Chapter One #2
“Not quite yet,” Rheem said as he continued to check Duncan’s extremities, looking for a possible blood clot that might have broken away.
“I had a woman contact me last week, looking for a position. New to London, which makes it more difficult to ask questions regarding her experience, but she appeared more knowledgeable than many when I quizzed her about a variety of medications and standard treatments for falls and broken limbs and the ague, though I do not customarily handle cases of congestion and the like. Though she claimed otherwise, I thought she had a bit of a Scottish accent. Might be a good fight for Duncan.”
“Are we to move him soon?” Thompson asked. “I imagine Mrs. Dove-Lyon would wish to reclaim her ladies’ parlor. Of course, she does not have as many ladies as gentlemen patronizing the Den.”
“Having Duncan’s good graces will likely prove more valuable than any funds the woman might earn from her female patrons,” Rheem observed.
He tugged the sheet and blanket back up over Duncan’s chest. “And how are you functioning?” Rheem asked.
“As a surgeon, I am excessively glad to have you tending to Duncan, and it was more than pleasurable to ask for an instrument and you knew which one I requested. If you ever wish to join me in my practice, I would be happy to have you, though, I suppose, as others view a man’s hands dirty when covered in blood, your earldom might prevent you from being a practicing surgeon or even an apothecary, though part of the gentry have known both. ”
“Your offer is tempting, but I must first set my earldom in order. I am attempting to assist my fellow man as best I can with my other skills. As to my personal comforts, Mrs. Dove-Lyon has had a small bed brought in for me. The meals are a bit rich for my tastes, but they are not lacking in portions or standards of presentation. I am simply unaccustomed to the excess Mrs. Dove-Lyon demands for her patrons. I, generally, live modestly.”
“Some of the other peers in the Lords think you miserly,” Rheem observed with a bit of tongue in cheek as he cleaned his instruments before returning them to his bag.
“I live alone, and my needs are simple,” Thompson argued. “I employ a staff who are happy to serve me, though I choose Cheapside rather than Mayfair.”
Rheem said, “There is nothing wrong with that. Until a man marries, his needs should be simple, unless, of course, one is Beau Brummell.” He instructed, “If all goes as planned, we should be able to move Duncan in two, likely three days. You and your brothers should put your heads together on the ‘how,’ not the ‘why’ of moving him. Soon Duncan will be conscious enough to want the comforts of his own home and bed. He cannot set up in a coach and a flat bed wagon rolling over cobblestones and the unevenness will likely do more damage than the returning home will do good. Use that analytical mind of yours to conceive a means to move Duncan safely.”
He and Duncan had had perhaps a dozen or more conversations each day over the previous two days.
Some short. Some longer ones. Duncan, being Duncan, had questioned Benjamin, first, on an explanation of what had occurred and then of Rheem’s diagnosis and even the best means to transport him home to Duncan Place.
While Duncan slept, Benjamin read or sometimes played cards with Titan, who, miraculously, was more adept at shuffling cards with his one hand than Benjamin held with both.
Benjamin had enjoyed their conversations, especially those regarding the war and both the need for its continuance and the long-lasting effect it will have on the United Kingdom and the world.
Yet, during those long hours alone in the room with only Duncan’s slight snoring as company and the rest of those in Lyon’s Gate Manor going about their days, Benjamin realized that as much as he admired and respected Lord Macdonald Duncan, being in any room for five days would wear on even Job’s patience.
A man could only catalog all he still had to accomplish on both his Kent estate and the new properties he had recently purchased so many times without pulling his own hair out by the handful.
In many ways, he had to admit, it had been an intelligent decision by Rheem to provide Benjamin with a specific task upon which to focus so his mind did not race off after first one tangent and then another.
For example, when both Beaufort, and, especially Hartley, had reported that they had found nothing unusual in the garden or upon the grounds of the Lyon’s Den, Benjamin could not conceive how such could be an accurate estimation.
Duncan’s assailant had shed gloves and the hat with the floppy brim as he ran away from the scene, and Benjamin was confident the man had thrown off other items. In his mind’s eye, he saw them being tossed to the side.
Naturally, as both Beaufort and Hartley were trained in such investigations, it was possible Benjamin had erred, rather than his friends, but he could not shake the idea that Duncan’s attacker had worn clothes not so much as to disguise his identity, which was the major conjecture of those in the Home Office, but, instead, to blend in with those who streamed from the gaming hell in the chaos that followed the shooting.
Even as he objected to his brothers’ lack of clues in solving the investigation, Benjamin knew he could be nowhere else but by Duncan’s side in his lordship’s recovery.
Family filled his heart, while work and studies filled his head.
He, like it or not, possessed an all-encompassing curiosity.
