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The watch called out the hour, half past two, then his voice receded as he made his way down the block. Rees stared at the dark ceiling, his concern growing with each passing day that he lay abed, not just over Lady Wexham’s safety but about his own duty. It was now three days since he’d been shot, but he knew he could delay informing Bunting no longer. His legs felt shaky when he attempted standing. Gritting
his teeth and ignoring the pull to his shoulder, he bent to put on a pair of breeches.

He had to stop and gulp some air until the wave of weakness passed before attempting the shirt. Gingerly, he lifted his arms to draw it over his head, praying the wound would not reopen. Imagining Lady Wexham’s scolding, he couldn’t help smiling. The smile vanished almost instantly as he remembered why he was risking such a thing.

He’d decided late that afternoon that he must go to Bunting’s lodgings. It would mean a fair walk, but he saw no other recourse. He doubted he’d find a hackney at this hour.

Rees buttoned his coat as he considered what he would tell his contact. The attack on the coach and his own injury, obviously. But the masquerade and the man who had been shadowing Lady Wexham at Hartwell House? Whatever he divulged would immediately implicate Lady Wexham.

Dear Lord
, he prayed as he’d been praying every day,
direct my words
.

He’d overestimated his strength. By the time he arrived at the end of the block, Rees was ready to collapse. Thankfully, there was a hackney stand at the next corner with one lone carriage and a driver slumped over in sleep.

Exhausted, holding his elbow to lessen the pressure on his shoulder, Rees arrived at the door of Bunting’s address, a narrow house near the waterfront. It took some minutes and several knocks with the head of his walking stick before Bunting appeared. His nightcap askew, a dark dressing gown clutched over his nightshirt with one hand, Bunting widened his eyes at the sight of Rees. The next moment, he beckoned him in, closing the door quickly behind him.

“Good gracious, man, you look half dead. I’ve had someone posted outside Lady Wexham’s house the last few days and heard you were wounded, but it was too chancy to get someone into the house to see you.” As he spoke, he ushered Rees into the dark sitting room and
began lighting a candle. “Sit down before you fall down. Are you sure you should be up?”

Rees collapsed into the wing chair, cradling his arm to ease the impact.

Bunting brought him a tumbler and stood over him as he swallowed the brandy, as if to make sure Rees drank it all down. “You look as pale as if they’d fished you out of the Thames after a week.”

Feeling somewhat revived, Rees told Bunting, whose keen eyes never left his face, how he’d kept an eye on Lady Wexham as much as he’d been able, hampered by all the people surrounding her at Hartwell. He added that much of his evenings had been spent looking after Madame de Beaumont at her daughter’s request.

“The whole place seems to be a mass of intrigue,” he ended. “I spotted someone following Lady Wexham a few times, but it could have been for jealousy as much as anything else,” he suggested. “She seemed to be a favorite of the Comte’s, and of course, they are jockeying for position around him and his nephew, the Duc d’Angoulême.”

Bunting nodded. “What else did you notice?”

“They are all waiting for Louis to be able to return to France and be crowned king.” Rees paused.

Bunting scratched his unshaven chin, his eyes narrowed in consideration. “What about the gunshot?”

Rees breathed in, praying for the right words—how to be truthful, yet implicate Lady Wexham as little as possible.

“We were attacked by highwaymen around Bushey Heath. There were five of them, too many to outrun. They shot at us when I shouted to the coachman to go on. I was hit in the shoulder.” He attempted a shrug then winced at the pain. “It didn’t hit anything vital. The coachman was forced to stop. The brigands searched the carriage.” His jaw hardened, remembering that they had searched Lady Wexham herself.

“What did they take?”

“Nothing that I know of. Lady Wexham wasn’t carrying anything of value.” At the man’s raised eyebrow, he explained. “She had left a
day or so ahead of her servants. The rest of her luggage was coming with her maid.”

Bunting continued rubbing his chin. “Why did she travel on ahead?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps she had an engagement in London she needed to return for.” Would Bunting buy that?

Bunting shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t make sense. Ladies don’t travel without their maids or an entourage.” He eyed Rees. “Tell me more about these highwaymen. What time of day was it?”

