Page 99 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Don’t leave me, Nerissa!”
“You need a doctor. The ball is still in your arm.”
“N-no—I’ll be all right.”
Nerissa shook her head. “You know better than I what will happen if your wound isn’t treated. Remember Mr. Draper?”
Portia sank back on the bed. Her maid was right. Mr. Draper, a young man under Dr. Lucas’s care, had sustained a wound to his leg in a duel that had festered when Dr. Lucas failed to remove the ball. Despite Dr. McIver’s attempts to save his life by removing the leg, the poor young man had died, screaming in agony.
It was one of the reasons why the Farthing had come into existence—to prevent other foolish men from suffering a similar fate as a result of their pride.
“Very well, bring Dr. McIver. I just hope he forgives me for—” She broke off with a cry. “No! Dr. McIver’s not in Town—he’s taken his wife to Scotland.”
“Dear God!” Nerissa cried, and Portia’s stomach heaved with nausea as her maid’s demeanor of calm concern turned into one of horror. Then she nodded. “Never fear. I know what to do. Be as quiet as you can, Lady Portia, and I’ll return directly.”
Portia opened her mouth to ask where she was going, but a ripple of nausea gripped her insides and she closed it again. The thick, dark cloud that had risen in the back of her mind now came to the fore, and before her maid had closed the door behind her as she exited the chamber, it claimed her and she drifted into oblivion.
Soft, feminine voices shimmered in the distance, fading in and out, until a single voice sharpened into focus, issuing instructions with crisp efficiency.
“Pass me the candle.”
Candle? Am I dreaming?
“Hold her arm still… No, not like that. Let me show you…”
“What about the laudanum?” another voice said, its timbre comforting in its familiarity.
“There’s no time for it to take effect. We must act now.”
“Forgive me, Lady Portia…”
A hand gripped her elbow, while another took her hand, interlacing her fingers, then pulled it taut, and the her arm began to throb.
“Yes, that’s it. Don’t forget to hold steady, no matter how much she struggles.”
“But she’s unconscious.”
“Not for long. If she moves, it may do more harm than good. Ready?”
The question was met with silence, and Portia let her mind drift back into nothingness. Then a shard of agony tore into her arm. Her body jerked with the force of the pain, and she fought to tear her arm away, but her torturers only tightened their grips as the pain continued to swell, slice after slice, cutting deeper into her body, until she became nothing but a creature of pure sensation—an animal baring its teeth while being ripped apart by dogs. She bit down, and a sharp metallic taste filled her mouth. Then she threw back her head, opened her mouth, and drew in a lungful of air. The scream swelled in her throat, but before she could set it free, something hard and unyielding was thrust into her mouth.
“Bite down!” a voice cried. She complied while the pain rose higher until, at last, it receded, washing back until it faded to a glistening ache.
She opened her eyes to see two faces—her maid, flushed scarlet and contorted with distress, beads of moisture on her forehead, and another, displaying the calm, reassuring detachment of a surgeon.
But it was no surgeon. The face had delicate features and pale-gray eyes with a shimmer of green, framed by soft chestnut curls.
Euphramia Lucas.
Which means that Dr. Lucas…
Panic rose, and Portia struggled to sit up, but a light hand touched her shoulder.
“Euphramia?”
“Stay still, Lady Portia. Let the pain subside. Here, drink this.”
A spoon was held in front of her, and she pushed it aside. “Not laudanum, please. I don’t want to sleep. Not if your father—”
