Page 18 of The Devil Himself
The coachman scurried after them, his boots ringing on the floor.
When he got to the room Harris had opened, he carried Luc through the door, then checked to make sure Harris had pulled the counterpane from the bed. Then he laid Luc out on it, taking off his jacket to wad it up and press it to Luc’s wound.
“Harris, get me whisky and some cloths,” Rys barked.
“Yes, sir.”
He applied pressure, glaring at the coachman. “What in the name of hell happened here?”
“There was a crush outside the club, sir, and I let him out well away from the entrance. He was walking in when he was shot. I had been trying to find a place to pull off and wait. I’m afraid I abandoned my carriage out in front.”
“I’ll send a man to take it to the mews.”
“I’ll do that, sir.” Harris set down a bottle and a stack of bandages. “The physician is on his way.”
“Did you see the miscreant who shot him?” Rys demanded. Luc was pale, his eyes rolled back into his head, his breathing shallow and quick.
“No, sir. I heard the shot and the shouting, and I looked over to see Lord Angelsey stagger.”
Nausea rose in his throat, surprising him. Rys was hardly squeamish about blood. But Luc being injured made him ill.
“Get me the guard who was at the door,” he growled at Harris.
“Right away.” Harris, who had just returned from the carriage errand, was like a well-oiled machine in an emergency, and ran off again.
The coachman shifted from foot to foot. “Is there aught I can do?”
“Go with Harris when he comes back and send a message to Lord Angelsey’s household. Also to Lady Hallowarren. Let her know she is to go nowhere alone and to keep her daughters close by.”
The fellow’s countenance darkened. “Aye, sir. That’s probably wise.”
“Harris. Get—” He raised a brow at the man.
“Will Coachman, sir.”
“Get Will food and drink once he’s sent his messages.”
Harris nodded, looking red-faced and harried. “Yes, of course. Come along, Will.”
That left him alone with Luc, who was beginning to stir. “Goddamn it, Fitzwilliam, what were you thinking?”
Luc opened his eyes, the blue as cloudy as a rainstorm in January. “Rys?”
“Yes. What the devil, Luc?”
“I— what happened?” Luc’s brow creased, his lips moving stiffly.
“You were shot. You don’t remember?”
Luc frowned. “I was walking toward the club. Then there was this cold burning, and I got spun around.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No.” Luc shook his head faintly. “I remember feeling as if someone was watching. If I hadn’t turned to look, the bullet would have lodged in my back.”
A cold chill ran down his spine. “Bloody hell.”
“I’m sorry.”