“Around three o’clock.”

“In the afternoon? That’s unusual in our times, to attack in broad daylight. And you say they found nothing of value on Lady Wexham?”

“No.” Rees shifted, his shoulder beginning to throb, knowing he’d better confess the next thing before it became obvious he was withholding information. “They were speaking in French.”

The man looked down at him a long moment. His features flickered in the candlelight, making him look like a ghoulish specter who could see into his very soul. “From Hartwell?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you recognize any?”

“They were masked. There were so many servants—more on account of all the guests at the ball.”

Bunting cocked a gray eyebrow. “The ball?”

Rees nodded slowly. “A masked ball, the night before we returned to London.”

“How many guests would you say?”

“At least a hundred, possibly more.”

“Anything out of the ordinary happen?”

He swallowed, fighting to keep his gaze steady. “Nothing extraordinary that I could see. Crowds milling about in disguise. It was difficult to distinguish who was who. The usual mischief people get up to at such events.”

Rees hardly dared breathe as he watched Bunting’s reaction. “Yes . . .” he murmured, considering. Then as if coming to a conclusion,
Bunting shook himself and focused on Rees once more. “You look ready to collapse. You’d best get yourself home and into bed.”

“Yes.” Grateful that the ordeal was over, Rees pushed himself off the chair, feeling light-headed for a few seconds. The sudden movement brought a sensation of moisture against the bandages.

“Here, take another drink if you want to make it back.” Bunting splashed another finger of brandy into his glass.

Rees tipped his head back, downing the remainder. It helped clear his head and warmed his insides as he went back out into the cool night.

By the time he returned home, the bandaging was soaked. He kept a handkerchief pressed against it under his coat during the ride back to keep it from seeping into his shirt, but that, too, was beginning to feel wet beneath his fingertips when he alighted from the hackney.

When he entered the house, he shoved the bolt of the service entrance back in place, then staggered to his bedroom. He unbuttoned his coat with his left hand, struggled to take if off, then followed it with his waistcoat. Finally, he braced himself to pull his shirt over his head.

Dawn was beginning to tinge his room. He stared at the large red stain covering the upper right portion of his discarded shirt. What was he going to do about the bloody garments?

Looking around his room, his glance stopped at his basin and pitcher. Since he wouldn’t be able to hide the evidence, he’d have to think of some reason he’d gotten up in the night and dressed. Perhaps it would be Tom or Virginia who came in the morning, and he could fob them off with some excuse.

He dropped the shirt and waistcoat into the basin and poured water from his pitcher into it, doing his best with his left hand, which slowed his efforts.

He eyed the bandage, deciding he wouldn’t be able to remove it since it was tied too far from his reach to change single-handedly.

Sitting wearily on the bed, he managed to remove his shoes and stockings.

Finally, he was back in bed, with another handkerchief over the bandage.

Dear Lord, let it have stopped bleeding by the time someone comes by in the morning . . .

Which would be all too soon.

Valentine, who had been delayed a few days longer at Hartwell, had done nothing but complain since her arrival. Now, she tugged Céline’s hair, her dark eyes meeting Céline’s in the glass. “If you had not left in such haste, I would have been able to return sooner.”

“But then you would not have been able to tell me what talk my abrupt departure caused.” Among most guests, her departure had not aroused any suspicion, since so many had left for London the day after the ball.

Valentine sniffed. “A lot of good that did since de la Roche noticed. Perhaps if we had been with you, they would not have dared hold up your chaise.”

Céline was tired of going around and around with Valentine. Her head hurt. Already Gaspard was consulting with Roland about what should be done now.

She was relieved by a soft knock on the door. “Come in.”

Virginia peered into the room. “Beg pardon, my lady.” Instead of her usual smile, the young maid seemed to hesitate at the threshold. “What is it?”

Virginia took a step into the boudoir. “It’s Mr. MacKinnon, my lady.”

Céline swiveled around on the stool, unmindful of Valentine’s protest. “Is he all right?”

“I went to see him early this morning to bring him his breakfast—either one of the kitchen maids or I brings it to him, ma’am. It was my turn this morning.”

