A pair of ruffians broke away from the figure lying beside the overturned bath chair and escaped over the garden wall before Drake reached them. He went to his knees beside his uncle’s battered body.
“Uncle?” he whispered, fearing the worst.
Eyes already swollen shut, nose, mouth, and ears streaming blood, Uncle George barely managed a feeble groan. Hugging himself, hands clutching at his ribs, he ducked his head and curled into a tighter ball, not even realizing the beating had stopped.
“Uncle, it is me. Drake.” Drake gently lifted the old man and rushed inside with him, leaving the bath chair in the garden. He doubted very much if his uncle could sit upright. As he eased the softly moaning man down onto the bed, he prayed they could tend to the injuries without having to send for the surgeon. There was simply no money for a doctor. “Mrs. Pepperhill! Yateston!”
Mrs. Pepperhill skittered into the room first. “Oh, dear heavens, what happened?”
“I am guessing Rum and Catherty happened,” Drake said. “I fear they somehow discovered our poorly played lie about Uncle’s death.” This time, from the looks of his uncle, the lie might become a reality, but he didn’t say that aloud. Both Yateston and Mrs. Pepperhill were more like family than servants and had served the Wakefields for quite some time. “We need fresh water, bandages, and the last of the brandy to clean some of those scrapes and gashes properly.” He removed his uncle’s shoes and helped the old man straighten his useless legs, tucking them under the covers. “And any herbs you think might help,” he called after her as she hurried from the room.
Uncle George moaned louder.
“I know, old man. You have taken a right sorry beating. Can you speak? Did those men say anything?” Drake wet a rag in the basin beside the bed. The water wasn’t cool, but it was all he had until Mrs. Pepperhill returned. Ever so gently, he cleaned the blood off his uncle’s face and out of his ears. “Uncle George. Can you hear me? Can you speak?”
“Barely,” his uncle whispered.
“Did you know those men?”
“No.”
“Did they say anything? Do you know why they attacked you?”
Uncle George flinched and bared his teeth, causing the split in his swollen lip to bleed even more. “Owe them money, I reckon.”
“Did you try to tell them you were Mr. Charles Pembroke? That you were an old friend of the dead earl and not the earl himself?”
His uncle snorted, then groaned again and clutched his ribs. “They did not appear to be interested in introductions.”
“If they have discovered our subterfuge, if Rum and Catherty sent them—” Drake shuddered and raked both hands through his unruly hair. Not only could his uncle be in grave danger once again, but Drake himself could be as well for posing as a peer. “Are you certain they said nothing? Did you at least attempt to tell them you were not the earl?”
“They were not very chatty, and neither was I.”
Yateston burst into the room, wringing his hands. “I saw the overturned chair in the garden. Do forgive me, Lord Wakefield. I was in the stable helping John.” He paled when he drew close enough to the bed to see Uncle George’s state. “Good heavens,” he whispered.
“When I arrived, ruffians were pummeling him,” Drake said. “There is no money for a surgeon. Pray we can handle his injuries.”
Yateston stepped forward, bowing as he tried to move Drake out of the way with a politeness born from years of service. “Allow me, my lord. I will do what I can.”
Drake gladly stepped back and let the butler take over. He knew how to tend to animals’ injuries from helping his father on the estate. But when it came to tending to people, he feared he was sorely lacking. “Thank you, Yateston.”
Mrs. Pepperhill reappeared with a bucket of water, bandages, crocks, jars, and the last bottle of brandy in the house gripped under her chin. “I believe I have everything, my lord,” she said, straining to speak without losing the bottle.
Drake helped her set it all down on the cabinet on the other side ofthe bed. Thinking it might help Uncle George to weather the treatments, he decided to share his best news of the day. “Uncle, do you remember my telling you about the kitchen angel who fed me last night?”
Hissing at the sting of the brandy against his cuts, Uncle George groaned. “What of her now? Has she promised to come cook for us for free?” He winced again. “No offense, Mrs. Pepperhill.”
“None taken, my lord.” The housekeeper added more brandy to the cloth and continued cleaning.
“As sweet as she is, she more than likely would, if I asked her.” Drake flinched in sympathy for his uncle as the butler and housekeeper cleaned away additional blood and grime. “But I doubt Lady Felicity, sister to the Duke of Broadmere, would wish to fill the post permanently.”
“Broadmere,” his uncle repeated, arching his brows higher over his swollen eyes. “Truly?”
“Truly.” Drake drew closer to the bed. “I saw her in Mettlestone’s today, and Mrs. Beatrice properly introduced me to Lady Felicity and her sister. I believe her sister’s name is Lady Merry.”
“Then why are you still here, standing in my bedchamber?” His uncle coughed and grabbed his ribs with a pained groan. “You should be calling on the lady, fool. Waste no time. By our reckoning, there is naught but three of them left, and you said the eldest one wished to have nothing to do with you.” He cringed and bared his teeth as he slowly pressed on his ribs. “None broken, I think. Just badly bruised. Been down that road before. By the way, how do you know it was the eldest one who failed to succumb to your charms? Will she not be the first to need to marry?”
“Lady Atterley’s dinner party was rife with gossip, and Lady Serendipity was pointed out as the eldest.”
