeze it out before pressing it to his forehead again. Saucy wench.
“Oh, I say!” Conan had obviously just recognized her too.
“Who let you in?” Jocelyn winced and swore as Dr. Raikes spread something over his wound.
“Your butler, I suppose,” she said. “I told him I had come to speak with you, and he whisked me up here. He said I was expected. You may wish to advise him to greater caution about the people he admits. I might have been anyone.”
“Youareanyone!” Jocelyn barked, tightening his grip on the mattress as his leg was moved and a universe of pain crashed through him. The doctor was beginning to bandage his wound. “What the devil do you want?”
“Whoever you are,” the doctor began, sounding nervous, “you are upsetting my patient. Perhaps you—”
“What Idemand,” she said firmly, ignoring him, “is a signed note to the effect that you detained me against my will this morning and thus caused me to be late for work.”
He must be drunker than he had realized, Jocelyn thought.
“Go to the devil,” he told the impertinent serving girl.
“I might well have to,” she said, “if I lose my employment.” She was dabbing at his chin and neck with her cool cloth.
“Perhaps—” Dr. Raikes began again.
“Why should I care,” Jocelyn asked her, “if you lose your job and are tossed out onto the street to starve? If it were not for you, I would not be lying here as helpless as a beached whale.”
“I was not the one aiming a pistol at you,” she pointed out. “I was not the one who pulled the trigger. I called to both of you to stop, if you will remember.”
Was he actually, Jocelyn wondered suddenly, scrapping with a mere laboring girl? In his own home? In his own bedchamber? He pushed her arm away.
“Conan,” he said curtly, “give this girl the sovereign she ran away from earlier, if you will be so good, and throw her out if she refuses to go on her own feet.”
But his friend had time for only one step forward.
“She certainlydoesrefuse to go,” the girl said, straightening up and glaring down at him, two spots of color reddening her cheeks. She was having the unmitigated gall to be angry and to show it to his face. “She will not budge until she has her signed note.”
“Tresham,” Conan said, sounding almost amused, “it would take you only a moment, old chap. I can send down for paper, pen, and ink. I can even write the note myself, and all you will need do is sign it. It is her livelihood.”
“The devil!” Jocelyn exclaimed. “I will not even dignify that suggestion with a reply. She may grow roots where she stands until a burly footman comes to toss her out on her ear. Are you finished, Raikes?”
The doctor had straightened from his task and turned to his bag.
“I am, your grace,” Dr. Raikes said. “There is much damage, I feel it my duty to warn you. It is my hope that it will not be permanent. But it most certainly will be if you do not stay off the leg and keep it elevated for at least the next three weeks.”
Jocelyn stared at him, appalled. Three weeks of total inaction? He could not think of a worse fate.
“If you will not write the note,” the girl said, “thenyoumust offer me employment to replace my lost job. I simply refuse to starve.”
Jocelyn turned his head to look at her—the cause of all his woes. This was his fourth duel. Before today he had not suffered as much as a scratch. Oliver would have missed by a yard if this girl’s screeching had not given him a broader target at which to aim and the luxury of aiming at an opponent who was not also aiming at him.
“You have it,” he snapped. “You have employment, girl. For three weeks. As my nurse. Believe me, before the time is up you will be wondering if starvation would not have been a better fate.”
She looked steadily at him. “What are my wages to be?” she asked.