After several conversations with the others and despite Rheem saying it would be a poor choice, the family had all agreed that they would use a flatbed wagon covered with two mattresses from one of the extra rooms at Duncan Place, and they would leave Duncan on the door until they could move him.
Benjamin and Orson were to ride on the wagon’s bed with Duncan to keep his lordship as level as possible.
Graham would take the reins, for Aaran had mastered riding a horse and driving a carriage or wagon to compensate for his leg injury, which often prevented other of society’s niceties.
Dawn was barely sending light into London’s dark corners when they had carried Duncan out of the Lyon’s Den, this time on a door from Duncan’s own home. Theodora was seated upon the bench with Graham, tears again in her eyes, but, this time, more from gratitude than fear.
“I am here, Papa,” she cooed to her father as they lifted the door with Duncan upon it to the wagon. His lordship did not respond beyond a lift of his hand in acknowledgement, for Rheem made certain Duncan was heavily medicated to lessen the pain and possible reinjury.
“Ready,” Orson ordered, and, with the slightest of lurches, thanks to Graham’s steady hands on the reins, they rolled away from the Lyon’s Den at dawn on Monday, five days after the shooting.
Marksman and Beaufort rode on either side of the wagon, constantly scanning the street and the buildings in fear of another attack upon Duncan.
Two armed servants rode ahead of the wagon, with another two behind.
Duncan’s hands squeezed both Orson’s and Benjamin’s, with Orson leaning forward to say, “Theodora and all your sons are escorting you home, sir. You are safe with us at your side.”
Though the action might have gone unnoticed by many, Benjamin noted the slight attempt of a nod from Duncan’s head.
“Is all well?” Theodora asked in concern.
“Your father is happy to go home,” Benjamin explained.
“It shan’t be long now, Papa,” Theodora assured.
Benjamin noted when Beaufort moved closer to the wagon as they passed a man in a long coat similar to what Duncan’s attacker had worn.
Benjamin did not release Duncan’s hand, but he adjusted his gun without alerting Theodora.
The others must have taken notice of his and Beaufort’s caution, for, within seconds, they had all tightened their circle about Duncan. Even Aaran had tugged Theodora closer.
“What is amiss?” she hissed.
“Shush,” Aaran ordered under his breath. “Just move closer in case we must set the horses into a faster pace.”
Theodora glanced back to where they had all claimed their guns and immediately did as Aaran instructed.
No one spoke, and Aaran kept the team at a steady pace.
The man, who was one of a dozen or more on the street, stood with his back to the wall and watched the slow, but steady, procession.
Busy with setting up carts and opening shops, the others showed only a bit of curiosity, but quickly returned to their businesses.
Benjamin studied the man further and was uncomfortable with the similarity of the fellow’s hard implacability and superior attitude, for they reminded Thompson too much of Duncan’s attacker.
He studied the man for as long as the suspect was visible.
Benjamin had half expected the stranger to follow them, but he did not.
He simply stood along the side of the building.
Immobile. Not even raising his head, which meant none of them could claim a good look at the fellow’s features.
Soon they were out of range, and, if an attack had been planned, it had fallen short, but none of them released the collective breath they held until Beaufort turned his horse to return and investigate. One of the servants chose to go along with Beaufort.
“Be cautious,” Theodora warned as they rode away.
Graham kept the wagon rolling steadily towards Mayfair.
Their guns remained in their hands and no conversation passed between them until Aaran turned the wagon onto the road leading to Duncan Place.
Finally, the tension between their shoulders lessened, and, at length, they spotted Mr. Fields and a half dozen footmen waiting to assist with their master’s arrival.
Marksman quickly dismounted and handed off the reins of his horse to one of the mounted servants. The young lord assisted Theodora to the ground.
“Is everything as we planned?” Graham asked Mr. Fields.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Theodora,” Aaran instructed, “go ahead of us and know assurance your father’s quarters are prepared as you wanted them. We will not be moving Duncan around later, so all should be as you thought best.”
“Excellent choice,” Benjamin said softly. “We cannot be distracted by her worrying.”
“She loves her father,” Graham said with a shrug indicating the obvious.
“As do we all,” Orson announced as he moved into place to support a corner of the door the others did not hold.
Likewise, Benjamin and Marksman took the opposing end.
Keeping the door level as they managed the stairs would be difficult, and he and Marksman had claimed the end that would be required to lift the highest.
“You present the orders, Orson,” Benjamin instructed. “We cannot all be in charge, and you are the old man of the group.”
“Remind me to address that remark when this business is complete,” Orson grunted as they lifted the door with Duncan on it from the wagon. “Together,” Orson instructed. “Step. Step. Step.”
Beaufort and the servant rejoined them, but no one offered an explanation or asked a question.
They had a more pressing situation to complete first. Together, they were repeating Orson’s “Step.” Beaufort and the servant slid in to claim the “front” of the door, one on the left and the other on the right. “Step.”