“Go get the doctor, Molly,” Amanda told her.
The maid nodded her head then turned back. “What happened, the doctor will want to know.”
“He has been shot,” Amanda said as she left the temporary bandage in place, pulled a lace runner from a side table and held it over the wound in his hip.
“Did you shoot him, Mum?” Molly asked.
Amanda frowned, “No, of course not.”
Molly nodded again. “I just wanted to know so I knew how fast to hurry, If you shot him, I could tarry. If you wanted me to,” the maid said.
Amanda shook her head at her maid’s logic. “I didn’t shoot him. Now hurry.”
“No Doctor,” Lord Warwick mumbled again.
“Sorry, but it must be done,” Amanda said. Then he once again grabbed her arm and pulled her close.
“Do not tell him my name,” he whispered. “He mustn’t know. None of them can know.”
Amanda frowned. What could he possibly mean by that? “Should I send for Nathanial or Lord Bradford? They are away in the country. It will take a day or two before they can be here.”
“No,” he said forcibly. “No one can know. And the more people we tell …” his eyes scrunched up as a wave of pain washed over him. “… the more someone might find out. No. Keep this a secret. Our very lives might depend upon it.”
Amanda blanched for a second. The man was deadly serious. Shuddering, she looked up from his wounded hip to find him unconscious,
What had happened? She well knew of Lord Warwick’s reputation. A rake of renown. The man was rumored to be involved with a dozen different women. And then there were the rumors. Stories that even Olivia believed, that Warwick worked for the government in some secret capacity. But Amanda found those rumors to be too farfetched to be believed. Besides, this was London, not France.
No, it must be a jealous husband.
Her mind began devising a dozen different scenarios but she pulled herself away from that train of thought and focused on applying pressure to the two wounds.
“Please don’t die,” she mumbled to him. “Nathanial would never forgive me if I let you die.”
The man groaned and began to shake his head. Her heart jumped. Was he going into his last death throes? Was this to be his end? The thought sent a sadness through her.
While she was not really of his world, she had always looked upon him as a puzzle that needed to be solved. There was something of the outsider about him. The man who saw everything but shared nothing.
No, and for some strange reason, the thought of his death bothered her at her very center. No, she would not let him die. Not here, not now, not on her entrance way floor.
What could she do? Should she try to move him?
Sighing to herself. All she could do was wait for the doctor.
No sooner than she had thought of this than she heard the back door open and Molly rushed into the room.
Two men quickly followed. One, older, with the beginning of gray hair and a paunch, dressed nicely, obviously the doctor. A second man, larger than a small mountain, dressed as a workman, was obviously his assistant.
The Doctor rushed to her side and began examining Lord Warwick.
“What happened,” he asked without taking his eyes off his patient.
“I don’t know,” Amanda responded with a shrug of her shoulders. “He arrived on my doorstep and fell inside when I opened the door.”
The doctor frowned for a moment then nodded as he stood up and stepped back.
“I am Doctor John Spencer, this is my assistant Arthur Anderson,” he said, indicating the large man. His assistant nodded but remained quiet. Amanda, however, noticed that Molly’s eyes kept darting over at the large man, obviously curious.
“Amanda Waters,” she replied. “My maid, Molly.”
The Doctor frowned as he looked down at the man on the ground and slowly shook his head. Then taking a deep breath, he motioned his assistant over.
“The dining room table I believe,” the doctor said to his assistant. “Miss,” he said, addressing Molly. “A blanket, something you do not mind losing. Cover the dining room table. Arthur will move him.”
Amanda’s insides turned over. “Are you sure doctor?”
He stopped and frowned. “Actually, I am. But if you would prefer something different let me know. I assumed you hoped to keep the man alive.”
“Of course,” Amanda responded, shocked that he might think otherwise.
“In that case, we must hurry.”
Molly had already scurried to the linen closet and retrieved an old blanket then rushed into the dining room.
“I will need several candles or lamps, a bowl of water, and your assistance. Even then, I cannot promise success, he has lost a lot of blood.”
Amanda’s stomach tightened up as she realized that Lord Warwick still might very well die this night.
Once the large Mr. Anderson had gently deposited Lord Warwick on the dining room table, the doctor instructed her to remove the patient's shoes and hose while he began cutting away his clothes to get at the wound.
“Will he live?” she asked, unable to wait any longer.
“We will see,” the doctor said as he removed a long probe from his bag and held it over the wound in his shoulder. Nodding at his assistant, he indicated he should hold the patient in place.
As the large man held Lord Warwick’s arms against his side, the doctor slowly inserted the probe into the gaping hole on Lord Warwick’s shoulder. The doctor had barely begun when Warwick’s eyes shot open and a shocked scream bellowed out of him.
“Hold his feet,” the doctor yelled at her without taking his eyes off the work he was doing.
Amanda threw herself across Lord Warwick’s kicking legs, fighting to hold them down. How had she gotten into this situation? One moment reading a book, the next, listening to a man in excruciating pain.
The young Earl thrashed for a moment then fought to hold still, his entire body shaking as he worked on burying the pain while the doctor fished around inside of him for the bullet.
