thirty-two
Effie stretched out her arm in an attempt to catch Tristan, but with no success. He dropped to the floor with a thud, face paling by the minute.
“Tristan!” She checked his pulse. It was very feeble.
She had no choice but to call Harris.
She rang the bell, but for good measure, she also shouted, “Harris! Help!”
The butler arrived in a moment. “My lady.”
“Lord Montcrest collapsed.”
“I’ll send for Dr. O’Neil.” He rushed out of the room and returned with a footman a minute later. They lifted Tristan up, taking him by the ankles and underarms. “Gently, gently. My lady, would you please open the door to His Lordship’s bedroom? It’s upstairs, the last one on the left.”
“Of course.”
They carried Tristan along the corridor and up the stairs, and the sight of his lolling head and motionless limbs made her catch a breath. For a moment, Tristan’s bedroom distracted her in all its simple glory. Sturdy walnut furniture, no frills, and a bed so large it dwarfed the room.
They laid him on the bed not without effort, as Tristan was tall and broad.
Harris removed Tristan’s bow tie. “I’ll fetch some water.”
“Yes, please.”
As she waited next to Tristan, she spotted a new bloodstain on his shirt. What on Earth had happened to him?
Too worried to wait for Dr. O’Neil, she unbuttoned the waistcoat and shirt and lifted the undershirt, only to find a stained bandage. She removed it and gasped. Bruises at different stages of colouring covered his skin. Deep purple bruises, faded yellow ones, and cuts marred his torso around the cut she’d stitched.
“Good Lord.” She shoved the layers of clothes aside, revealing more bruises on his chest, shoulders, and sides.
Not an inch of his skin was whole. She wondered if the outside was mirrored in the inside.
The bruise on his left side was too big and swollen not to have caused some internal damage. She gently probed the ribs, but the swollen area didn’t allow her to feel the bones, and she wasn’t a physician.
He stirred and blinked his eyes open. A flash of anger crossed his face. “What are you doing?” He didn’t sound as angry as he looked.
“You passed out.” She touched his nape. “My guess is that, before falling to the floor, you already had a concussion, and concussions and nervousness aren’t a good combination. Your state must have exacerbated the dizziness, causing the fainting.”
He gazed up. “Bloody hell.”
“Harris sent for Dr. O’Neil.”
“Damn.” He rubbed his face.
“Hopefully, you can say more than profanities. I think we should send for the police as well.”
“What?”
She gestured at the evidence on his body. “You were attacked. How many people beat you? Were they footpads? Did they rob you? Did they attack you in the past?” She clicked her tongue. “There are some nasty thugs around. You’re lucky to be alive.”
He exhaled through his teeth. “I wasn’t attacked, and I don’t want to see Dr. O’Neil.”
“Your silly pride won’t help you. Many people are attacked every day on the streets. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It’s not pride.” He propped himself up on his elbows, grimacing. “No footpad attacked me.”
“Lie down, please. Your concussion seems serious.” She put a hand on his chest, feeling the muscles as tense as ropes.
