by Julia Quinn
Half of a furry octopus with claws.
“You bloody—” Freddie’s words disintegrated into a furious grunt as he seized the cat by its midsection.
“Don’t you dare throw my cat!” Georgie warned.
But Freddie already had him by the belly. Cat-Head let out a mighty cat-scream, and Freddie tossed him away.
It did not go well for Freddie.
Cat-Head fared splendidly. After a terrifying moment when he seemed to be suspended in mid-air, fur sticking out in every direction, he got his claws into a clump of leaves hanging down from another branch and then swung himself to safety.
Freddie, on the other hand, lost his balance completely. He let out a howl of distress as he clawed for purchase, but it was to no avail. He slid from the branch and fell, bumping against several lower branches as he tumbled to the ground.
“Oh my God.” Georgie’s words came out in a tiny horrified squeak as she leaned out the window. “Oh my God.” Was he dead? Had she killed him? Had her cat killed him?
She ran out of her room, grabbing a lantern from a table in the hall.
“OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod . . .” All the way down the stairs, skidding through the hall and out the front door in her bare feet. “Oh my God.”
He was at the base of the tree, lying very still. His head was bleeding, and already one of his eyes appeared to be swelling shut.
“Mr. Oakes?” she asked hesitantly, inching toward him. “Freddie?”
He moaned.
Oh thank God. He wasn’t dead.
She leaned in a little closer, nudging his hip with her toe. “Mr. Oakes, can you hear me?”
“Bitch.”
So, that was a yes.
“Are you hurt?”
He gave her a malevolent stare. A one-eyed malevolent stare, which was somehow worse.
“Er, where are you hurt?” she amended.
“Everywhere, you bloody moron.”
“You know,” she said, “considering this is entirely your own fault, and I’m the only one here with the ability to summon help, you might think about being a little more polite.”
She held the lantern closer. There was a lot of blood on his head, although in the dark it was difficult to say how much of it might have been from the inkpot. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His left arm was twisted at an angle that wasn’t just unnatural, it was positively inhuman.
She winced. “I think you broke your arm.”
His reply was a string of vile curses, all of them directed at her.
“Miss Georgiana? Miss Georgiana!”
It was Thamesly, hurrying down the front steps in his dressing gown. Georgie wasn’t surprised that the butler would be the first to arrive on the scene. He had always had freakishly good hearing.
“Miss Georgiana, what has happened?”
“There has been an accident,” she said, wondering if she should avert her eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Thamesly in anything less than full uniform. “Mr. Oakes was injured.”
His eyes widened. “Did you say Mr. Oakes?”
“I did.”
Thamesly looked down at the man on the ground. “He appears to have broken his arm.”
Georgie nodded.
“It looks quite painful.”
“It is, you bloody idiot,” Freddie snapped from the ground, “and if you don’t—”
Thamesly took a small step forward and stepped on Freddie’s hand. “It’s rather late to seek medical attention,” he said to Georgie. “I hate to bother a doctor when the injuries are so clearly not life threatening.”
Georgie’s eyes welled with tears. She had never loved the family butler as much as she did right at that moment.
“He appears to have cut his face, as well,” Thamesly said. He glanced down, and then back up. “That’ll leave a scar.”
“Not if he gets it stitched properly,” Georgie said.
“Middle of the night,” Thamesly said with a patently false sigh of regret. “Alas.”
Georgie had to cover her mouth to choke down a nervous laugh. She reached out and took the butler by the arm, pulling him away from (and off of) Freddie. “I adore you for this,” she whispered, “but I do think we need to get him help. If he dies . . .”
“He won’t die.”
“But if he does, it will be on my conscience.”
“Surely you don’t take responsibility for this idiot climbing the—” Thamesly looked up. “I assume he fell from the tree.”
Georgie nodded. “He was trying to get into my room.”
Thamesly’s nostrils flared ominously. “I will kill him myself.”
It was almost funny, delivered as it was in Thamesly’s signature monotone. Almost.
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Georgie whispered urgently. “His father is a baron. I might be able to get away with injuring him, but you most assuredly will not.”
“He does not deserve your care, Miss Georgiana.”
“No, but you do.” Georgie looked up at him. She would not go so far as to say that Thamesly had been a second father to her, but he had been a calming, compassionate presence in her life for as long as she could remember, and she cared for him deeply.
“I will lose no sleep over him.” Georgie flicked her head toward Freddie, who was still seething on the ground. “But if you were punished because we did not see to his injuries properly, I would never forgive myself.”
Thamesly’s pale blue eyes turned watery.
“We need to get him help,” Georgie said, “and then we need to get him out of here.”
Thamesly nodded. “I will summon your parents.”
“No!” Georgie clutched his arm with surprising urgency. “It will be better if no one knows he was here.”
“He should pay for what he’s done.”
“I agree, but we both know I’m the one who will pay. There is no way we’ll be able to keep it quiet if anyone else becomes involved.” Georgie twisted her mouth into a frown, looking quickly to the house and then off toward the stables. “Can you hitch a cart?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Can you hitch a cart?” she repeated.
“Of course,” he replied. He sniffed, clearly offended that she’d questioned his skills.