Looking over the top of Arthur, she caught a brief glimpse of Lord Warwick’s handsome face. His brow was covered in sweat and his eyes were scrunched up tight. The man was in obvious agony. Why doesn’t he scream again? She wondered.
“Got it,” the doctor said as he pulled back, holding up a pistol ball.
“About damn time,” Lord Warwick said through gritted teeth.
The doctor laughed, “You are lucky, the wound in your hip, the bullet passed through. But I fear …” The doctor stopped talking when he realized his patient had lost consciousness once again.
Turning to Amanda, the doctor shrugged his shoulders. “I will have my man get a wagon and we can move him to the hospital.
Amanda’s insides tightened up. “No,” she said before thinking it through. She couldn’t allow Lord Warwick to be shifted to a hospital. “They are a den of pestilence.”
Almost no one survived a hospital. Besides, he wanted his identity concealed. No, she could not allow that.
“I will see to him here,” she said, continuing to study Lord Warwick. The thought of someone else caring for him bothered her for some unknown reason. The doctor studied her for a moment then shrugged again.
Molly’s eyes grew very large when her mistress mentioned keeping the man here. Obviously, the idea was not wise. Amanda, however, dismissed her maid’s concerns. She didn’t realize who the man was or what they were dealing with.
“Are you sure, Miss?” The doctor asked.
“Yes,” she said with a firm nod. “If Mr. Anderson could carry him up to a bedroom. We will care for him until we can discover his family.
Molly jumped forward. “I will show you the way,” she said to the doctors assistant, shooting him a flirtatious smile.
Amanda stopped from rolling her eyes. Now was not the time to deal with it, but she reminded herself to keep an eye on Molly, the girl had never been this flirtatious befor
e. What was it about the doctor’s assistant that had impacted her so?
“Next to my room,” she told Molly then turned to the doctor. “Will he live,” she asked as she held her breath.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “It will depend, Infection is our biggest concern now. But he might survive.”
Amanda watched Lord Warwick being carried out of the room as her insides turned over. He would not die. She would make sure of it.
Chapter Two
The bedroom door closed behind the doctor as he and his assistant departed, Molly was showing them out. Amanda, however, did not want to leave Lord Warwick’s side. For some unknown reason, her insides told her that she must stay by his side.
The man needed her. A fact that sent a warm, comfortable feeling through her.
Her stomach turned over at the idea of being alone with him, here, in this bedroom. The ladies of the ton would howl with indignation if they ever found out.
Reaching down, she fluffed his pillow, pulled the blanket up to his chin then sat in the chair she had moved next to his bed.
Removing her spectacles, she made to wipe them on her dress when she realized the lower corner was smeared with blood. Lord Warwick’s blood. Cringing inside, she quickly cleaned them. You must put aside this revulsion, she told herself. There would be much greater tribulations over the next few days than blood on her spectacles.
Would he live? The worry refused to leave her.
Leaning forward, she studied him. Handsome, he had always been breathtakingly handsome. High cheekbones, a strong forehead. The perfect symbol for British nobility. She thought back to the few times they had danced together. The man had towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking out half the room.
Of course, every woman in the ballroom had found him attractive. She could remember more than one woman following his every move with a look of hunger. The memory made her smile. Such silliness. The man was a proven rake with absolutely no interest in matrimony.
But then, many of them had probably been thinking of something other than marriage.
Now, wounded, sleeping, the man looked so vulnerable. His pale face haggard. The soft yellow lamplight making him look sallow. His brow scrunched up in pain and stress. A sight she would never have believed possible. He had always seemed so intimidating. So confident. Yet, here he was brought low.
So not like the man she had known. As Olivia’s family friend, her contact with Lord Warwick had been casual. Discussions about trivial matters, the occasional dance. Amanda had made sure to not allow herself to be seduced by his charm and good looks.
No, a man like the Earl of Warwick was to be avoided. At least when it came to any thought of romantic involvement. Despite his good looks, his wealth, his social standing. No, those were unimportant, she had reminded herself more than once. More form over function.
Besides, Lord Warwick had shown absolutely no interest in her. No flirtatious banter, no meaningful looks or hidden smiles.
Nothing, no reaction. He had always treated her as if she were his maiden aunt. Cold, formally. Like the perfect gentleman, she knew him not to be. How unattractive must she be to not even interest a known rake?
The thought built a small anger in the bottom of her stomach. While she had absolutely no interest in Lord Warwick, that did not mean he should have none in her.
Shaking her head at the silliness of her thoughts, she leaned forward and rested a hand on his forehead. It was a little warm. Her heart lurched at the thought of infection. It was early yet, but the doctor had repeatedly said it was their greatest worry.
The door opened to have Molly discover her bent over Lord Warwick, her hand on his brow.
Molly paused for a moment as she frowned. “I have cleaned the hallway, mum. There was more blood than a butcher’s shop.”
Amanda shuddered at the image.
“These were in his pockets,” the maid said as she held out her hand.
Amanda retrieved two copper pennies, a pencil stub, and an ivory clad penknife. Not a workman’s tool, she realized as she turned it over in her hand. Why had he carried this? It was rather rich for a workman and might have revealed his true worth.
