Barbara Metzger (2 page)

He put the horses out of his mind, intent on peering through the mist to the trees, to their bases, to what the knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat warned him he might find.

“There,” he shouted to Carswell, pointing toward a darker form beside a thick oak’s trunk. He reached the place first, and turned the inert body over.

Blood. There was blood everywhere, from the fellow’s upper chest, from his head that had been lying next to a large, blood-stained rock. Ian could not tell if he breathed. He snatched off his cravat and pressed it to the head wound. Then Carswell was there, white-faced, holding out his monogrammed handkerchief. Ian wiped the sweat from his own suddenly overheated forehead.

Then the surgeon huffed up. “Let me see what this tomfoolery has wrought, then. Stand aside, my lords.”

He pressed his head to the man’s chest. “He lives. Not for long, on this damp ground, losing so much blood. Who knows which wound is worse, the one from the bullet or the one from the boulder. He needs treatment, on the instant. St. Jerome’s Hospital is not too far away.”

“We’ll take him in my carriage,” Ian stated. “To my home. He will get better care there.”

Before anyone could argue, Ian picked up the limp body as gently as he could. Carswell stood ready to assist, but there was no need. The man weighed less than a sack of grain. The surgeon entered the carriage first, and Ian handed his burden in, then leaped in after, telling his driver to spring the horses. Carswell shouted that he would see about Philpott and the missing groom, and Paige, too. “Target practice, we’ll say, Ian,” he called after the rocking coach. “A shot gone amiss at target practice!”

Otherwise, one part of Ian’s mind acknowledged, he had shot an innocent man in cold blood. If the man died, he was a murderer. No matter that it was an accident. Duels were illegal, so shooting bystanders had to be a worse crime. He doubted they would hang an earl, but he would have to leave the country for a while, anyway. Perhaps for good. Or the man’s kin might want satisfaction. Heaven knew they were entitled to it. Not that his own blood—Lord, there was so much blood—could bring this man back to them. Ian’s mind was racing, while his hand was pressed to the wound on the fellow’s thin chest as the surgeon directed. With his other hand, he dabbed at the blood on the man’s forehead and cheeks, praying for him to open his eyes, to live. The chap did not respond, but what Ian uncovered under the gore made his own blood grow cold: no whiskers, no beard, no wrinkled cheeks. He had shot a boy.

God, he had shot a boy. Ian almost gagged on the truth under his very hands and eyes. The lad could not be more than fifteen or sixteen, with wavy blond hair and a fine, straight nose. His coat was of good material, and his boots had a decent shine to them. Those facts, plus the groom who had been accompanying him, pointed to the boy being a gentleman’s son, or the progeny of a wealthy cit. Not that it mattered, not that a well-born youth deserved to live more than a tinker’s brat. No, it did not matter at all, except that Ian might have to tell someone he knew what had happened, instead of a stranger.

He had shot a boy. Someone’s beloved son. Some mother’s pride and joy. Some father’s hope for the future.

He was almost tempted to reach for the pistol he kept under the carriage seat and shoot himself. But the surgeon was telling him to press on the wound with both hands now, to stop the bleeding. Killing himself would not bring the boy back, anyway. His prayers—to say nothing of the resources he commanded as a wealthy, powerful earl—might keep the youth alive, though. Ian swore he would do anything, move whatever mountains he had to, to get his victim the finest care, the most skilled physicians—anything it took to make him live, to make him forgive Ian.

He would never, ever forgive himself. He’d shot a boy.

“No smelling salts,” the surgeon muttered.

“I do not need them,” Ian replied. The sight of all the blood was making him sick at heart, not faint.

“For the boy, my lord. I will not try to rouse him until we have him settled. No need for him to suffer worse than he needs, in the transport.”

“Of course,” Ian said, even more ashamed.

The boy did not stir until the coach stopped outside Maddox House in Grosvenor Square. Jed Coachman jumped down as soon as a servant appeared to hold the winded horses, shouting to the groom that there had been an accident during a shooting match.

Loyal Jed, Ian thought, even as he held the lad steady. Jed reached in to take the boy, but Ian shook his head. He would carry his poor victim himself. It was the least he could do—and the most, at this time. The youngster opened his eyes—a clear turquoise blue, Ian noted—and tried to sit up.