“I’m going to run inside to get shoes and a coat and something we can use for bandages. You get a cart hitched and we’ll take him somewhere out of the way.”
“And then what?”
“And then we . . .” She thought, grimacing as she kicked a toe through the grass. “And then we . . .”
What was she going to do?
“My lady?”
She raised her head. There was really only one thing they could do.
“And then we get Nicholas.”
Chapter 10
“Sir.”
Nicholas batted away whatever insect was buzzing in his ear and rolled over.
“Sir! Sir!”
He came awake with a giant indrawn breath, shaking as he sat up straight. He never had woken well when his sleep was interrupted.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
. . . was what he thought he said. The reality was probably a great deal more garbled. He blinked his eyes open. Wheelock was standing next to his bed, holding a candle.
“Wheelock? What the devil?”
“You’re needed,” Wheelock whispered. “Thamesly was here.”
If sleep was still fogging his brain, it was gone in an instant. “Thamesly? Why? What? Is someone hurt?”
“I was not able to obtain all the details,” Wheelock said. “But I thought you should know that he asked that I wake you and only you.”
“What the hell?” Nicholas mumbled to himself.
Wheelock held out a piece of paper. “He left this for you.”
“He’s no longer here?”
“No. He departed immediately. He said he could not leave Miss Georgiana alone for much longer.”
“Georgiana!” Nicholas flew
out of bed, stumbling to the wardrobe for his clothes. Wheelock was already there, holding out a shirt, but Nicholas wanted to read Thamesly’s message first.
“What does he say?” Wheelock asked.
Nicholas read the few short sentences by the light of Wheelock’s candle. “Not much. Just that he and Georgiana need my help and I’m to go to the old Millston farmhouse.”
“I believe that’s the one—”
“—where Billie sprained her ankle all those years ago, yes. I believe it is still in disrepair, is it not?”
“It is being used for storage, but no one lives there.”
Nicholas yanked on his clothing with fear-fueled haste. “Did Thamesly tell you anything? Is it Georgiana? Is she ill? Has she been injured?”
Wheelock shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. He said that someone else was in need of medical attention.”
“Someone else? Who the devil would be out with her at—” Nicholas looked up toward the clock, but it was too dark to make out the face. “What the hell time is it?”
“Half two, sir.”
Nicholas swore under his breath. Something was very wrong.
“Your boots, sir.” Wheelock held them up. “May I suggest you don them outside, so as to make less noise?”
Nicholas nodded, in both agreement and admiration. “You do think of everything, don’t you?”
“It is my job to do so, sir.”
They slipped out of the room on stockinged feet, moving silently down the grand staircase. Nicholas rarely walked through Crake this late at night. All the Rokesbys tended to turn in early in the country. It wasn’t like London where myriad engagements and entertainments could keep one busy until the wee hours of the morning.
The house was different in the dark. Moonlight whispered through the great hall, casting pale stripes and shadows that slid along the floor and up the walls. Absolute quiet reigned, but the air was oddly expectant, almost as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to pierce the silence.
Nicholas wasn’t sure if he liked it.
At the bottom of the stairs, Wheelock stopped him with a hand to his arm. “Wait for me outside, sir,” he whispered. “I will be there in under a minute.”
Nicholas wanted to argue that they had no time to lose, but Wheelock had dashed off before he could form words, and Nicholas wasn’t about to risk waking the house by calling after him. Instead he made his way outside, pausing on the front steps to finally pull on his boots. A moment later the butler reappeared, his own shoes in hand.
“I am coming with you,” Wheelock said.
“You are?” Nicholas hadn’t expected this.
Wheelock drew back, deeply affronted. “Sir.”
“Can you ride?” Nicholas asked.
“Of course I can.”
Nicholas gave him an approving nod. “Then let’s go.”
About ten minutes later they approached the old farmhouse, and Nicholas saw a light—presumably from a lantern—glowing from around the side. “This way, I think,” he said to Wheelock, who, it had to be said, was a surprisingly proficient horseman.
They slowed their mounts, made their way around the corner, and Nicholas saw what looked to be three people near the old stone wall that ringed the property. Georgie and Thamesly were both crouching down, tending to a third person who was lying prone, unidentifiable from a distance.
“Georgiana!” he called in a shouted whisper. She looked up, relief evident in her posture.
“I’ll see to the mounts,” Wheelock said as they hopped down from their saddles.
Nicholas handed him the reins and hurried over.
“Georgiana,” he said again. “What is going on? Are you all—” He looked down. “Bloody hell.”
He pulled her aside. “Is that Freddie Oakes?”
Georgie nodded. “He broke his arm.”
Oakes looked ready to spit. “The little b—”
Thamesly stepped on Oakes’s leg. “What did we say about proper language in the presence of a lady?”
“Well done, Thamesly,” Nicholas murmured.
“He also cut his head,” Georgie said. “I’ve slowed the bleeding, but I can’t seem to stop it entirely.” She lifted a bandage she’d been holding against his forehead, near his hairline.
“Bring the light in,” Nicholas said.
Thamesly brought the lantern closer. It was hard to tell with the dried and oozing blood, but Oakes appeared to have a not-too-serious laceration on his temple. The rest of his face was fairly well scraped up but not actively bleeding.
