“You incompetent fool!” Slade’s growl resonated across the surface of the water.
Phoebe swiveled back to Ludlow. He was lying on the footpath, gripping his chest.
“Oh no!” she cried.
Fear sliced through her as she dashed toward the fallen footman, the forgotten gossip column flopping to the ground. A chill ran up her spine as she knelt down beside him. She ignored the sharp slate cutting into her knees through the material of her skirts. His polite, wrinkled face was twisted in pain. Her hands grabbed his as he clutched his chest.
“How … what can I do?” She could barely get the words out.
Too much air left her lungs with the constriction of her chest. Phoebe’s eyes fell to the red-stained gloved hands she clutched. Red, the color of her nightmares. Recollections came flooding back. A seven-year-old memory of the malevolent fair-haired, Romanesque-featured Faye Ross dressed in his red uniform, the pain as he struck her in the face. Now, the sticky wetness of the blood registered on her palms. Her body swayed. Ludlow’s taut features unfocused in her vision.
Black spots danced in her eyes. The sickening metallic smell of the blood hit her like a punch to the gut. The black spots melted into each other like hot wax. They engulfed her and pulled a black shroud over her world.
CHAPTER 2
“Utter imbecile. Why is he in the gardens while we’re conducting a musket demonstration?” The general’s sharp voice cut the air as he approached. “And what in damnation is Lady Bolingbroke’s companion doing here?”
Colonel Slade MacLean of the Royal Scots Greys, 2ndDragoons, division of the Scots Guards, knelt before the fallen lass as his lips pressed together in concern. The irate and capricious general stopped his verbal rampage two steps away as his panic-stricken, incompetent steward stood further back. Slade was not surprised at the general’s lack of empathy or the man’s poor behavioral control. These were traits of an autocratic and dictatorial murderer, after all. The man was more put out at the stalled musket demonstration and less concerned over his footman’s injury or the fainted lass.
Slade eyed her, slumped over the bleeding footman. There’d been one wild shot, and he was confident it was lodged in the footman’s chest. With care, Slade took hold of the lass’s shoulder and waist and turned her limp body over. He hooked one arm under her shoulders and another under her knees and lifted her. The strangest sense of déjà vu slammed into Slade’s chest as the lass’s head fell back. Slade pushed the feeling aside andcarried her over to a nearby long-chair and laid her down gently, wishing it were made of something softer than cast iron.
As Slade returned to kneel beside the bleeding footman, a second footman came sprinting towards them from the manor.
“Send for a sawbones or healer—better yet both—and I need linens for the blood,” Slade said, eying the second footman. The man, with bulging eyes and mouth agape, nodded and darted back towards the manor, almost tripping in his haste.
Slade lifted the blood-soaked lapels of the injured footman to find the bullet hole. The footman’s breathing was weak, and he was out cold. Just as well, for the pain would be unbearable if he were awake. Slade pulled his trident dagger from its sheath at his waist and sliced open the footman’s shirt to get a better look at the wound.
“I say, is all this necessary? Leave him for the healer. Let’s carry on with the demonstration,” the general said with a wave of his hand.
Slade looked up at the general and refrained from curling his lips in disgust. Bolingbroke’s callousness was astounding. Slade took on a placid expression.
“I’ve seen enough battlefield medicine to be of help until the healer arrives.” Slade kept his voice level.
The general eyed him with some distaste. He didn’t appear the least bit interested in getting blood stains on his pristine attire.
“Oh well, if you must,” the general scowled, tapping his feet. “I’ll be in my study. Come and see me when you are finished. I’d like to discuss a possible contract with Hortons. After I’ve taken a look at the American longrifle musket of course.”
“Of course, Sir Henry.” Slade gave the man a crisp nod as Bolingbroke made a swift turn towards his manor. Satisfaction warmed Slade’s chest. It appeared the general was taking the bait of securing an arms deal despite the proposition comingfrom a Scotsman. But then, Peter’s exquisitely crafted muskets were most convincing.
Slade glanced at the steward who stood in a hunched posture, wringing his own wrists. He deserved to be throttled for his incompetence. Regardless of the man’s ineptitude, however, he appeared not only remorseful, but Slade guessed he’d never shot anyone.
“You. Come here,” Slade ordered. “Keep his head and shoulders steady, should he come to. Movement will exacerbate the bleeding.”
The small-boned steward, who carried himself like anything but a military man, nodded and approached, his eyes widening in a frog-like face, to do Slade’s bidding. Slade inspected the bloodied chest. A sucking chest wound. He’d seen countless such as this on the front lines. He placed his gloved hands over the injury and applied the right amount of pressure. He had to stop the escape of air, and at the same time curtail the bleeding. There was nothing else he could do for the man except keep his hands in place until the healer arrived.
Slade raised his head to face the direction the general had gone.What an astonishing lack of responsibility and concern for his own staff. But then, such lack of concern paled in comparison to the perverse morality he’d demonstrated in the Scottish Highlands during the Jacobite rebellions. Thousands of innocents murdered as a result of his orders. A muscle in Slade’s jaw spasmed. Slade was here because of one death in particular. And Slade would have his revenge.
His neck muscles stiffened. It had taken a visit from his former savior and his sometimes tormentor, Bullfinch, for Slade to finally settle on the perfect plan of revenge on Bolingbroke. Slade was always patient, methodical, and calculating in everything he did. Well, the truth was the first five years after he’d lost her, and his reason for breathing, Slade hadn’t caredwhether he lived or died. In fact, many times he’d prayed for the latter. Then there’d been days where he’d danced with the idea of sticking a blade through the general’s heart. His own father and brother would have loved to follow suit, like Brutus and the senators eliminating the egocentric Julius Caesar. The simplicity of such a brutal act had seemed poetic at the time.
He’d failed Sylvia, but Bolingbroke was the one who might as well have handed her the hemlock. Or at least that’s what he’d been telling himself over the years, but now he wasn’t sure. He’d seen soldiers come back from the war and go on to live prosaic lives as if they hadn’t done horrendous things. Maybe he was one of those who had to forget the horrendous things to have a normal life, but he didn’t have a normal life, did he? The heavy weight of guilt and self-loathing had a way of slowing a man down.
He’d pictured Bolingbroke’s death in a hundred different ways over the years. There’d been countless whisky-filled days and opium-induced stupors when the pain had been so unbearable, he’d almost unhinged into complete madness. Bolingbroke’s death was the only thing that kept him alive after it had happened.
But a blade to Bolingbroke’s chest was too good an end for the general. Slade had no intention of creating a martyr.No.A slow and methodical decimation of a grand political career sounded much more enticing. And Bullfinch had given him the opportunity to do just that.
A few minutes later, the second footman arrived with a tall stack of white linen. Slade took a few of the cloths to press against the wound and instructed the footman to hold them in place while he unfolded the remaining linens and draped them over the injured man. He then took off his coat and draped it over the man’s body as well. With a hole in his chest and the substantial loss of blood, the footman’s temperature would havedropped. Slade exhaled a breath of relief, for the bleeding had ceased for the most part.
A low feminine groan sounded, and Slade turned to face the lass on the cast iron long-chair under the willow tree.
