Page 4 of How to Seduce a Viscount
‘More hot water,’ he barked, his voice rough with his own desperation. ‘Let’s get her cleaned up. Mrs Hartley, prepare a needle for stitching. Rose, be ready with the brandy. And both of you, wash your hands before you touch anything.’
Thank goodness Grandfather had made sure his grandsons knew a few doctoring skills, enough to see them through more than one scrape.
‘A lamp please, Mrs Hartley, when you’re done with that needle. I need more light.’ He bent to the task of cleansing the gash and prepared to apply stitches. The waif had beautiful skin, so pale and clear, which made the gash all the more vivid. A wave of anger surged. How dare someone think to mar the perfection of her with their blade?
‘Keep her still, Rose,’ he snapped gruffly when the waif’s body flinched.
To his patient, he murmured a litany of reassurances as he worked. ‘You’re very brave, my dear. You fended off three men, you can do this.’ He hated the idea he was causing her pain even as he was trying to save her life.
Luce tied off the last stitch and sat back, letting Mrs Hartley wrap yards of bandages about the girl’s midsection.Luce stretched, the muscles of his back and neck taut from the precision of his efforts. But his discomfort was nothing compared to his patient’s.
His patient. The waif.Her. There was more to her than those nondescript labels. Luce looked down into her sleeping—or was it unconscious—features, his mind a riot of questions.Shehad a name, this girl with the silvery hair and pearly skin. What was it? What had brought her to his doorstep tonight of all nights? Who were the men who had followed her? Who’d tried to kill her? Now that the initial crisis had passed, he could put his mind to those questions at last. He washed his hands and stepped out of the room while Mrs Hartley and Rose put her into one of his nightshirts.
Rowley was waiting with a report. ‘There was only the one man alive. He’s in the cellar as you asked, my lord. We’ve posted a guard for when he wakes up.’
‘Excellent.’ Wherever Grandfather had found the staff, he’d done well. ‘I’ll question him in the morning. And the other two?’
‘They’re in the icehouse. Shall I send for the magistrate?’
Those bodies were going to be a problem. The ground was frozen. Digging graves would be hard work, impossible work, for a few days.
‘We’ll need two coffins and the discretion of the undertaker. Perhaps you could pay him without making it seem like a bribe.’ The fewer questions the better. Luce didn’t want to explain to Little Albury why the new viscount had two dead bodies to dispose of. ‘By the way, which two didn’t make it?’
‘The thickset one and the one with the thin face.’
Luce raised a brow in surprise. Those had both been hers. The man he’d dealt with was the one in the cellar. That slip of a girl had taken out two grown men. His admiration for her rose. ‘Was her weapon recovered?’
‘Yes. I brought it up.’ Rowley withdrew the knife and handed it over.
Luce held it up to the light. A stiletto. It had been cleaned and the blade shone with deadly intent. She’d taken out two men with this? It was a wicked, sharp blade, to be sure, but itwasa civilian’s weapon, not an assassin’s. He hefted it, feeling the perfection of its weight. Still, it was exquisitely made and well-balanced. Stilettos were traditionally offensive weapons for stabbing, hard and swift. It was impressive that she had the strength for it and the tenacity for it. Knife work was not for the faint hearted. It was violent, bloody, up close and personal.
He handed the blade back to Rowley. ‘Thank you. Let everyone know that they’ve done well. I am pleased with our efforts tonight.’ He needed to get back to his patient although there was nothing more to do for her but wait, watch and hope that his skill had been enough to bring her through. Even so, it was likely to get worse before it got better.
Inside the room, he pulled up a chair next to the bed and settled in for his vigil. He’d take the first watch. Mrs Hartley had volunteered for the second. The door shut quietly behind him as Rose and Mrs Hartley exited, leaving him alone with this exquisite mystery.
And shewasexquisite, now that there was time to appreciate the details of her. At the moment, she looked peaceful in her repose, like a fairy tale princess, with the long waves and curls of her hair fanned across the pillow.
