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“The man who has sufficient power over himself to wait until his nature has recovered its even balance is the truly wise man, but such beings are seldom met with.”
Giacomo Casanova
Audrey wanted to kick herself. She should have verified whether Lord Trafford was injured the moment they had entered the sanctuary of the townhouse, but she had been distracted. As a result, he had lost more blood than if she had sprung into immediate action.
The needs of the patient outweigh any other considerations.
Audrey held a lace handkerchief, one she had found in Lord Trafford’s pocket, to the bleeding gash, while reaching over the trunk. After lifting Flapper’s birdcage and setting it on the floor beside her cape, she fumbled with her free hand to unlock the trunk and throw the lid open.
Her fingers trembled. The valise was wedged at an awkward angle within the gaping interior, but she managed to tug it free and set it beside her, snapping the clasp with more force than intended. She struggled to lift him enough to wind a bandage around him and hold the handkerchief in place. Then, perhaps, she could get him moved.
To be fair, we had to secure the house before I could begin treatment.
Lord Trafford’s eyes fluttered open to her great relief. His face, pale and drawn in the dim interior, struck her with a jolt of concern.
“Am I to die?” he rasped.
Audrey scoffed, despite the knot of worry unfurling in her chest. “Of course not. The cut is not that deep, but we must stop the bleeding. Can you stand so we may move you, or shall I summon a footman?”
What she had said was true, but other complications loomed unspoken.
“I can rise.”
He clutched his side and stood, though Audrey noted his knees wobbled beneath him. The wound must be stitched and bound, urgently.
Swaying, Lord Trafford made a declaration she was not expecting. “I need … to leave.”
“Leave?” Audrey’s exclamation rang through the room like a church bell, startling them both.
“Before … they … return.” He gestured weakly across the street. “I shall go to Aunty Gertrude’s. Rose and Patrick will be in residence to care for me.”
Audrey shook her head sharply. “You need medical attention. You are still bleeding.”
“Rose will have to take care of it,” he muttered. “I cannot remain here. It is too dangerous for the household. For me … and for you.” He bit his lip, his hand pressed against his side, as though mere willpower could stop the flow of blood.
If the assailant returns, I will be in danger regardless. The scoundrel might believe I can identify him.
This was not the moment to argue. But he was injured, and moving him now could do more harm than good.
“This is the home of an important earl,” she said, trying to maintain calm. “No one would attempt to attack you within its walls. We will remain here.”
“No!”
Audrey flinched.
Lord Trafford’s face contorted with immediate contrition. Dropping his voice, he continued, “These people killed a baron. And they attempted to abduct a baroness. It is not safe for me to be here.”
Under normal circumstances, Audrey’s mind would have been as precise and steady as her hands—clear, decisive, and unfaltering in the care of a patient. But nothing about this was normal. Her fingers still trembled from the violence she had witnessed, her thoughts scrambled by the shocking speed of it all. The attacker had meant to kill the man now blinking in disoriented agony. It had been brazen. It had been vicious.
“I shall accompany you,” she said firmly. “I must ensure that your injury is treated correctly.”
It would be fine, she thought to herself. She would assist him to Lady Hays’s home, bind his wound, and instruct Rose how to care for the patient.
What of the fever?
Audrey shoved the thought aside. Years of assisting her father had taught her that one must never look too far ahead during an emergency. One step at a time. That was how order was restored.
