A Dangerous Masquerade (17 page)

             
‘I’ve just killed one of your thugs,’ he told the man.  ‘Let go of her, you scum or I’ll kill you, too.’

             
The man held a knife to Constance’s throat.  ‘Drop that pistol or I’ll kill her.’

             
‘You wouldn’t.  Renard would kill you,’ Jonathan said.  ‘Let her go – push her away from you.  This is between us, Everard.’

             
‘You traitor. When Renard finds out you were a double agent, he’ll strip the skin from your body while you yet live.’

             
‘I’ll take my chances if he finds out.  You won’t be alive to tell the tale, believe me.’  His finger moved on the hammer.  ‘It’s your last chance…’

             
Everard suddenly thrust Constance to one side.  She fell to her knees, still and watchful as she saw his hand go to his pocket.

             
‘He has a pistol…’ she screamed as Jonathan’s finger moved.  The shot rang out and the Frenchman fell, shot through the forehead.  Constance remained on her knees, looking at Jonathan.  ‘Have you been working with Renard?’

             
‘I infiltrated their ranks months ago.  They thought I wanted to see both the King of England and the Regent dead; they mistook me for a drunken fop, more interested in gambling and wine than anything else but I learned many of their secrets.  I know where Renard is now and…’

             
Before he could finish, another shot rang out and he staggered back, clutching at his shoulder.  Constance saw the second ruffian standing in the doorway. As Jonathan slumped to the ground the assassin took aim, his pistol pointing at Jonathan’s head. 

             
‘No!’  Constance screamed and grabbed a footstool, throwing it at his head.  It hit him a glancing blow and the man cursed, touching his head and then turning his angry gaze on her.

             
‘Bitch.  I’d kill you where you stand, but Renard has a use for you.  You’ll come with me now but first I’ll finish off the traitor…’

             
Constance screamed again but even as she did so yet another shot rang out and the assassin fell face down.  He went down like a felled tree, not even twitching as he hit the floor.  Her startled eyes went through the open doorway and then she saw who had saved them.  Relief surged through her.

             
‘You’re back,’ she said.  ‘They tried to tell me you were injured and close to death, so that I would go with them, but I knew you would have sent someone I trusted.  You would never have sent a stranger to me.’

             
‘Yet I left you with a man I did not know,’ Moraven growled.  ‘I’m a damned fool.  Was he one of them?’

             
‘No, at least, I think they believed he was until he refused to let them take me.  He killed two of them but he’s hurt…’ Constance went to the man lying on the floor. She knelt beside him, turning him gently. He was bleeding copiously and his eyes were closed.  ‘Jonathan – can you hear me?’

             
‘Forgive me,’ he whispered, his eyes flickering open.  ‘I should have told Moraven the truth.  I thought if he knew I was playing a double game he would not trust me – and then he brought me here.  I knew they meant to come for you while he was away but I was ready for them.  I would have stopped them somehow…’

             
He tried to sit up, his pistol still in his hand.  Then he became aware of Moraven.  ‘Forgive me, I should have made you listen – but you thought me a fool straight out of the nursery…’

             
Moraven knelt on the floor beside him, his mouth tight with restrained anger.  ‘We’ll discuss this later.  How bad are you?  Can you stand or shall I carry you?  We need to get you to bed and bind up this wound of yours.’

             
‘It’s deep,’ Jonathan said and coughed, blood mixed in his spittle.  ‘I’ll be lucky if I survive this one…’

             
‘Try not to talk,’ Moraven replied.  He offered the pistol to Constance.  I think my men have taken care of the rest of the vipers but if anyone tries to grab you, shoot.’

             
‘Yes.’  Constance felt sick and faint but she gritted her teeth.  ‘How bad is he?  Shall I send for a doctor?’

             
‘One of my men will go.  Ask Dodds.  He knows what to do – but you can put the kettles on if you will.  He’ll need the ball extracted and it isn’t going to be easy by the looks of it.  A fraction of an inch lower and he would already be dead.’

             
‘Oh no…’ Tears filled Constance’s eyes as Moraven picked the unconscious man up.  Jonathan had held out for a few minutes but the pain had overtaken him and he was no longer aware of what was going on.  ‘He wasn’t at all what you thought him, Moraven – but he was good at heart and he meant to give his life to protect me.’

             
‘Let’s hope that he hasn’t.’ Moraven said.  ‘Send one of my men up to me – and start those kettles boiling.’

             
‘Yes, of course.’

             
He was so angry.  Constance could hardly hold back the tears as she went down the stairs to the kitchen.  She could hear Heloise grumbling as she opened the door and saw her friend apparently none the worse for her ordeal and berating the men in her kitchen for tramping all over it and making a mess.

             
‘It isn’t their fault,’ Constance said as she saw the overturned stools and the pots scattered over the floor.  ‘Moraven wants someone to help him upstairs – and Dodds is to fetch a doctor.  Lord South has been injured badly.’

             
‘Right, I’ll go to the captain,’ one of the men said.  ‘I’m Jim, miss.  I’ve done a bit of patching folk up in my time, though I’m no doctor.  I’ll do what I can for your friend.’

             
Constance was about to say that Lord South was not her friend and then she realised that it was true.  She’d known him only a few days and he’d lied to her – or at least he hadn’t told her the whole truth.  He’d let her believe he’d been working in intelligence at home, when all the time he’d been doing something far more dangerous.  She wondered why he’d chosen this moment to come out into the open and risk Renard’s wrath.

