He took the boy from her and carried him into the nearest shop. He demanded a doctor, and one soon arrived. Then he went out and supervised those tending to the horses and damaged coach.
When a constable arrived, Marchmont ordered the coachman taken into custody and charged with drunkenness, disturbing the King’s peace, and endangering public safety. The coachman was taken away.
All this happened in a remarkably short time. Zoe watched the street’s concluding events through the shop window while behind her the physician attended to the boy.
Marchmont, she saw, could be remarkably efficient when he chose—or when he had to be. Or perhaps he was not so much efficient as impatient and intimidating.
He came back inside the shop at last. He didn’t look at her but folded his arms and leaned against the door, stone-faced, until the boy came to his senses and proved able to remember his name, the date, and the present sovereign. Zoe caught only the last part of this, because the boy said it loudly: “King George the Third.Everybodyknows that.”
He had a lump forming on the back of his head and a number of bruises and scrapes, but the doctor pronounced him fit to return home.
“My groom will take him home in my carriage,” Marchmont said. These were the first words he’d uttered since reentering the shop.
He watched them drive away until they were out of sight. Then he turned his attention to Zoe, who’d followed him out of the shop. He eyed her up and down.
She was dirty and bedraggled, she knew, but she didn’t care. She was still exhilarated, because she’d saved the boy from serious injury, perhaps death. The big, cumbersome coach could have crushed him when it fell. He could have been impaled on a jagged piece of wood or metal.
She’d saved him. She’d been free to act, free to help, and she’d done something worthwhile.
Marchmont did not look either exhilarated or bedraggled. He still had his hat on. His neckcloth seemed crisply in order. The coat that so closely followed the contours of his big shoulders and upper body showed spots of dirt here and there but no tears. The green waistcoat hugging his lean torso hadn’t ripped anywhere or lost buttons. The pantaloons clinging to his long, muscular legs were very dirty, though. Her gaze trailed slowly down, to his boots. They were scuffed and coated with dust.
She became aware of a soft, slapping sound. He had taken off his gloves. He slapped them against his left hand.
Slowly she brought her gaze up.
His face was as hard as the marble in his house’s entrance hall. His eyes were angry green slits.
“That way,” he said, jerking his head toward a shop.
She looked in the direction he indicated. The shop bore a black sign with the wordVÉRELETin gold letters. That was all. On either side of the door, bay windows held a splendid array of colorful fabrics and delicious bonnets.
“Clothes?” she said. “Now?”
“My curricle is on its way to Portland Place with that wretched boy. What do you suggest instead? Perhaps a leap off Westminster Bridge?”
She had trained herself ages ago to keep her temper in check, because survival in the harem often depended upon keeping a cool head. She told herself she could do it at present.
She reminded herself of her conversation with Jarvis. Zoe needed this man’s help in order to live the life she’d risked everything for. She needed his help to banish the shame she’d brought on her family. She needed this help if she wanted a chance to find a good husband. Once she was wed and settled, her father could stop worrying about her.
She told herself all this, several times. Then she lifted her chin and entered the shop.
Marchmont’s heart still pounded.
It was as though his brain had overturned, like the coach, and boxes had fallen out and broken, spilling their contents.
He heard himself shout, “No! Don’t!” and heard Gerard laugh in the instant before he went over the fence. Again and again the scene played in his mind: Gerard, galloping ahead of the rest of the boys, heedless as always.
Marchmont would never know why he’d shouted the warning, whether he’d seen or sensed something amiss with the fence ahead or the ground or his brother’s horse. He’d never know what it was that had made him slow his own mount and cry, “Look out!”
But Gerard wouldn’t listen. He never did.
“No! Don’t!”
Gerard only laughed, and on he galloped, toward the fence, and over it.
And then he was dead. Like that. In the blink of an eye.
Again and again the scene played in Marchmont’s mind.
