“No,” the surgeon said.
Erina gritted her teeth and dabbed at the blood. It seemed a hopeless task.
“No, that’s good enough, lass.” The surgeon gently moved her aside.
As he worked, Erina stood with Harry’s coat in her hands. When she folded it, a slip of paper fell to the floor. She scooped it up. Not wishing to pry, she nonetheless couldn’t help glancing at the document in her hands. She caught her breath. It was a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury in Doctors’ Commons, made out in their names and signed on the day before they’d left London.
“Good thing he’s out of it.” The surgeon held up a sharp instrument. “Ordinarily, I’d leave it for a while. But the ball is in a bad spot. I’ll have to remove it.”
“But hewillbe all right, Dr. O’Dowd?” Erina whispered.
“He’s a strong, young man. Depends on good fortune and tender care.”
She drew in a large breath tinged with the tangy smell of blood. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Don’t move him too soon and keep the wound clean. Hopefully, it will remain free of infection. Then he’ll recover quickly. Especially if he has a pretty, young woman looking after him.”
Erina flushed. Did Harry intend to offer her marriage to save her reputation? He was certainly honorable enough to conceive of such a foolish notion. Filled with curiosity and forced to be patient, she sat admiring the surgeon’s skilled hands.
She pulled aimlessly at her cuff, which was spotted with blood. “He has to recover, Dr. O’Dowd.”
“Aah.” The surgeon nodded. “Then I’ll take particular care, lass.”
Moments later, the ball dropped into the dish he’d brought with a metallic clink. Thankfully, Harry remained unconscious throughout the procedure.
“This wound is bleeding a bit too much for my liking,” Dr. O’Dowd said. “I had best put in three or four stitches. Then we pray he’ll mend.”
Anxiously, she examined Harry’s pale face, one she had come to like so much. She was so incredibly grateful to him too… but… She must not allow him to think he had to marry her when he had never wanted to.
Chapter Fourteen
It was acool, blustery day, which threatened rain. Jack chose not to attend the Marquess of Butterstone’s memorial. In the street, hat in hand, his father’s passing still raw and fresh, he watched a crowd gather around St. Paul’s Cathedral. Might there be a man among them who’d wanted the marquess dead?
Althea alighted from a carriage wearing a high-necked black cloak over her black gown. A circlet of black, silk flowers graced her elegant hat. She turned and saw him, a wealth of emotion on her face. She and her mother were escorted by Lord Caindale, who nodded to Jack before they disappeared inside the cathedral.
Jack, feeling strangely hollow, turned and walked home. Grant attended the service in his place. His cousin had taken up the mantle of duke with cool competence, as Jack had known he would. He had refused residence to the duchess’s sister, a widow who had squandered her fortune at the gaming tables. After advising his man of business to arrange a stipend for her, she was ordered never to darken his door again.
The rest of Jack’s father’s wishes had been efficiently carried out. The duchess’s profligate relatives, not one of whom had revealed an ounce of affection for the duke, or indeed he or Grant, had been shown the door after the reading of the will.
As much as Jack wanted to see Althea, he resisted. She should beleft to mourn her father, and he had nothing of importance yet to tell her. He wasn’t about to burden her with his doubts concerning her uncle. The only comfort he could provide would be to take her in his arms, something he wished fervently to do. No matter how wealthy he might now be, London Society’s strictures stood like a wall between a highborn lady in mourning and a duke’s bastard son. And he was loath to fuel the newssheets with spiteful gossip about her.
Jack sent a letter-of-condolence to her mother. In his note to Althea, he’d resisted putting into words how much he missed her. Instead, he told her about the house his father had bequeathed to him. He had no wish to interview butlers and housekeepers or select a steward, not to mention the rest of the staff necessary to run a house in Mayfair as well as the country house he planned to buy in Devon. He thought he might ask Stinson, his father’s man of business, to deal with it. Come to think of it, his batman, Jenkins, from his army days, might consent to become his steward. The perfect fellow to take care of his properties, should he agree.
In search of a hackney, Jack continued along Ludgate Street. When a town coach drew up beside him, he half-expected to see Lord Caindale again, but of course, the baron was at the memorial. Instead, a stranger invited him inside with a gesture of his pistol.
With every muscle on alert, Jack considered his options. From within the coach, the fellow’s range was limited. Jack braced, ready to make a quick dodge to one side after a glance revealed the usually busy road bare of traffic.
“It would be wise for you to join me, Captain Ryder.” The fellow’s pistol was aimed at Jack’s chest.
Jack gave up risking escape. And his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He climbed into the carriage to be greeted by a blast of expensive pomade and sat on the squab opposite the curly-haired gentleman. “You needn’t go to such lengths to get my attention,” he said, glowering at the man. “I might have come if you’d asked politely.Who are you, anyway, and what do you want?”
“Have patience, Captain. All will be revealed soon.”
Jack adopted a relaxed pose and waited for an opportunity to distract the fellow and take his gun. He straightened his cuffs. “I certainly hope so. I find dramatics such as this quite a bore.” As he suspected this was another development in Lord Butterstone’s murder, he would wait and see what evolved.
*
Harry slept deeplywhile Erina sat in a padded chair and tried to read an article in a periodical about the Irish uprising in ’98. The words kept skittering away while her gaze returned to the bed. She had just finished the last cup of tea in the pot when he opened his eyes.