He’d never seen hair—natural hair at any rate—quite that shade. He could see now that he’d been wrong to call it silver. The word did not do it justice.
It was not silver, nor was it blonde, but something beyond. White-gold perhaps, like Bolivian platinum or the shimmering ice-crystal-white of a snowflake. It gave her an otherworldly appearance tempered by dark lashes sweeping the palepearlescence of her cheeks. Even though she’d lost blood, her skin was naturally pale. He reached out to stroke her cheek. He told himself it was to check for fever, to see that her skin remained cool, but in truth he simply couldn’t resist. He knew before his hand reached her that touching her skin would be akin to touching silk. Warm silk, unfortunately. He’d keep a close eye on that. Fever was nothing to take lightly.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered. There was no answer. No fluttering of lashes. She was entirely lost to sleep, to exhaustion.
Luce sifted through the events of the evening and made his own deductions. She’d travelled on foot. How far? There’d been no horse with her. She’d arrived only to stand and fight. That she was one of Grandfather’s many messengers seemed plain. That she carried urgent information worth killing for seemed plain too.
Whoever she was, he knew three things about her—she was beautiful, braveand, despite appearances to the contrary, she was deadly. Perhaps that was what Grandfather saw in her. She was someone people would underestimate, to their detriment.
Luce let out a calming breath. He would solve the mystery of her when she awoke. Until then, he could turn his attention to what she carried. What had been worth almost dying for? Had it been on her person or had she carried the message in her mind? If it was the latter, it made her survival all the more urgent. If she died, the message would die with her. Certainly, Grandfather could send it again, but valuable time would be lost and with Grandfather time was always of the essence.
Luce glanced around the room, searching for her clothes. He spied them draped over a spindled chair by the fire. He rose and retrieved them, starting with the coat first. That seemed the most likely place. He patted the pockets, rifled through them, finding nothing. Definitely one of Grandfather’s messengers then. They never carried anything extra on their person. Nothingthat would give away who they were or who they worked for. They were to be anonymous.
He glanced at the bed where she slept. It would be hard to be anonymous with snowflake hued hair. Beauty was meant to be noticed. It had its purpose, too. Beauty enticed. Men would tell a beautiful woman anything. Likewise, a woman would tell a handsome man her own husband’s secrets if asked in the right way. Over the years, Luce had learned the power of a touch here, a smile there, a lingering gaze, a hand to the small of a woman’s back as they strolled through a crowded ballroom. Quiet attentions were the most potent, the ones that made a woman feel seen and appreciated. It was a sad commentary on husbands that there were so many lonely women willing to talk in exchange for so little.
Luce turned the coat inside out to better see the lining. Was the message sewn inside? Was there something he’d overlooked? Ah, there! A narrow slit beneath the arm not easily noticed even with the coat turned inside out. The opening was only large enough for two fingers. He rooted around carefully, the tips of his fingers brushing against a slip of paper, slim and flat. Not rolled or folded. Nothing that would bulge. He retrieved it, marvelling at how small it was. A quarter sheet of note paper, no more, on which the fate of something as large as a nation might hang in the balance, proving to Luce yet again that the pen was so much mightier than the sword.
He brought the slip back to his chair for further study. It was as he anticipated: a code. Something that must be written down in order to be cracked. With coded messages, nuances like spacing mattered. Everything was part of the pattern. It could not be memorised for oral delivery without potentially losing a vital component.
Graphical shapes met his stare instead of letters drawn with straight lines. The code was likely written in Arabic. He lookedcloser. No, not Arabic. That didn’t seem quite right to a more closely trained eye. There were more dots than Arabic usually employed. Perso-Arabic then. He’d have to get his books out tomorrow. He set the code aside and glanced at the bed. What else could she tell him about the coded message? He reached for her hand, taking it in his own, lacing the delicate elegance of her slim fingers through his own. ‘Please, wake up,lovely one. I am going to need you.’ Then, out of reflex, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
