Lord Carnall and Miss Innocent (The Friendhip Series Book 7)

by Julia Donner

  Her small knowledge of wound care impressed the servants. Mr. Betters quieted their murmurs with a gentle clearing of his throat. “Come along, everyone. He’s a big fellow. It will take considerable maneuvering to get him down the steps. Betsy, see that we have a quantity of water warmed.”

  A groan issued from the man when the footmen hoisted him up from the floor. His shaggy head fell back against the first footman’s coat, and Mr. Betters scowled at the possibility of a smudge marring his livery. Sir Harry was an easily pleased master when it came to most things, but insisted on perfection in the appearances of his house, his staff and exquisitely maintained grounds. The first footman wanted no smudges on his navy coat.

  As they shuffled by with their burden, the man’s eyes opened, and Alison swallowed a gasp. The eyelids drooped and shut after he stared directly at her. Alison stood fixed in place, her eyes still wide and head tilted as she watched the servants carry their awkward burden down the passageway to the back stairs.

  When the sounds of their clunking retreat faded, she lifted her skirts to swiftly climb the staircase. She headed for a commodious reception room on the next floor, the one Sir Harry and Lady Collyns used for assemblies. The gallery adjacent was furnished with many sofas and chairs for the overflow of guests wishing to contemplate the Sir Harry’s much envied collection.

  Alison passed by works of contemporary artists and those done by Flemish masters, elegant statuary and idyllic landscapes, until she stopped under a portrait done over hundred years ago.

  The gentleman had been posed beside a great swath of maroon silk drapery. On his left was a window with a precisely groomed, green vista. He stood with his weight to one side, his hand on a tall cane and wore a brunette wig burdened with layered curls that fell over his shoulders. His smooth-shaven face offered no hint as to his hair color. His thin eyebrows had been shaved or plucked then penciled into arrogant arcs. He wore a crimson jacket edged in gold lace and embroidery. The stockings on his muscular legs blazed a startling white. The knowing smile on his full, sensual mouth softened his arrogance but always sent a shiver over her flesh. He commanded his space in the portrait as well as his place in the gallery. The name etched into the frame was Edward, Fifth Baron of Loverton.

  She had stood under this painting many times, lured by the striking, unusual eyes—striations of blue, green and amber encircled in black. She’d been told that the sixth Lord Loverton died a very old man over a decade before, married but without a direct heir. The Peninsular Wars had taken his closest heirs, a nephew and four cousins. Six years earlier, another heir had been lost at sea during the crossing to engage in the conflict with the United States.

  Over the years there had been much gossip, since the search for an heir continued in Canada. The nearby estate, Loverton Grange, stood empty, as the quest continued with the uncovering many false trails and ridiculous claims made the descendants of the fifth baron’s many by-blows, who had aspirations but no legal claim. Meanwhile, monies kept in the funds continued to compound to the extent that a cash-strapped nation had begun to covet the accruing treasure. Alison suspected that the late baron’s relative, or perhaps even his true heir, might have been placed in a storage closet downstairs.

  She sped to her room, collected the leather-bound box in which she kept her supplies, and took the servant stairs down three flights to the ill-lit hallway paved with flagstone. Mr. Betters waited for her by a closed door to the left of the steps. He opened it and stepped aside for her to enter first.

  A cot took up most of the area. Hooks on the wall and a small table that held a lamp were the only furnishings. The confined space, crowded with the sheet-shrouded man placed on his stomach, made her cringe.

  “Mr. Betters, I will need more light.”

  “Immediately, Mrs. Davison.”

  While the footman was gone, she set down her supply box and carefully folded back the linen to expose his back. Countless scars, not the long laceration down his left flank, choked off her breath. This man had been whipped and more than once. Welts of healed flesh layered older scarring. The arms that had been raised and placed above his head on the thin pillow also displayed evidence of horrible wounds long-healed. Whatever had caused the gouges on the upper sides of his arms had not been recent.

  Her shocked stare was broken when the footman returned. Sidling through the narrow doorway, Mr. Betters quietly opened and closed it, making her wonder how they managed to get their lanky victim inside and arranged on the cot. The oil lamp Mr. Betters carried had a reflector, providing improved light.

  She knelt and lifted the pad placed over the wound on his back. “Hold it more to my right, if you please. This still bleeds, which is not a bad thing. The flow often carries away that which would cause infection. If you can bring the lamp closer, I will try to ascertain if the wound is free of fabric. If this will cause you discomfort, close your eyes.”

  Since Mr. Betters said nothing, she assumed his eyes were closed, but the light remained still while she carefully spread the wound to search for foreign objects. After finding none, she cleansed it and quickly threaded a needle with silk. She had to prompt Mr. Betters to bring the light closer when it drifted, but she managed to hold the wound together with one hand while closing it with swift stitches.

  “There now. The bleeding has stopped. Other than being in need of nourishing meals, I believe he must be of good health and stout constitution. You may step back now, Mr. Betters. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “The wound, it did not look too terribly deep.”

  She dipped her hands in the basin left under the bed to wash the blood from her hands and fingernails. “It wasn’t until the lower portion. Merely long and from a finely honed blade. He was excessively fortunate. I wonder, have you ever seen anything like the scars on his arms?”

  “I have not, but Betsy may have the answer. She was quite shocked when she came in to gather up the soiled items. I thought it due to the man’s bared arms and shoulders, but she told me that this man has been most severely punished. She thinks he’s been keelhauled.”

  Alison paused in the act of replacing items back in her supply box. She rose up from her kneeling position by the cot. “Surely not, Mr. Betters. The Navy abolished the practice.”

  A gruff voice came from the cot. “The Navy did. Not the privateers.”