Rising, Amelia once again fumbled with her reticule, but too late. Mr. Lambert had already retrieved the girl’s poppies and now knelt before her on one knee, holding out a handful of coins. “I should like to buy your flowers, young miss.”
“But they be ruined now, sir.”
“Those are the best kind, don’t you know? For it is in the crushing that the strongest fragrance is released.” He lifted the flowers to her nose.
She sniffed like a rabbit, testing his theory while poised to sprint should danger develop. Surprisingly white teeth appeared in a wide grin, then she snatched the money from his hand, all her former tears banished by Mr. Lambert’s generosity. “Thank ye, sir!”
The girl darted off, weaving through the street traffic like a skittering lamb through the bramble. The remaining churchgoers who’d stood gawking dispersed as well.
Mr. Lambert rose, dusting off his trousers with a few sweeps of his hand. “There you have it. All’s well that ends well.”
“Does it?” She frowned. “End well for the child, I mean. You were here to protect her this time, but what about the next incident? Life on the street is so precarious.”
“Children are more resilient than one might imagine.” For a moment, he studied the flattened handful of flowers, then pulled out the single poppy that had managed to remain whole. Stepping close, he tucked the bloom into her bonnet band, then, without retreating, his gaze bore into hers, his breath landing light and warm on her brow. “Beauty has a way of surviving even the harshest conditions.”
He spoke of the flower, of course, but even so, her heart skipped a beat. What woman’s wouldn’t, standing so close to such an attractive man? Breathing in his musky scent. Foolishly believing that maybe—just maybe—he might think her beautiful as well.
As if Betsey read her mind, a thick snuffle sounded beside her. “I don’t know about such trifles, Mr. Lambert, but I do know that were a dandy of a catch. The girl’s head would’ve been mashed by that blackguard’s carriage and that’s the truth of it. Why, you’re a regular hero, sir.”
He was. Surprisingly, things had turned out all right despite her feather’s absence.
“I wouldn’t go so far as that.” The doctor rubbed the back of his neck, clearly discomfited. Endearing, really, the way he deflected praise.
Amelia changed the subject, lest the man’s ears flame bright red from the attention. “Don’t forget your bag, Doctor.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Backtracking, he swept up the leather case in one grab. “Now then, I believe your brother awaits his treatment. Shall I accompany you home, ladies?”
“That would be lovely, Mr. Lambert.”
Leastwise, she thought so. Her maid, on the other hand, protested beneath her breath as they strolled to Balfour House.
“Impractical, I say. And wholly unneeded. You and I are not such dainties that we must be escorted.” Betsey huffed. “Why, I’ve been at your side these past five years, trudging about foreign lands without nary a trouble. Don’t see why we need a gent now.”
Amelia hid a smile. It wasn’t like Betsey to turn so green. Then again, she’d never had cause, facing the world alone as they had. Perhaps she’d been too reliant on her maid?
They turned off the main road and onto the street that led home, when a red-faced kitchen maid came running towards them. “Miss Balfour! Doctor!”The young woman stopped in front of them, doubling over with hands on her thighs and gasping for air.
Fear weakened Amelia’s knees, and she reached for Mr. Lambert’s strong arm. Had Colin suffered another convulsion? A bigger one? A killer?
“What’s happened?” How could the doctor’s voice possibly stay so calm?
The girl didn’t answer. Just panted, thick and heavy. Amelia wanted to shake her.
“A fall, sir.” The words were choppy, but at least they came. “It were bad. Blood everywhere.”
“Whose?” Amelia tensed every muscle in her body.
“It is a wonder a heart can still beat when so much blood has been lost. Perhaps I shouldn’t have moved the woman to her bed but let her lie as she was.”
Balfour’s voice resonated in a low vibration around the housekeeper’s chamber. Graham cut a length of catgut, then peered across the bed at him. The big man stooped on the other side, pressing a red-stained compress to Mrs. Kirwin’s skull. Despite the puckered lines at the side of his wide lips, the man was holding up well. As a young surgical assistant, the first time Graham had witnessed a sailor who’d fallen from the riggings and lay in a pool of gore, he’d turned aside and retched.
“You did the right thing, Mr. Balfour. Head wounds are notorious for putting on a spectacular show. She’ll have a headache once she wakes from the laudanum, yet it is not the gash that will keep her abed.” Graham nodded towards her leg. “I suspect she has fractured a bone, but that will have to wait until I get her stitched up. Now, gently angle her head this way, if you please. Then on my mark, you will remove the padding and hold the lantern close. If you’re up to it, that is. Otherwise, I can manage on my own. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I must daily bear my face in the mirror. I think I can with-stand a mere laceration.” Slowly yet steadily, Balfour guided the old housekeeper’s face towards him.
“All right, then. Ready?” Graham poised his needle above the compress. “And mark.”
Balfour removed the bandage. Blood pooled instantly. Soon it would mix with the oils on her skin and add to the twangy odour in the air. Working swiftly, Graham pinched the gash together with one hand, and with the other, speared the needle into her flesh.
