“Please.”
Her shoulders sagged in defeat as her steps halted. The man’s tone sounded quite desperate. Annoyed at herself, she turned and entered the alley, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the shadows.
A long form lay sprawled on the ground. Tessa drew nearer, still wary that this could be a trick.
“Are you in need of assistance, sir?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Should I fetch someone?” She bent closer to the man to try to see what was wrong.
“No. You.”
She frowned, uncertain as to what he meant. His suit was a fine black wool, something she easily recognized. He wasn’t the normal man found on these streets but a gentleman. The size of him alone was impressive, well over six feet she’d guess. His shirt was white linen, his cravat intricately knotted. Dark hair somewhat long for current fashion fell across his forehead. His chiseled features would be well suited for a statue.
No ordinary man indeed.
His long lashes lifted, revealing golden eyes as his gaze held hers. Her breath caught at the arresting sight.
“Are you hurt?” she whispered.
He stared at her as though she were a ghost, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. She’d never met this man and couldn’t imagine why he looked at her so intensely.
“You’re the angel.” His quiet words uttered in a deep, husky voice were a statement rather than a question.
Either he’d been drinking far too much, or he was delirious. She leaned closer to sniff his breath but didn’t catch the scent of spirits.
“Lady Jordan?” he asked, his fingers reaching toward her face.
“Nay, I’m Tessa.” Relieved that he’d merely mistaken her for someone else, she knelt beside him, ignoring the filth. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been stabbed.” He lifted his head and gestured toward his ribs. “Twice.” He pointed to his thigh.
Now she recognized the faint metallic odor filling the air. He’d obviously lost a lot of blood, which meant the knife wounds were severe.
“I’ll find help.” As she made to rise, his warm fingers curled around her wrist.
“Nay. You. You must be the one to aid me.”
Tessa’s eyes went wide. A simple bandage didn’t seem as if it would be enough. While she was excellent at mending garments, stitching a person was quite a different thing. And nothing she’d done before.
“You’re lying in a dirty alleyway. We need to take you somewhere safe and call a doctor.”
He shook his head. “I won’t make it.”
Alarm filled her. She took his hand in hers. “You’ll be fine. I’ll return with help quickly.”
Again he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I have nothing with which to aid you.” She looked at her sewing bag, mentally reviewing its contents. “I have needle and thread but—”
He chuckled. “Of course you do. Because you are the angel.”
“I am nothing of the sort.” Why she felt compelled to argue with him was beyond her. She unbuttoned his jacket and the vest beneath and peeled both aside. Blood stained his white shirt, the large spot growing as she watched. “You need a doctor, sir.”
“I only need you.” That deep, gravelly voice did something to her insides, twisting and melting them. Or perhaps it was his words that did so.
She looked at his leg to assess the damage there. His pant leg was sliced open, and she eased aside the edges of the wool to look beneath, revealing a long, diagonal slash along his thigh. The coarse hairs of his leg gave her pause, as though she was viewing him naked. She’d never before seen a naked man.
With a mental shake, she focused on the cut. Blood oozed out of this wound too. Based on the wetness of his pant leg and the puddle beneath him, he had no blood left to spare.
“Surely you can stitch me up. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
She caught his gaze, studying him closely. Once again, his words didn’t quite make sense. But it was his expression that caught her off guard—as though he had complete faith in her abilities.
“I’m certain someone nearby can help better than I can,” she suggested. The idea of taking her needle and threading it through his flesh caused panic to claw its way into her throat. She wasn’t certain she could do such a thing.
“It must be you, Angel.” He relaxed his grip on her hand and gave her a nod. “Proceed.”
“Perhaps I can find something with which to bind your injuries then get help.”
“Stitch them. That will be the quickest way to stop the bleeding.”
“I have nothing to ease your pain. Sewing you will—”
He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Have no doubt.”
But she had every doubt. Yet what choice did she have? With great reluctance she looked back at the street behind her, hoping a doctor would magically appear. Someone better qualified to help this man.
But the mouth of the alley stood empty.
With trembling fingers, she opened the contents of her bag. The scissors glinted in the dim light. Perhaps she could cut strips of her underskirt to form bandages. The silk thread would be best as it was the strongest and finest. Luckily, she had her needle case containing a variety of needles.
She looked back at the man, hoping he’d changed his mind. But his golden gaze held steady on hers. Somehow that eased her fear.
Truly, what choice did she have? She couldn’t leave him here. Darkness would soon fall. Who knew how far away help might be? She had to do what little she could to aid him.
His thigh seemed to be bleeding the worst, so she would stitch that first. She focused on the steps she’d take to complete this task, just as she did when she completed any sewing project. With slow movements, she removed her gloves then retrieved her scissors to cut away the fabric of his pant leg so she might better see what she was doing. She cut strips of her underskirt and set them on her bag.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and she could clearly make out the long slice across his muscled thigh. She blotted away the blood so she might better see. Lord, but it was deep. Experimentally, she held the edges of the skin together, grateful it wasn’t a jagged cut.
