“I know you lot. Could talk a leg off a table,” Gormley said. “This doesn’t concern you. Step aside.”
Harry refused to move. “Let the ladies go inside at least.”
“No, Mr. Feather, let me talk to him.” Cathleen tried to push past Harry, but he put out an arm to stop her.
The sound of a shot echoed through the street. Cathleen shrieked as Gormley ran away. “What did he…?”
Beside her, Harry crumpled to the ground.
“Harry!” Erina felt as if the world had tilted. Breathless, she dropped to her knees beside him. He had put himself in the way of danger to protect them.
His eyes were closed, and blood flooded alarmingly from a wound high on his shoulder.
The hotel footman had dropped Cathleen’s bag and froze, as if shocked. “Send for a surgeon!” Erina screamed at him. For a moment, he dithered and stood as if rooted to the spot. “Don’t just stand there! Go for help. We must get him inside.”
At last, the fellow moved, racing up the steps and into the hotel.
Moments later, she and Cathleen followed two of the hotel staff as they carried the inert Harry to his chamber. “We’ve sent for the guard,” the manager said. “And Dr. O’Dowd is on his way.”
The servants laid Harry on the bed in his chamber. Frightened at how still he was, Erina leaned over him and untied his cravat. He still bled heavily. She unbuttoned his ruined waistcoat and the three buttons of his shirt, then pressed his folded cravat firmly inside against the wound on his shoulder as she anxiously watched his chest rise andfall with each breath. “Harry,” she whispered. “Please don’t die.”
Harry’s lashes fluttered. His usually alert brown eyes looked blank and confused. “What happened?”
She gasped and held his limp hand. “Oh, Harry! Gormley shot you. A surgeon’s on the way.”
“He was trying to shootme, Mr. Feather,” Cathleen said. With a hiccup, she swiped at the tears dripping off her chin. “I amsosorry.”
“Gormley didn’t like me much,” Harry said, his voice sounding far away. “Snake. Didn’t St. Patrick drive the snakes from Ireland? He clearly missed one.”
Erina forced a watery smile. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor, then.”
The door was opened, and Dr. O’Dowd hurried into the room. “What do we have here?”
“He’s been shot, Doctor,” Erina said in a broken voice.
“You can help me take off his coat, young lady,” he said to Erina. “And you”—he nodded to Cathleen—“fetch hot water. Hot, I say. Not tepid.” He placed his bag on the table and opened it.
“I don’t believe in bloodletting, Doctor.” Erina had seen the results of it when one of their neighbors had died after such treatment. “Mr. Feather has lost enough blood already.”
“Well, that’s something we can agree upon.” Dr. O’Dowd picked up a pair of scissors. “Gentlemen wear their coats too tight in my opinion.” Erina watched him cut away the elegant coat. How poor Harry would hate that. “Don’t just stand there like a stunned goose,” the surgeon said, eyeing her.
Erina tugged at a sleeve.
“That coat is by George Shultz,” Harry muttered. He groaned.
She dropped her hand. “Oh! I hurt you.”
“Never mind that,” Harry muttered. “Do it, Erina. Can’t help, sorry.”
She and the surgeon swiftly removed the coat. Soon, Harry’s shirtfollowed. Although lean, Harry was surprisingly well built and had smooth, olive-toned skin. She averted her gaze from the sprinkle of brown hair on his sculptured chest and the bloody wound near his shoulder, which had slowed but still seeped.
“Not too much damage done. That’s good news, at least.” The surgeon nodded as Cathleen and a servant brought in pitchers of hot water, steam rising from them, before slipping out again and shutting the door. Dr O’Dowd poured water into a bowl, added vinegar from a bottle, then dipped in a cloth. He wrung it out and handed it to Erina. “After I dose him, I need you to wipe away the blood. Can you do that, lass?”
She nodded. As she took it, the middle-aged surgeon eyed her. “You won’t faint over the patient, will you?” He measured out a dose of laudanum and, raising Harry’s head, slipped the spoon between his lips.
After a moment, Harry’s eyes closed, and his head drooped.
“Oh! He’s not…”
