Pushing aside the shirt, he closed his eyes to thank the heavens. Lengthy but not deep, the wound missed, as far as he could tell, any vital organs.
The woman’s shuddering relief echoed his own, and he glanced around to moist eyes. “I can look after him now,” she said, shaking her head. “You can leave. If no infection sets in, he’ll be fine.”
“Have you money for a doctor?”
“Aye, but I’ve nursed before, so I know what I’m doing. I’ll stitch him better than most of those drunken leeches,” she muttered.
Rakecombe stared as the competent woman uncorked a brandy bottle with her teeth and sloshed liquor around the wound before packing a wodge of clean cloth against it.
Unsure of her status and how much to tell her, he shifted on his heels. He wanted to be kept aware of Bluey’s condition, but should he confide in this unknown woman?
“And you are, miss?” He raised an eyebrow, to which she raised hers. Higher than his own, in truth.
“I’m Harriet, Bluey’s wife…Your Grace.”
Two blows in one sentence.
“Ah. I wasn’t aware he was married.”
“We keep it quiet. Don’t want his work brought home every night.”
No, indeed. No one would.
“You know where to find me then? I will return tomorrow to check on him.”
“Very well but come around the back and don’t bring your carriage.” Her face focused on her husband, stroking his cheek with tender care.
He nodded and was about to leave when fierce fingers gripped his wrist. Spinning, he beheld Bluey’s eyes, narrow but parted. “A warehouse… Those French…”
But a foul cough caught him, the grip loosened, and pain took Bluey under once again.
“I’ll let you know if he says anything more,” Harriet declared, before waving him out, the door thumping shut behind him and the abundant bolts thundering their protection.
The bitter wind had grown in hostility whilst he’d been inside. It tore through the streets and into his blood-soaked coat to batter his soul.
With mood foul, Rakecombe sliced through it, eager for home, a cold drenching and a stiff drink.
∞∞∞
The lock signalled its submission with a soft click, and Aideen unhurriedly opened the adjoining door into the ducal bedchamber.
Once Alex had left the Bucklands’ soirée, it had held little interest, and so she’d ordered the carriage for home, but sleep had been elusive and what with all that noise…
Nigh on an hour ago, she’d heard a chamber door slam, quite a bit of rustling and then that strange sloshing sound again. After a short while, it had then appeared Alex had more pressing business than sleep as he’d stomped back down the stairs.
She’d lain there for possibly a quarter hour more, twitching and considering, before curiosity had got the better of her, and so using her uncle’s handy lock-picking device, she had decided to explore. After all, it was impossible during the day due to that meticulous valet’s never-ending vigilance of the master chamber – it was more closely guarded than an Irish girl’s virtue.
The bed looked to be normal, with heavy dark-green drapes. A chest of drawers sat to one side and a desk on the other. Quite a dull room, all told, with few ornaments or pictures to brighten – very Rakecombe. She meandered toward the chest to peruse his nightly reading, but a miniature of a pretty, blond girl caught her eye.
She huffed and tiptoed to a narrower door on the left, finding his dressing room; shirts and cravats folded so perfectly, she felt scared to breathe.
Pondering, she backed out. The larger door obviously led to the corridor, so she headed for the only other door in the room.
Aha, success.
In front, looming high, was a curious-looking contraption. A normal copper bath tub lay at the bottom, but four tubes, around ten feet tall, rose at each corner and seemed to collect in another smaller basin at the top. A rope was attached, and Aideen could only wonder that the nightly sloshing sound was water being sluiced from the upper basin – how unusual.
And how cold.