With quick movements, she threaded a needle and knotted the thread. Then she paused to look at him. “I wish I had something to help you with the pain.” She knew she’d said it before, but she wanted to make certain he understood. “This is going to hurt, but you’ll need to remain still.”
“I won’t move.” He said it with such confidence that she almost believed him. He touched the back of her hand with his. “Go ahead.”
She bit her bottom lip, trying to find the mental fortitude to perform this task. If only she were a nurse instead of a simple seamstress. She drew a deep breath as she scooted closer, the heat of his body warming her knees as she wiped away the blood once more.
She placed the needle against the bottom of the cut but hesitated. This was a man’s flesh, not some fabric.
“It’s all right, Angel. You can do this.”
A glance at his face showed his faint smile. Tessa feared he wouldn’t be doing so for long. Delaying this task wouldn’t make it any easier, and daylight was fading fast. She pressed the needle into his skin, hating the way it resisted. Her stomach churned as she pulled it through. A glance at his face revealed that he’d closed his eyes, his brow furrowed with concentration.
The sooner she finished the better. Going slow would only cause more pain. She steeled herself and proceeded, holding the gaping sides of the cut together, automatically making her stitches small and even. The thread broke several times, and she had to knot it and start again. The feel of the needle poking into his flesh each time brought tears to her eyes. How could he stand it? She blinked away the moisture and continued, checking his face every so often, amazed he held so still. He didn’t make a sound. The only time he moved was when he turned his head to the side as though to cast his thoughts elsewhere.
At l
ast she finished, noting the bleeding had already slowed now that she’d stitched the wound shut. She knotted the end, leaving the knots in full view so they could be cut later and the thread removed. Then she bound his leg with several strips of her underskirt.
Unable to resist, she brushed the back of her hand along his forehead, noting the sweat now beading on it. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Marcus. You may call me by my given name.”
“Marcus,” she repeated. It suited him. “Shall I tend to the next cut?”
“Yes.” The only sign of his pain was a tightness around his eyes and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The man had an impressive threshold for pain.
Wanting only to be done so she might find someone to aid him, she repeated the steps, first cutting away the fabric. The knife must’ve deflected off his ribs here. She touched his warm skin, the intimacy of this striking her despite the knowledge he needed help. The sculpted tone of his upper body surprised her. He was no ordinary lord like the soft, pudgy ones she’d seen outside the seamstress shop, but one who was far more active than most.
She drew the edges of the cut together, dabbing at the blood so she could better see. Again she threaded her needle and knotted it carefully, then began her task. As she pierced his skin, he drew a sharp breath. She bit her lip, hoping not to cry. Tears would only block her vision and prolong the task. She swallowed them back, deciding not to look at him until she was done. It would only make her slower if she tried to be more careful. That wouldn’t aid either of them.
At last, she finished and looked at Marcus. “All done,” she announced.
His eyes opened and that golden gaze held hers. “Thank you.”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe you could bear that. It must hurt terribly.”
He said nothing, only continued to watch her.
“I’ll bind your side then find help.” She tugged his shirttail out of his pants, the warmth of the fabric surprising her. How he could be so warm after lying on this cold, hard ground amazed her. In truth, most everything about this man did. That was unusual in itself. Men rarely impressed her.
Carefully, she pulled the binding under him as he arched to allow her access. She’d never before touched a man like this. But now was not the time to think of such things. Marcus was far from being out of danger. Though she’d slowed the bleeding, he needed to see a doctor.
“I’m going to find someone to help you.” She started to rise, but he grabbed her hand, drawing her closer.
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t thank me until you know you’ve survived.” She didn’t know what she was doing and could only hope she hadn’t caused more harm than good.
“I only have this chance because of you.”
She reached out to touch his cheek, only to realize blood covered her hand. If only she could give him some of her strength. “Hold on. I’ll find help, and we’ll take you somewhere safe.”
He nodded and released her other hand, allowing it to slide slowly from his.
Tessa rose, glancing back one last time before she hurried out of the alleyway. She could only hope help was nearby.
Chapter Two
Four Weeks Later
Marcus set down the newssheet with a sigh. Obviously, the solitude he’d enjoyed at breakfast had been only momentary. “What is it, Samuel?”
The hulking footman who’d been with Marcus since boyhood looked down his nose at his employer. “Many pardons, my lord. I merely wanted to inquire as to whether you gave any more consideration to the item we discussed yesterday.”
“The one you’ve brought up every day for the past four weeks?”
“That would be the one, my lord.”
Marcus clenched his jaw, wondering if it was possible to break a tooth when annoyed. “I hardly think there is any way to find her.”
“You said yourself she was the angel. That she looked just like descriptions of Lady Jordan, your many times over great grandmother.”
“And I’ve regretted saying it to you every day since,” Marcus muttered.
“What did you say?” The footman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Nothing, Samuel. I must’ve been hallucinating from pain. The woman was indeed an angel for stopping to assist me, but I hardly think that is cause to propose marriage.”
“But one of the reasons you came here was to find a wife. Surely her coming across you in the alley was a sign.”