The earl almost wept in relief that the lad had regained consciousness after the blow to his head. The surgeon had warned he might not, ever. “Can you walk, young sir?” Ian asked through dry lips.

The boy’s brows knit in despair and a tear found a course through the bloodstains on his cheek. “No, my lord. I am sorry.”

“Do not be foolish. I am the one who is sorry. More sorry than I can ever tell. Do not worry though, I will not let you fall. I swear.”

“He’s gone off again, my lord,” the surgeon told Ian.

“Damn, and we did not find out his name or his address.”

“But we did find that he recognized you, at least as a gentleman, and is in his right senses. An excellent sign, my lord. Excellent.”

The whole household was tearing around, it seemed, fetching towels and sheets and hot water and hot tea and Ian’s own family physician. Every servant who could find some reason to watch the earl’s careful progress up the arched marble stairs did so, and if any of them noticed that their master’s cheeks were wet, too, they ascribed that to the dampness of the day and the fog.

Ian’s capable valet was waiting outside a guest chamber, the sheets already turned down, a fire hastily lit in the hearth by the time the sad cavalcade reached the upper story. As soon as the earl had set down his light burden, Hopkins handed him a glass of brandy before hurrying to assist the surgeon.

Ian set the glass down. “He is unconscious again, I am afraid, so this will not do any good.”

“For you, my lord,” Hopkins replied as he carefully, efficiently removed the boy’s boots and produced a scissors to cut away the youngster’s ruined coat while the surgeon wiped at the gash on his head.

Ian knew he would be no help until his hands stopped shaking, so he nodded and took a long swallow of the brandy, glad for its searing heat. It could not melt the icy grip on his innards, but it helped.

“What do you think?” he asked after what seemed an eternity. Hopkins had handed at least five basins of bloodied water to one of the footmen. Ian had finished his glass of brandy hours before, and had worn a track in the Aubusson carpet. He did not want more spirits, needing all his wits about him. But he poured a glass for the surgeon, and another for Hopkins.

The surgeon straightened up and accepted the brandy after wiping his hands on a clean towel. “I think he might live, my lord.”

Ian’s knees turned weak with relief. He sank onto the chair beside the bed, then jumped up to start pacing again when the surgeon continued.

“If, that is, he does not take a fever, has not lost too much blood, is not concussed, and the wound does not turn septic. The pistol ball appears to have made a neat exit, without damaging the lungs or heart that I can tell. Of course, he might be bleeding inside. It is the head wound that worries me worse. No telling if his brain will swell, or if bits of the skull are—”

“Yes, I get the idea. How soon before you know?”

The surgeon shrugged. “Soon, if he dies. A week or so if he recovers. Yes, if he survives a sennight, he should make a full recovery. Unless his spine is damaged, or his lungs are weakened, or his wits are addled.”

Good grief, if he lived, the boy could be an invalid or an idiot his entire life? Ian poured himself another drink. “I’ll have to find his people.”

Hopkins handed him a card case from the boy’s pocket. Ian pulled one out. “Troy Renslow,” he read. “Cameron Street.” He did not recognize the family name, but the address was at the outskirts of Mayfair—respectable, but not on one of the fashionable squares inhabited by the wealthy and well-known. The fact that the lad had a calling card at all put him among the genteel, if not the
ton.
Whoever they were, his family would be frantic soon, when the groom returned without their son. Ian had to go, now that he had something to report to them.

Hopkins signaled for one of the footmen to stay with the patient while he repaired Lord Marden’s appearance for such an important, disturbing visit.

Before he left, though, Ian stepped closer to the bed and touched the boy’s hand. “I will be back soon, Master Renslow, after telling your family where you are.” He spoke as if the youngster might hear him and be comforted. “Hold fast, Troy. You will be fine. I know it.”

Hearing his name, or the voice of authority, Troy opened those startling turquoise eyes and looked into the earl’s. He reached for Lord Marden’s hand.

“My…sister,” he struggled to whisper. “Attie… Can’t leave her alone.”

The boy and his sister were alone in London? “Of course not. I shall invite your sister to stay here at Maddox House.”

