Chapter 2 #2
Malone appeared instantly and moved forward with concern etched into every line of his face. “Doctor Wentworth is waiting in the drawing room, my lord.”
Of course he was. Alistair gave a terse nod, barely able to summon the strength for civility. “Thank you.”
He had no desire to be poked and prodded by a physician, but the pain in his ribs had not dulled—it had only intensified. And he was tired of pretending it hadn’t.
He stepped into the drawing room just as Charlotte let out a horrified gasp.
“What happened to you?” she demanded, springing to her feet as if she could somehow fix him through sheer indignation alone. “You look dreadful.”
Alistair raised a brow, too exhausted to offer anything but dry sarcasm. “Your concern is touching.”
“Were you attacked?” Charlotte approached him quickly, her sharp eyes scanning his bruised jaw and torn jacket. “Did you even fight back?”
He winced—not because of the insult, but because the effort of replying hurt his ribs. “Must we do this now?”
Without waiting for his consent, Charlotte reached up to touch the dark swelling on his jaw and he caught her hand and guided it away. “After the doctor,” he said. “Please.”
To his surprise, she didn’t argue further. She only gave him a look—part frustration, part worry—and returned to her seat with a huff.
Alistair turned to the doctor. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Not at all,” Doctor Wentworth said as he rose, his spectacles perched low on his nose. “Though I fear I will regret asking what brought you to this state.”
Alistair exhaled slowly. “I was attacked.”
Another gasp from Charlotte. “I knew it! London is a cesspit of crime. I need a muff pistol immediately.”
“You most certainly do not,” Alistair replied, but she was already halfway to the door.
“I shall begin practicing now,” she called over her shoulder.
“Charlotte!” he barked, but the only answer was the click of the door closing behind her.
The doctor gave him a look of wry amusement. “Would you like to chase after her?”
Alistair dragged a hand down his face. “It wouldn’t help. Once she’s made up her mind, she’s worse than a general leading a siege.”
The doctor chuckled knowingly. “Ah. I have a daughter like that. Now then, let’s have a look.”
The examination was unpleasant. Every touch of the doctor’s fingers sent bolts of pain through Alistair’s side. He clenched his jaw and bore it.
“Bruised, possibly cracked ribs,” Doctor Wentworth finally concluded. “I’ll leave you with bandages to wrap your chest. You’ll need rest and patience.”
Neither of which I possess in abundance, Alistair thought grimly. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Just as the physician reached into his bag to hand him the bandages, a crack echoed through the townhouse.
A pistol shot.
Alistair closed his eyes in weary resignation. “Good gads, Charlotte,” he muttered.
“I shall leave you to it,” the doctor said, gathering his things.
Alistair strode through the back hallway and out onto the veranda. The scent of gunpowder hung faintly in the air. Targets had been set up on the back lawn, and there was Charlotte, standing with far too much pride and far too little skill, her muff pistol still smoking.
She handed it to a footman, who began the delicate task of reloading.
“Charlotte, what in heaven’s name are you doing?” Alistair demanded.
Without looking at him, she replied, “Preparing myself, of course.”
“You missed the target entirely.”
“My attacker won’t know that,” she retorted. “All I need is confidence and an intimidating glare.”
Alistair retrieved a second pistol from the table and took aim. He fired once, hitting the target dead center.
Charlotte did not look impressed. “Yes, yes, I’m well aware you’re a former soldier. Must you always be so smug about it?”
“I was trained to shoot. You, on the other hand—”
“—have just as much right to defend myself,” she cut in.
He started to reply, but she was already lifting the pistol again. “Perhaps if you had carried a pistol, you wouldn’t have come home looking like you lost a tavern brawl.”
Alistair ignored the sting of that and tried to remain calm. “Charlotte, you are not in danger.”
“Because I refuse to be in danger,” she replied, as she pulled the trigger again. The shot scraped the edge of the target. She let out a triumphant cheer. “Did you see that?”
He gave a slow blink. “You clipped the side.”
“Progress is progress.”
He shook his head. “Shouldn’t you be inside? Resting? Reading? Anything that does not involve weaponry?”
“I’m finished with pistols for the day,” she announced, passing the weapon to the footman. “Now I shall practice with my knife.”
From the folds of her gown, she produced a small blade.
Alistair stared, stunned. “Why do you have a knife on your person?”
“That’s hardly the point.”
“It is very much the point.”
“I am eight and ten years old,” she said grandly. “I can handle a small knife.”
She hurled the blade. It missed the target entirely, sending it in the direction of the trees.
Alistair looked to the heavens as if they might send him strength. “That was dreadful.”
“It was my first attempt,” she said with unwavering optimism. “I only just got the knife at the market yesterday.”