“I burned his clothes,” Molly said, “They were too far gone to even be turned into rags. I’m not spending my night removing blood from a stranger’s clothes.
Molly stepped up next to the bed and look down at the man. “Who is he Mum?” she asked. “And don’t be telling me you don’t know. I saw how he looked at you. He knows you Mum, and you him.”
Amanda swallowed hard. She had feared this.
“The Earl of Warwick,” she told her maid. Holding her breath while she waited for Molly’s reaction.
The maid gasped and took a step back.
Amanda smiled to herself. “He won’t bite, I promise you.”
“An Earl, mum? Are you sure?”
Amanda nodded. “He is a friend of Mr. Caldwell and Miss Olivia’s, sorry, Lady Bradford. I have met him several times. He was Lord Bradford’s best man when I stood with Olivia at their wedding.”
Molly nodded as she continued to study the man in the bed. “He is a handsome one,” she said with a smile.
“But, Molly, no one must know that he is here. No one, do you understand?”
“Why? Surely his family will want to know. You can’t keep a Lord all to yourself, Mum, it just isn’t done.”
Amanda shook her head firmly. “No, he asked me, while you were obtaining the doctor. No one must know. I gave him my word. And I must insist you do the same.”
Molly frowned as she slowly nodded. “Of course mum. But you know what people will say if they learn you were keeping a man, a Lord at that, here in the house.”
Amanda frowned. “The man is wounded. Bedridden.”
Molly laughed gently, “That won’t stop the biddies from talking, Mum. You know them. They do love a story. And from what I hear, it is even worse where he comes from. His world has all those rules.”
“Well, we will have to make sure no one finds out, won’t we.”
“Yes, Mum,” Molly said as she turned to look at her employer. Frowning slightly, she shook her head. “You need to change clothes, I will sit with him.”
Amanda cringed, she was used to the younger woman asserting herself, but never this critically. Then, looking down, she realized why. Her dress was covered in blood.
“You don’t want him waking and seeing you like that, Mum,” Molly added.
Amanda shuddered as she imagined Lord Warwick waking up to find her disheveled and less than presentable. No, the man already thought so little of her. No need to confirm his bias.
“Just a moment then, I will return shortly.”
“Of course, Mum,” Molly said as she turned to fluff his pillow. “It isn’t as if we will be going anywhere.”
Amanda turned at the adjoining door with her bedroom and looked back at her patient. Would he live? Her stomach turned over at the thought of losing him. A realization that surprised her. She would never have believed that she would care this much for Lord Warwick, but the thought of losing him just felt too wrong.
No, she would not allow it to happen, she thought as she hurried into her room to change. The sooner she was done, the sooner she could return to his bedside.
.o0o.
Lord Johnathon Warwick, the Seventh Earl of Warwick drifted in a world of blackness. A blackness visited by angels. Chestnut-haired angels with sparkling eyes surrounded by gold spectacles. An angel with a tender touch that kept the demons away.
As he drifted, he fought to remember. The night sky. Black. Almost as black as this new world. An explosion of pain. Why?
The reason escaped him. But deep in his soul, he knew it was important. Then, before he could find it. He floated back into nothingness.
Again, awareness returned to him. He had been wounded. Shot. Men who wanted to stop him from finding out the truth had tried to kill him. Why had they failed? How had he escaped? Again, he let
his mind wander to that night. He had come there to meet a source. A man who could tell him the truth. A report, a piece of paper.
But when he had entered the alley, his source lay there next to the brick building, his neck twisted in an unnatural angle. As Warwick had kneeled to investigate, a sound behind him caused him shift just as two explosions shattered the night.
Then what? No, nothing, he couldn’t follow the tracks of his memory. He must leave the blackness. Gritting his teeth at the pain he knew would come, he slowly allowed his eyes to flutter open.
There it was, the pain in both his shoulders and his hip. A scorching, throbbing pain that tried to drive out everything else.
“You’re awake.” A soft voice said from the chair next to the bed.
Warwick shifted, sending another bolt of fire through his right shoulder but he needed to identify that voice, he needed to know who controlled whether he lived or died.
There, in the soft candlelight was his angel. The woman who had drifted in out of his awareness. Miss Amanda Waters. A goddess of tender mercy and probably the only person in the world he could trust here in London.
A thousand memories rushed back into his mind. The pain of being shot. The surprising realization of finding himself still alive. The long slog to Amanda Waters’ door, just a block from his meeting place.
The shock on her face when she had first seen him. A combination of surprise and something else. Something he couldn’t quite place.
He remembered the firm way she had taken charge and the feel of her soft breasts across his legs as she held him down so that the surgeon could dig around his insides.
Then, there was more, her soft touch as she changed his dressing. And more, something else that he couldn’t pull from his brain. Some memory that refused to return no matter how hard he tried.
“Miss Amanda,” he croaked as his throat seized from disuse.
“Here,” she said as she jumped up. “You need water.” Placing a hand under his neck, she helped lift him so that he could drink from the cup she held to his mouth. A throbbing ache radiated out from his shoulder.
Warwick, closed his eyes as the cool liquid slowly slid down his throat. It was as if life itself was returning to him.
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