“And?” She stood, her hands clenched at her side, unable to hide her impatience.

“His wound, my lady—”

Alarm choked off her breath.

“It’s bleeding again. I thought you should know. He said it was nothing, but it didn’t look good to me, his bandage is all red and it’s soaked into his nightshirt—”

Céline hurried to the door. “Excuse me, Valentine, my hair shall have to wait—”

“But, madame, you cannot go like that—”

Céline was already in the corridor. “Did he say anything more to you?”

Virginia hurried to catch up with her. “No, my lady. Just that it must have opened in the night. I didn’t wait but came right up. I thought you should know.”

“You did right. Has Mr. Simmons been sent for?”

She shook her head. “No, I came straight up to you. The other servants don’t even know. But I’ll send a footman right away if you wish.”

“Yes, do so.” By the time she reached the service stairs, she was running. She pushed open MacKinnon’s bedroom door as soon as she knocked, without waiting for permission to enter, and strode straight to his bed.

He was propped up in bed, his breakfast tray on his lap. His eyes widened at her appearance. “My lady—what—?”

She strode to his bedside, her focus on his bandages. “Virginia says your wound has reopened.” Her maid had not exaggerated. A large stain, bright red still at its center, spread across the snowy cloth. More blood covered his bedding.

“She shouldn’t have disturbed you. It’s . . . it’s nothing.”

She placed a hand to her breast to steady her breathing. “When did this happen?”

“I—I don’t know. I mean . . . I got up in the night—”

She frowned at him. “I told you to ring for help if you should need it.”

His cheeks flushed and he made an uncertain movement with his hand. “I didn’t think . . . didn’t want to bother just for my personal . . . needs.”

Ignoring his obvious embarrassment, she snapped, “It was clearly too soon to be up.”

He began to move the tray off his lap.

She stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, you mustn’t put any more strain on your shoulder. Mr. Simmons has been sent for.”

“There’s no need, I assure you.”

She paid him no heed but removed the tray from his lap and then leaned over him, looking for the knot of his bandage.

“My lady, what are you doing?”

“Getting this off. I must staunch the bleeding.”

He tried to resist her efforts but soon sat still, realizing no doubt she would not be deterred. Her fingers shook, worry clawing at her insides at the thought of how much blood he’d already lost. How could his wound have reopened so fully from just getting out of his bed?

“Goodness, why didn’t you ring for someone sooner?” Dark blood edging the bandaging showed that his wound must have been bleeding much earlier in the night. She picked up his bell and ran to the doorway to ring it.

Tom appeared almost immediately, still chewing from his breakfast. “Get me some clean linens. Hurry!”

After a startled look toward MacKinnon, he snapped to attention. “Yes, my lady.”

As soon as he left, she peeled the last bandage off carefully. As she had feared, the wound was still bleeding. She fought against the nausea that rose in her.

She went to MacKinnon’s dresser and pulled open the top drawer. “Where do you keep your handkerchiefs?”

“Right there, my lady.”

A neat stack lay in one corner. She pulled out as many as she could clutch in her hands and brought them to him. Gently, she placed a couple of them against the wound. “Hold these, please, while I hunt for something with which to tie them.”

He smiled weakly. “I fear I have no petticoats you can tear into strips.”

Her gaze was already searching about the room, but before she could find anything, Mrs. Finlay entered with a stack of linen. “Oh, dear me, Mr. MacKinnon.” She tut-tutted, eyeing his wound with concern.

“I assure you, it must look worse than it is,” he answered, but to Céline his voice sounded weak.

She was already rummaging through the linens her housekeeper had brought in. Touching MacKinnon’s hand, she nudged it aside and removed the handkerchiefs. “Mrs. Finlay, could you please put these to soak before they’re ruined?” As she covered the wound with the thicker squares of cloth, her gaze flickered to MacKinnon. “I shall have them replaced for you if they are.”

His gray eyes looked into hers briefly before he said only, “There’s no need.”

She focused on her work, wrapping the long strips of bandaging around his shoulder, helping him to sit forward as she drew the bandage down over his back. When she was satisfied, she tied the last strip in a knot and straightened. “There, that should do until Simmons arrives.”