Samuel’s family had served the de Wolfe’s for generations. He was far more than a servant to Marcus. He was a friend, sounding board, and bodyguard, all rolled into one. Of course, he knew the story of how Lady Jordan had stumbled upon his great-too-many-times-to-count grandfather, William de Wolfe, lying half dead on the edge of the battlefield in Scotland. His grandfather had expected the Scottish lady to finish him off. Instead, she’d tended his wounds, and therefore, saved his life.
It had taken time and heartache, but they’d claimed their love for each other. The love of a lifetime, something very rare. Their own happily ever after.
Marcus rubbed a hand over his chest at the sudden ache there. He’d had such a love with his own beautiful bride, Mary, God rest her soul. Their story wasn’t quite as romantic as his ancestors’ though, for they hadn’t gotten much of a happily ever after. He and Mary had been childhood sweethearts and married when they’d come of age. She’d been his best friend and then his love. When she’d fallen ill while expecting their first child, he’d been concerned. But never had he thought she might die, taking their babe with her. His heart had died as well that day. He’d had no desire for a woman since her death, three years ago.
As Earl of Warenton and a descendant of the great de Wolfe family, duty required him to marry and produce an heir. The idea of doing so made him ill. He had no love left to give. Trying to pretend he cared seemed too great a chore. So his next marriage would be purely a business arrangement. That was the only way he’d been able to force himself to follow through with his plan to find a wife during his time in London.
The social season had not yet started, which made making a match more difficult as there were fewer opportunities to meet young ladies. Surely that would make it simpler to pick one. Already he had one or two on his list of possibilities. He only needed a presentable looking lady with good bloodlines to keep the de Wolfes’ strong and the ability to produce an heir. It would be helpful if she weren’t overly annoying.
Before he could shift his focus to wife hunting, he needed to find the man who’d left him for dead in Whitechapel and who was stealing from him. As the two crimes were connected, he didn’t expect it to take long to resolve either now that he had recovered. This time when he investigated, he’d take more precautions.
When Samuel had finally come looking for him, it had been pure luck that he’d found Marcus in the alleyway. Unfortunately, Marcus had rambled on about the ‘angel’ who had saved him, the one who bore a remarkable resemblance to the Lady Jordan, with her honey-blonde hair and green eyes.
“Even if I wanted to find that woman—”
“You mean the angel,” Samuel interrupted.
Marcus held onto his patience, well aware Samuel had good intentions. “Yes, the angel. I have no way to do so. She was obviously passing through the area for some reason. By her educated accent and appearance, she doesn’t live there.”
“So you’re saying she’s a lady?” Samuel asked, brows raised. “That’s perfect.”
“Nay, I’m merely saying she couldn’t possibly be a resident of Whitechapel.”
“But you know she’s a seamstress or the like. After all, she had a bag with needle, thread, and scissors. She has to be a seamstress.”
“Do you have any idea how many are in this city? Thousands. Finding her would be impossible.” Nor did he have any desire to. She had caused something deep inside him to flicker to life. Something he’d thought dead and gone. Something he’d prefer to stay in ashes.
“We’l
l find her. ’Tis meant to be.”
The determined glint in Samuel’s brown eyes nearly made Marcus groan. While he’d always admired the man’s single-minded pursuit of goals, it had never before been directed at him.
“If it’s meant to be, then perhaps we’ll come across her again.” He hoped his words appeased Samuel, who was now intent on seeing the de Wolfe legend come to life. “Besides, we have far greater things with which to concern ourselves.”
Samuel nodded. “This time, I’m not letting you out of my sight, my lord.”
“Yes, well, this time, I won’t be so foolhardy as to underestimate our adversaries.”
“On that, we agree.” Samuel looked down at his black suit that served as livery for the Earl of Warenton’s household. “I’ll change into something more appropriate for the docks if that’s where we’re going.”
“Good idea. I want to speak with Captain Thomas again. I need to discover what’s going on with my ships without alarming anyone. As far as I know, he might be in on the scheme.”
Over the past several months, based on the profit and loss statements his man of business had sent, shipping profits had been steadily slipping. Upon further study, Marcus realized the numbers didn’t add up. Perhaps Jack Hiddleston didn’t realize Marcus actually read and analyzed the reports he sent on a monthly basis.
Marcus had written him with lists of questions several times, but none of Hiddleston’s answers had proven satisfactory. That was when Marcus had decided he needed to come to London to study the problem himself. Something was amiss. He could sense it. But attempting to uncover the issue when he was so far away in Northumberland at Wolfe’s Lair was impossible.
The Lair was a sprawling castle that had been in the de Wolfe family for centuries. It had been added onto and renovated many times over the years. Living there never let him forget who he was, or the obligations he had to the family and its future.
Hence why he needed a wife, whether or not he wanted one. The pain and darkness he’d lived through when Mary had died was nothing he cared to repeat. But he needed a wife all the same.
Regency Wolfe: A de Wolfe Pack Connected World collection of Victorian and Regency Tales Page 7