             
Shaking her head, she began to fill kettles and prepare linen clothes and basins.  When the doctor arrived he would need someone to help him.  If allowed she would do what she could, but Moraven was in charge.

             
Tears slipped down her cheeks.  What would have happened to her, had he not arrived when he did?  Why had he come back at this moment – and what had been happening to him while he was away?

‘What did the surgeon say?’ Constance asked when Moraven came down the stairs later that day.  ‘Is he still with Lord South?’

             
‘It was difficult to get at the ball without damaging internal organs.  The ball had travelled on a diagonal and buried itself deep in his chest.  Doctor Frances is very concerned.  He fears that his lungs may have been damaged.’

             
‘Oh no…’ Constance caught her breath.  ‘He is so young and full of life.  If he should die for my sake….’

             
‘None of this was your fault,’ Moraven said grimly.  ‘If anyone is to blame it is I – for allowing myself to believe that I was Renard’s prime objective.  He outwitted me, sending me on a wild goose chase while he made his plans.  I sent a young untried fool to take care of you.’  His eyes were dark with anguish.  ‘Had they succeeded, I should not have forgiven myself.  I cannot even ask you to forgive me…’

             
‘There is truly nothing to forgive,’ Constance’s throat felt tight.  ‘I was involved long before I met you.  Had I not taken your purse that night Renard might have killed me at any time – or used me, as he will…’

             
‘Until I came into your life the nuns were a mere irritant,’ Moraven replied.  ‘Jonathan managed to tell me where to find him in one of his lucid moments.  I must deal with this business once and for all…’

             
‘Please…’ Constance caught at his arm.  He seemed so remote and angry, unlike the man she’d fallen in love with.  ‘Take care, Moraven.  I think they meant to use me to draw you into a trap.’

             
‘Possibly.  However, I now have the advantage.  Save your tears, Constance.  There is a man upstairs that needs them more than I.’

             
‘What do you mean?’

             
‘He is asking for you.  You had best go to him.’

             
‘Of course I shall help him as much as I can.  Had he not been here you might have been too late.’

             
‘I might indeed.’ Moraven’s mouth drew into a thin line.  ‘He is in love with you, Constance.  Be careful what you promise.’

             
Her eyes widened in surprise.  She watched him walk away from her, holding back the desperate urge to weep and call him back.  What had she done that he should be so angry with her?

             
Shaking her head, she walked slowly up the stairs, her heart sinking.  Lord South had risked his life for hers and he was a very sick man.  He would be weeks recovering, if indeed he survived the fever that was bound to result from his ordeal at the surgeon’s hands.

             
What had Moraven meant when he told her to be careful what she promised?

             
She knocked at the door and was asked to enter.  Pushing the door open, she took a few steps inside.  A man in a pale grey coat and breeches was standing by the bed, bending over his patient.  He looked up as Constance entered his expression grave.

             
‘Mademoiselle Hatherstone I presume?  I am Doctor Frances.  You speak English?’

             
‘I am English, sir, but I speak French if you prefer.’

             
‘I too am English, though like you I am proficient in French.  Our patient will need nursing for a long time, Miss Hatherstone.  Are you unable to undertake this or should I have him removed to a clinic elsewhere?’

             
‘Constance…is that you?’ Jonathan’s voice was little more than a whisper.  ‘Please do not leave me.  Stay with me, I beg you…’

             
Her heart caught as she heard the pleading note in his voice.  He was so young and despite his bravery and the dangerous game he’d played, a little vulnerable.

             
‘I am here,’ she said, going to his side.  She reached for his hand and held it.  His fingers gripped hers but not as strongly as she would have wished.  ‘I shall not leave you while you need me.’

             
‘Do you promise?’  Jonathan’s eyes met hers, pleading with her to stay and to care for him.  He was alone in a strange country and she could not abandon him to strangers.  ‘I will make things right for you,’ he promised.  ‘Stay with me until the end…’

             
‘You will get better.  I shall stay until you are well again.’

             
Constance saw the look in the physician’s eyes and her heart contracted with pain.  It was obvious that he did not believe his patient would recover.

             
‘If you are to nurse him I shall send medicines,’ Doctor Frances said as she sat on the bed and stroked Jonathan’s hair back from his forehead.  ‘I have other patients to see but I shall return later and see how he goes on.  His wound will need changing at least once a day, but we shall discuss this later.  What he needs now is sleep, but Lord South would not take the sleeping draught until you had spoken to him.’

             
‘You promise you will be here when I wake?’

             
Constance bent to touch her lips to his damp forehead.  ‘You are my friend and I shall care for you while you need me – but tell me, is there no one I could send for?’

             
‘I quarrelled with my father,’ Jonathan said in a feverish tone.  ‘He disowned me.  I do not want anyone here but you…’

             
‘Hush,’ she soothed.  ‘Sleep now, my lord.  You will soon feel better.’

             
His eyes closed and she could see that he was drifting away into sleep.  As his clutching fingers released hers, she rose and walked away.  The doctor had been cleansing his hands in the washbasin.  He turned to look at her.

             
‘You must be prepared for the worst at any time.  He may not survive the night; he could live for a few days or some weeks, but there was severe damage to his organs and I think he will gradually deteriorate and eventually die in some pain.  It will not be an easy task to nurse him, Miss Hatherstone.  May I ask what he is to you?’

             
‘He is a friend.  I hardly know him.’