She had called for hot water and towels, instructing Ann and two of the maids, knowing instinctively that all that blood must be cleaned away.
“Your Grace,” Barstow said gently, as he and another footman had placed Roxboro on the bed. “Stone and I can handle this.”
“No. I’m staying. What must I do?”
Roxboro’s entire shirt had been soaked with blood; his coat long gone and discarded. Cravat hanging by a silken thread at his throat.
Barstow held up a pair of scissors and cut off her husband’s clothes, blocking the view of Roxboro from the others in the room. Afterpulling the sheet up to the waist, he said, “The worst of it is confined to the duke’s chest and arms.”
The worst of it…the large gaping maws across Roxboro’s torso were so deep in places she could see—inside to the muscle beneath. Barstow instructed her to hold a clean towel to his side as it still seeped blood, which Sophia had done without question.
You will not die, Roxboro. I forbid it. I’ve not yet voiced my annoyance with you.
“Bring me brandy,” Barstow ordered Stone. “You know where he keeps it. Where is Dr. Reading?”
Stone rushed to the armoire and threw open the doors. “For emergencies.” He plucked out a bottle of brandy hidden in the back. “Reading has been sent for. He should be here any moment.” The bottle was passed to Barstow.
“No,” Sophia protested, thinking the butler meant to force some of the amber liquid down Roxboro’s throat. “It will make things worse. I’m sure of it.”
“Not to drink, Your Grace. To clean the wound,” Barstow assured her. “We used it on the battlefield. It helps.” He took the bottle of brandy Stone offered and spilled some of it into the gash on Roxboro’s chest.
When Dr. Reading had appeared, he nodded his approval, cleaning every single cut on Roxboro and splashing each one liberally with brandy, before stitching up the largest. Disturbing to watch as Dr. Reading blithely used a needle on Roxboro as if he were a bit of embroidery.
She did not look away.
Sixstab wounds. Two of them so near Roxboro’s lungs and heart, Dr. Reading marveled at Roxboro’s luck for having an assailant with such poor aim.
According to the surviving footman and the driver, the carriage had been attacked after leaving The Sheepshead for The Pillory. There was a long stretch of road which was rarely traveled except by thosegoing to Roxboro’s estate. Thick trees lined the route, the perfect cover to hide and waylay the duke’s carriage. Two men, both wearing handkerchiefs over their faces to hide their features, jumped into the road, killing first the unlucky Milburn, and then taking a bludgeon to John, hitting him so forcefully that he fell from the driver’s seat.
And the second footman?
I rolled off the carriage and into the woods, Your Grace. I knew they’d kill me too if I didn’t. Ran alongside when they drove off. One of them jumped inside with the duke.
The young man, Samson was his name, took a deep breath and had looked away before continuing. He could be no more than twenty.
The carriage rocked back and forth. I knew—the duke was in danger. The door opened and—a body fell out before I could catch up. Not the duke, Your Grace, but his assailant. Dead. The man who’d taken John’s place, pulled the horses to a stop and jumped off the seat cursing something fierce. I lunged and tackled him to the ground. His Grace threw open the door, a pistol in his hand as we fought.
“Don’t worry, Samson,” the duke said to me. “I’m a good shot.”
Samson had swallowed, throat bobbing as he related to Sophia and Barstow what had happened. The poor footman had been horrified Roxboro might have died under his watch.
Shot him straight between the eyes, Mr. Barstow. The duke weren’t wrong. He’s excellent aim. He was bleeding so bad. I put him and John in the carriage. I unharnessed one of the horses, meaning to ride to The Pillory for help.
“You should rest, Your Grace,” Barstow said in a quiet tone from behind her. “He won’t awaken…for some time.” The butler’s words turned thick, the unspoken knowledge that Roxboro might not wake up at all sitting between them. “I’ll have Mary come up and sit with the duke while you have something to eat.”
“No, I want to stay with him,” Sophia looked up at the butler. “Please see to the others. They’ll need to retrieve…Milburn. Inform his family.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Ensure that Milburn’s family is informed and…give my deepest sympathies,” she croaked, closer to tears than she’d been since watching a bloodied Roxboro pulled from the carriage. “The duke owes them a debt for Milburn’s devotion to duty. We will not forget. I will ring for you, Barstow, should I need assistance.”
Once the butler departed, Sophia pulled up the stool Dr. Reading had used. She laid a hand on Roxboro’s own. His skin was a sickly hue, the color of paste. Or soured milk. Dark lashes fanned across the striking cheekbones, not moving as he took shallow breaths.
“I’m so…annoyed with you, feckless sot,” she murmured, dabbing at Roxboro’s forehead with a cloth. The heat of his forehead burned her fingers, far warmer than he’d been an hour ago. The fever had started. “Having Damon send me ahead because you lacked the courage to tell me you didn’t wish to endure my company on the journey.”
Roxboro made a sound, head twisting as if listening to her.
“Did you know,” Sophia said casually. “That ‘three-legged stool’ also refers to a gentleman’s anatomy. My maid, Ann is her name, taught that to me on our wedding night. I wasn’t going to use it, of course.” She wrung out the cloth and dipped it once more into the basin of water.