“Enough. Please. Come inside before you hurt yourself or someone else.”
Charlotte hesitated, then gave a shrug. “Very well. I could use a biscuit. Or perhaps two.”
Alistair watched her walk towards the house, knife forgotten, utterly undeterred by failure.
He could survive the beating. He had endured worse during the war—a French bayonet to the leg and fevered nights in makeshift field hospitals. But surviving his sister?
That was an entirely different matter.
Charlotte, for all her charm, was unrelenting. Stubborn as a mule, sharp as a bayonet, and wholly unconcerned with his fraying patience.
Pressing a hand gingerly against his bruised ribs, Alistair exhaled through his nose. Pain flared across his chest like fire licking at every breath. He was done. Whatever resilience he’d summoned earlier had evaporated. All he wanted now was a dark, quiet room and the oblivion of sleep.
He made his way slowly down the corridor towards his bedchamber, his steps deliberate and strained. Each movement sent a fresh throb through his side, but he gritted his teeth and bore it.
Halfway to his room, a familiar figure appeared—Danvers, his valet and former batman, walking towards him with brisk efficiency. The moment Danvers saw his condition, he halted mid-stride, his eyes widening with alarm.
“What the devil happened to you, my lord?”
“I was attacked,” Alistair said hoarsely. “I need your help binding my ribs. The doctor left a bandage.”
“Of course. Right away.” Danvers moved ahead and opened the bedchamber door, holding it for him. “Malone told me you were injured, but I see now his description did not begin to do your state justice.”
Alistair stepped inside and immediately began shrugging off his jacket. Each tug at the fabric sent a spike of pain through his torso, and he couldn't suppress a grunt as he finally peeled it away.
Danvers was already at the washbasin, pouring fresh water. “We should clean those scrapes on your face.”
“Later,” Alistair muttered. “I just want the bandage on and this day behind me.”
He pulled the long white strip of cloth from his coat pocket and handed it over before beginning the slow process of undoing his cravat and unfastening his shirt.
Danvers took one look at the bruising and gave a low whistle. “You took quite the beating today.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Alistair said, exhaling as he lowered himself into the chair. He held up his arms slightly, allowing Danvers access to begin wrapping.
As the first tug of the bandage cinched around his ribs, he hissed. “Easy.”
“I am being easy,” Danvers replied. “Do you know why you were attacked?”
Alistair stared at a scuff on the floorboards, jaw clenched. “Most likely because I was an easy mark. I’ve grown… complacent. Life in London has dulled me.”
“That doesn’t sound like the captain I used to know,” Danvers said, winding the bandage with care.
Alistair gave a rueful smile. “That captain didn’t need to worry about sisters with muff pistols or invitations to dreadful soirees.”
Danvers smirked faintly but asked, “Still… if they jumped you in an alley, how are you still breathing?”
Alistair’s smile faded. “Because someone intervened. Lady Jane.”
The bandage paused mid-wrap. “Lady Jane? That Lady Jane?”
“Yes. She told them to stop.” He shook his head slightly, still baffled by the absurdity of it. “She shouted at them. Distracted them long enough that a constable passed by and sent them running.”
“That took considerable courage on her part.”
“It did,” Alistair agreed.
“But why was she even there?” Danvers asked, finishing the wrap and securing it tightly. “I thought she was to marry the Duke of Brackenford today.”
“She was,” Alistair said. “But she changed her mind. She left him.”
Danvers looked genuinely impressed. “Well, I’d say her presence saved your life.”
Alistair nodded slowly. She saved me. He hadn’t let himself dwell on it earlier—too distracted by the pain, the chaos, Charlotte’s theatrics—but now it landed hard and cold.
If that constable hadn’t walked by… if those men had turned on her…
Botheration.
The thought twisted like a blade in his gut.
How close had Jane come to dying?
He ran a hand over his face. “She risked her life for me. And I did nothing to protect her.”
“You did what you could,” Danvers responded. “It was her choice.”
Alistair gave a slight nod, though guilt weighed heavily on his chest. “I just… I need to rest. Leave me in peace for one—perhaps two—days. And if Charlotte comes looking for me with any more weapons, tell her I’ve died because of her antics.”
Danvers chuckled. “Yes, my lord.” He moved to the windows, drawing the heavy drapes to block the fading light. “Shall I bring you anything before I go? A brandy? A pistol? A biscuit?”
Alistair didn’t even open his eyes. “Silence. That is all I need.”
“As you wish.”
The door closed softly behind him, and at last, Alistair let his body sink fully into the mattress. The pain dulled, the guilt throbbed, and through it all, one name echoed in his mind.
Jane.