“It seems like he’s lost quite a lot of blood,” Georgie said. “It’s been over an hour since it happened.”
“It almost certainly looks worse than it is,” Nicholas assured her. “The scalp is heavily vascularized. It always bleeds more than other parts of the body.”
“Thank goodness,” she said.
He looked up. “You are concerned for him?”
“I don’t want him to die.”
Nicholas did a quick assessment. He would not be able to make a proper judgment without a full examination, but for now, it looked as if Freddie Oakes was going to be just fine.
“He won’t die,” Nicholas told Georgie. “More’s the pity. Although . . .” He took a closer look, waving Thamesly closer with the lantern. “I’m a little confused by the discoloration of his blood.”
“Oh, that’s ink,” Georgie said. “I threw an inkpot at him. You can see it on his shirt, too.”
“Zooks!” Oakes suddenly exclaimed. “Is that you, Rokesby?”
“Indeed,” Nicholas replied, his voice tight. He could not recall if Georgie knew that he and Freddie Oakes had attended Eton at the same time, so he looked over at her and said, “We went to school together.”
“Best mates,” Freddie said with one of his signature grins.
“We were not best mates,” Nicholas said.
But Freddie was having none of that. “Oh, the times we had.”
Nicholas shook his head. “We had no times. None whatsoever.”
“Aw, don’t be a studge.”
“Studge?” Georgie echoed.
Nicholas shrugged. He had no idea what it meant. “Hold still,” he said to Freddie. “I need to look at your arm.”
“Haven’t seen you in a good few years,” Freddie went on. “What’s it been . . . six? Eight?”
Nicholas ignored him.
“Ten?”
“Hold still,” Nicholas bit off. “Do you want me to treat your injuries or not?”
“Ye-es,” Freddie said, drawing the word out into two hesitant syllables. “Although I should probably say I don’t have a rat’s idea what you’re doing here.”
“I live nearby,” Nicholas said.
Georgie poked her head in. “He’s studying to be a doctor.”
“Oh!” Oakes’s countenance brightened instantly. “Should have said so.” He looked back over at Georgie. “We’re best mates.”
“We are not best mates,” Nicholas snapped. He looked over at Georgie. “He was kicked out for cheating.”
“Asked to leave,” Freddie corrected.
Georgie looked at Nicholas. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
Nicholas shrugged. “Having never been asked to leave an educational institution, I wouldn’t know.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Freddie said. “Winchie gave me the wrong answers, the stupid arse.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. God save him from idiots.
“But we are mates, right?” Freddie used his uninjured arm to give Nicholas a jolly slap on the shoulder. “Come round London some time. I’ll take you to the club. Introduce you. I know all the people.”
Nicholas gave him a sharp look. “I don’t want to be your mate, and I don’t want to be introduced to any of the people. I will, however, set your arm if you shut the hell up.” He looked over at Georgie. “My pardon.”
She gave him a wide-eyed little shake of her head. If anythin
g, she looked fascinated by the exchange. “No pardon is necessary.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked quietly.
“Later,” she said. “After we tend to his injuries.”
Nicholas carefully palpated Oakes’s injured arm.
“Gah!”
“Sorry,” Nicholas said automatically.
“Can I help?” Georgie asked.
“I don’t want her touching me,” Freddie said.
“You were going to marry me,” Georgie said in disbelief.
“Entirely different,” Oakes grunted. “You didn’t want to hurt me then.”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to hurt you.”
Nicholas choked a little at that. “Do you really want to help?” he asked her.
“I do. I really do.” Her entire face lit up. “It’s like kismet. We were just talking about it.”
“You were talking about my broken arm?” Freddie asked.
“Not your broken arm,” Georgie said. She gave him a testy look. “For heaven’s sake, Freddie, be reasonable.”
“You threw me out of a tree!”
Nicholas glanced over at Georgie, impressed. “You threw him out of a tree?”
“I wish.”
“I believe a cat was involved,” Thamesly said, holding the lantern closer.
“Ah.” Nicholas took another look at Freddie’s face. “That explains the scratches.”
“Some of them,” Freddie said sullenly. “The rest were from the tree.”
“Did the cat bite you?” Nicholas asked. Ironically, of all Freddie’s injuries, a cat bite could prove the most dangerous.
“No. Damned sharp claws, though.”
“He was scared,” Georgie said.
“He should be shot,” Freddie spat.
Thamesly stepped on his leg again.
“I wouldn’t speak ill of Miss Bridgerton’s cat,” Nicholas recommended. “In fact, I’m going to ask that you not speak at all, unless it is to answer a direct question issued by me.”
Freddie’s mouth formed a flat line, but he nodded.
“Good. Now don’t move. I’m going to cut your shirt off you.”
Nicholas had brought a small medical kit home with him from Edinburgh—he never traveled without it—and he’d grabbed it before leaving Crake. He pulled out a small pair of scissors—hardly ideal for cutting through linen, but they would have to do. He could probably rip the fabric faster once he made the initial cut, but he didn’t want to jostle Oakes’s arm any more than he had to.