“And Roma? Can’t stay…by herself.”

“However many sisters you have, they will all be welcome to come visit or stay here.”

The boy looked confused and tried to speak more, but Ian hushed him. “Do not fret. I will take care of everything. You merely need to rest and recover your strength.”

The boy’s eyes were already drifting closed. The surgeon was packing his instruments and nodded. “Sleep is the best medicine. And he seems to be compos mentis—of sound mind—so at least you will have something positive to tell the boy’s family.”

What, he could tell Renslow’s sisters that the lad could not walk, was in danger of contracting a fever, if he did not lapse into a coma, but that he recognized his own name and remembered theirs? That should reassure a loving family. Lud, Ian was going to have to lie through his teeth. He’d tell the women that their brother was going to be fine. Right after he told them the boy had taken a ricocheting bullet, fallen off his horse, and hit his head on a rock—at target practice.

For a man who took pride in his honor, Ian hated himself.

Chapter Two

To a man, honor is everything.

—Anonymous

To a woman, family is everything.

—Mrs. Anonymous

Ian hurried through his toilette as fast as he could, knowing the Renslow household must be in an uproar. In the back of his mind, placed there by the surgeon, was the worry that young Renslow might stick his spoon in the wall before his family had a chance to speak with him one last time.

He could not let that happen. His shirt and breeches were ripped off. They would be tossed out or burned, anyway. He never wanted to see the blood-soaked garments again, not even as rags. He could not make a call on the ladies unshaven, but was too anxious to suffer Hopkins’s precise ministrations, and did the job himself. He did not shed quite as much blood as the boy, but almost. He was too impatient to be gone to fuss with a neckcloth, so had his valet find him a spotted kerchief to tie loosely at his throat. A swipe of the comb through his dark curls, a plain gray waistcoat, a loose-fitted blue superfine jacket, and he was bounding down the stairs just as the hall clock chimed.

Nine chimes? Could it be only nine in the morning? Ian reached for his watch on its fob chain. Nine o’clock. He felt as if he had lived through a whole day in Purgatory, yet it was far too early for fashionable London to be calling for morning chocolate. That was what happened, Ian supposed, when one started the day before dawn. Or when one had brandy for breakfast.

The boy’s family had to be notified, even if they were still abed. Servants would be up and about, and that groom must have set up a cry when he returned to the clearing and did not find his fallen charge. Unless he was a casual acquaintance, along for the ride. Or unless he kept going, stealing the horse. That was too much for Ian to consider now. Facing…what were the names? Attie and Roma. That was it. Facing two sisters was going to be hard enough.

Ian’s friend Carswell was waiting at the foot of the stairs, every hair on his head perfectly combed, not a wrinkle or a speck in sight on his clothes, despite the early hour and the events of the morning. “How is he?” Carswell asked without bothering with a greeting.

“He’ll do, for now,” Ian said, leading the other man to the library, out of earshot of the servants. “The physician and the surgeon are consulting about treatment. Hopkins and my housekeeper are positive they can keep him alive.”

“Capital. But you look like hell.”

Ian hunched his broad shoulders. “What do you expect? At least you look your usual elegant self, considering you were second to a possible murderer.”

Carswell looked away and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I thought you should know that Philpott won’t say anything, not after his man turned craven. A shooting match gone bad is enough for him. He’ll spread it through the clubs that you and Paige decided to settle your differences with a test of skill, but a shot went awry. Philpott swears he will make certain Paige leaves town, never to return. That dirty dish left before we discovered the lad, so he cannot refute the claim of a misfire. I know your driver will stand by the story, but what of the surgeon?”

Ian gave a rough laugh. “For the money he is making, the sawbones would say the boy shot himself. I am the one who cannot stomach the lies.”

“It was an accident, man! You did not set out to shoot anyone. Why, you did not even try to shoot that dastard Paige. But you know what the scandal sheets and the gossip columns will make of it. You’ll have days and weeks of explaining, with the rabble crying for your neck in a noose, as if they were Frenchies blindly attacking the aristocracy. The regent does not need such ill favor for one of his own, not now, when his own popularity is at so low an ebb.”