Page 36 of Barbarous

A chill shot up her spine at both his eye and his words but then she realized he could not possibly know about the cut girth—at least not yet.

Daphne nodded and roughly squeezed his hand. “Stay awake.”

She caught Carmel’s bridle, used an old tree stump as a mounting block, and headed for Lessing Hall as if the Devil himself were on her heels.

Chapter Ten

The carriage journey to Lessing Hall took no more than a half hour, but Hugh’s face was gray and the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth were deeply etched by the time it was over.

Daphne left him in Kemal’s capable hands and hastened to her room, where she changed out of her habit by herself rather than ringing for help. The process took longer but she needed time alone to compose herself, to think about the cut girth. And most of all, to pray Hugh Redvers had not taken any permanent harm.

Garbed in a dress of somber dark gray, she headed downstairs three-quarters of an hour later.

Gates met her in the Great Hall. “Doctor Nichols arrived not long after you did, my lady.”

“That was very fast.”

“It was fortunate he was home at the time.” Gates opened the door to the Yellow Drawing Room and followed her inside. “Would you like me to have tea sent in, my lady?”

“Yes, but wait until the doctor is finished and send him in. Did he say how long he would be?”

“He was just—”

A knock interrupted whatever he was going to say and the door opened to expose Doctor Nichols with his scuffed black bag.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor.” Daphne smiled at the older man, pushing away the memories his kind, weathered face unfortunately evoked—memories of Thomas slowly wasting away in his sickbed.

He regarded her through keen, gray eyes and bowed. “I am sorry I am once again needed, my lady.”

“Will you stay for tea?”

“Tea would be lovely.”

Gates left and Daphne gestured to one of the comfortable, overstuffed chairs.

“How is Lord Ramsay?”

“His lordship has at least two cracked ribs and a few more that are bruised,” he began in his abrupt way. “He also has a broken collarbone and a badly bruised muscle in one leg. Those injuries can only be treated with time and rest. My biggest concern is his head. He is showing no signs of concussion but there is a sizeable lump and I would like to keep him under observation for forty-eight hours.”

Daphne nodded. “Of course.”

“I want to keep watch for any forgetfulness, confusion, slurred speech, or a persistent, severe headache. If you notice any of those symptoms, send for me at once.” He hesitated. “He is rather a determined man and I fear he might not stay abed.”

Daphne thought of Kemal’s serious, intelligent—and equally determined—eyes and smiled. “I believe his manservant will be of some help in that regard.”

“Yes, I spoke to him already—a most sensible gentleman.”

The door opened and a servant entered with the tea; Gates must have anticipated her orders to have had it ready so quickly.

She dismissed the maid and turned to the heaped tray, allowing the tea to steep a moment longer while she prepared a plate. The doctor’s eyes widened at the selection of pastries and sandwiches she handed him.

“Ah, you are too kind, my lady.” He ate a small sandwich in two bites and then smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’ve been too busy for breakfast or tea today.” He accepted the cup of tea and gulped down a steaming mouthful, eating a lemon tart before sighing, an expression of contentment on his worn features.

“I gave him a mild sedative—which I would not have done if I’d been terribly worried about a concussion—only because I believe it might keep him in his bed and he needs rest more than anything. His ribs are bound and should be tightened periodically. Aside from that”—he shrugged—“time and rest.” He sipped his tea before continuing. “Keeping him under observation might seem unusual when I’m not overly worried about concussion, but I saw signs of prior head trauma—rather severe.” He fiddled nervously with the handle of his teacup. “I’ll be frank, my lady. Lord Ramsay has been exposed to extremely brutal treatment.”

Daphne’s cup and saucer rattled as she set it down and the doctor glanced away, swallowing loudly. “He has . . . well, he has a great number of scars. Some of them—” He broke off, his cheeks puffing out as he noisily expelled a mouthful of air. “I would go so far as to say he’s been tortured.”

The room was silent but for the ticking of the gaudy ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.