She raced across the chamber, not having a care for her state of undress, and supported his head as the men gently laid him upon his bed. Blood coated her fingers, warm and sticky. A violent wave of nausea hit her. He looked like a corpse. She pressed a bloodied hand to his chest, absorbing the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.
Not dead, thank the Lord.
But all that blood.
Her mind spun. “Call for his physician at once.”
“It is already done, my lady,” said Osgood, the butler.
“What happened to him?”
“His lordship was attacked outside after he returned from his club.” If she’d thought him grim before, Osgood was positively funereal now. “Fortunately, the vagabond was scared off before he could do further damage.”
Attacked.
Misgiving assailed her. Someone had viciously beaten Ravenscroft outside his very own home. He was a large man, capable and muscled. His assailant must have approached him from behind. He wouldn’t have had a chance of defending himself. Who would do such a thing?
But her questions would have to be answered later, for now, Ravenscroft needed all her focus and energy to be on tending him. She had never dealt with such an injury. Panic snaked through her. She gripped the earl’s lifeless hand, squeezing. “I’ll need clean cloths,” she ordered the butler. “Hot water as well. Bring the doctor to me as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, my lady.”
And then he was gone, leaving her alone with her unconscious husband and the ever-growing knot of fear within her.
Clara kept vigil at Ravenscroft’s bedside after the physician had gone. By the time Dr. Redcay arrived, the earl had begun regaining consciousness, making it necessary for the doctor to administer chloroform. She had held Ravenscroft’s hand as Dr. Redcay examined, cleaned, and stitched his wound. Had held her breath as she awaited the serious man’s final diagnosis.
“Fortunately, there doesn’t appear to be a fracture of the skull, my lady,” the doctor had said. “His lordship’s brain is severely concussed, but I see no reason to attempt trepanning at this juncture. Should he suffer seizures or sudden fever, call for me immediately. I’ve left you some bromide of potash should you require it, but his lordship is generally a strong and healthy man. Change the wound dressing daily as I’ve shown you, using antiseptic. He must rest for several days but he should be back to himself in no time.”
Clara had nearly swooned with relief at the proclamation, for she’d gotten a good look at the instruments inside Dr. Redcay’s medical case. Thank the Lord he hadn’t used the insidious looking trephine upon Ravenscroft’s skull.
She would not be made a widow on the second day of her marriage. No, he was not dead. He would survive. Now if only he would wake, she thought, watching him through eyes that burned from lack of sleep. The effects of the chloroform should soon wear off, she hoped.
Ravenscroft remained in his evening clothes, his form troublingly still. His skin had acquired an unusual pallor, undoubtedly from the blood loss he’d suffered. His hair was damp from her ministrations, his perfection sullied only by the bandage wrapped about his head. Her heart hurt for the pain he must have suffered. How could someone have visited such violence upon him?
Perhaps more importantly, who?
The unkind thought occurred to her that perhaps his assailant was a cuckolded husband from his past. Swiftly, she swatted it from her mind. Her first instinct had led her to believe it could have been a cutpurse, but he appeared not to have been robbed of his valuables—he still wore his gold signet ring, wedding band, a pocket watch tucked into his waistcoat. No, a cutpurse likely would not have aimed for such a grave wounding. Whoever had done this to the earl had meant to kill him. She grew more certain of it by the moment.
Her stomach clenched, bile in her throat. She feared she would vomit, worn down by the aftereffects of shock, lack of sleep, and the realization that someone intended to murder her husband. She stared at his still form, willing her nausea to abate.
One breath, two breaths, three.She would not lose her nerve now. She focused on him.A fourth breath. A fifth.No, she would not cast up her accounts. Ravenscroft needed her to remain calm. His evening finery disturbed her. For the sake of his comfort, she really ought to remove it. His manservant had fled the chamber long ago, squeamish at the sight of all the earl’s blood.
And who else should do it, after all? Clara was Ravenscroft’s wife. No, not Ravenscroft, she thought for the first time, butJulian. She squeezed his long fingers again, as if with her mere touch she could force him to wake unscathed. Her anger with him for his clever manipulations could wait. The sight of him, bloodied and unconscious, being carried by servants, had undone her.
She meant what she’d said to him that day during their walk in the park. She liked him. Far more than she should. In fact, as she watched him, helpless and laid low, a stern protectiveness filled her breast. How dare anyone hurt him? For all that he had a black reputation as an unrepentant sinner, a strong vein of good ran through him.
Clara released his hand and stood, moving to the foot of the bed. She had no experience in divesting a man of his clothing, and the notion of touching him so intimately made her cheeks go hot and a strange sensation unfurl low in her belly. It was a necessity, she reminded herself. And it was perfectly acceptable now, given their married state. She could tend him at his sickbed without turning into a featherhead.
She removed his fine leather shoes first, then his silk stockings. Even his large feet possessed an elegant refinement in keeping with the rest of him. They were perfectly formed, not at all ugly as one might expect of a man’s feet. Next, she moved back to the head of the bed, working on his loose-fitting black jacket. His arms were heavier than she’d expected, corded with muscle that her fingers found cause to linger over a moment longer than necessary. His waistcoat proved more difficult to remove, so she settled for undoing the buttons. His crisp white shirt was bespattered with blood. She pressed her hand over his heart, feeling the steady thump and the warmth he radiated.
Suddenly, he moaned, shifting beneath her hand as he came to.
Julian became aware of his body in stages. His brain felt as though it had swelled three times its normal size and now sought to escape his skull. Pain reverberated through his head. His scalp was pulled tight. Dizziness washed over him, his mind a confused hodgepodge of questions. He was wrapped in a fog, experiencing all sensation with an odd detachment.
What the hell had happened? He struggled to open his eyes, an act that sent a fresh onslaught of pain hammering into him. The interior of his bedchamber swam before him, the sharp delineations of familiar objects blurring like melted wax from a candle. He was at home then. Thank Christ.
A small, feminine hand lay atop his chest. When he would have turned his head to identify the hand’s owner, nausea churned through his gut with unexpected violence. He slammed his eyes closed again. The darkness was a comfort, a delicious void into which he could lose himself. His head pounded. Who was in his chamber?
Lottie? He groped blindly for the presence at his side. His fingers tangled in soft, billowing fabric. No stiff boning kept him from feeling the lush flesh just beneath the garment.
