Chapter 4
“The man who has sufficient power over himself to wait until his nature has recovered its even balance is the truly wise man, but such beings are seldom met with.”
Giacomo Casanova
Audrey wanted to kick herself. She should have verified whether Lord Trafford was injured the moment they had entered the sanctuary of the townhouse, but she had been distracted. As a result, he had lost more blood than if she had sprung into immediate action.
The needs of the patient outweigh any other considerations.
Audrey held a lace handkerchief, one she had found in Lord Trafford’s pocket, to the bleeding gash, while reaching over the trunk. After lifting Flapper’s birdcage and setting it on the floor beside her cape, she fumbled with her free hand to unlock the trunk and throw the lid open.
Her fingers trembled. The valise was wedged at an awkward angle within the gaping interior, but she managed to tug it free and set it beside her, snapping the clasp with more force than intended.
She struggled to lift him enough to wind a bandage around him and hold the handkerchief in place. Then, perhaps, she could get him moved.
To be fair, we had to secure the house before I could begin treatment.
Lord Trafford’s eyes fluttered open to her great relief. His face, pale and drawn in the dim interior, struck her with a jolt of concern.
“Am I to die?” he rasped.
Audrey scoffed, despite the knot of worry unfurling in her chest. “Of course not. The cut is not that deep, but we must stop the bleeding. Can you stand so we may move you, or shall I summon a footman?”
What she had said was true, but other complications loomed unspoken.
“I can rise.”
He clutched his side and stood, though Audrey noted his knees wobbled beneath him. The wound must be stitched and bound, urgently.
Swaying, Lord Trafford made a declaration she was not expecting. “I need … to leave.”
“Leave?” Audrey’s exclamation rang through the room like a church bell, startling them both.
“Before … they … return.” He gestured weakly across the street. “I shall go to Aunty Gertrude’s. Rose and Patrick will be in residence to care for me.”
Audrey shook her head sharply. “You need medical attention. You are still bleeding.”
“Rose will have to take care of it,” he muttered. “I cannot remain here. It is too dangerous for the household. For me … and for you.” He bit his lip, his hand pressed against his side, as though mere willpower could stop the flow of blood.
If the assailant returns, I will be in danger regardless. The scoundrel might believe I can identify him.
This was not the moment to argue. But he was injured, and moving him now could do more harm than good.
“This is the home of an important earl,” she said, trying to maintain calm. “No one would attempt to attack you within its walls. We will remain here.”
“No!”
Audrey flinched.
Lord Trafford’s face contorted with immediate contrition. Dropping his voice, he continued, “These people killed a baron. And they attempted to abduct a baroness. It is not safe for me to be here.”
Under normal circumstances, Audrey’s mind would have been as precise and steady as her hands—clear, decisive, and unfaltering in the care of a patient.
But nothing about this was normal. Her fingers still trembled from the violence she had witnessed, her thoughts scrambled by the shocking speed of it all.
The attacker had meant to kill the man now blinking in disoriented agony.
It had been brazen. It had been vicious.
“I shall accompany you,” she said firmly. “I must ensure that your injury is treated correctly.”
It would be fine, she thought to herself. She would assist him to Lady Hays’s home, bind his wound, and instruct Rose how to care for the patient.
What of the fever?
Audrey shoved the thought aside. Years of assisting her father had taught her that one must never look too far ahead during an emergency. One step at a time. That was how order was restored.
“I cannot ask you to do that, Miss Gideon. You have already been so brave, but your reputation …”
Audrey bit her lip. Lady Astley could arrive at any moment. The rain must have caused considerable delay.
The needs of the patient outweigh any other considerations.
“Never mind that,” she replied. “I am accompanying you because it will set my mind at ease. It is just across the street, and the rain has worsened, so no one will see.”
As though to confirm her assertion, the sound of rain surged to a dull roar outside the windows.
It was as dark as midnight, the heavens obscured by a thick shroud of clouds.
In this tempest, even Providence seemed to agree that her duty lay with her patient.
If the deluge continued, Lady Astley would surely be delayed further, and even Lord Stirling could not dispute the urgency.
This was no trifling matter of etiquette.
If something befell Lord Trafford, the consequences for Stirling would be catastrophic. He was their future, after all.
Audrey bent down to seize her cape, swirling it about her shoulders and raising the hood. The time for hesitation had passed. The door to Lady Hays’s home stood a mere thirty or forty feet away, closer, in fact, than the staircase to Lord Trafford’s own chamber. Her path was clear.
Lord Trafford was mumbling now, staring down at the bloodied handkerchief pressed to his side. His face, in the dim light, had taken on a ghostly hue, so pale it seemed to glow.
“Hang it all! I just wanted breakfast.”
Audrey surged forward and threw an arm around his waist to steady him. He was on the verge of collapse. That he had not eaten since the night before only compounded her alarm. He had been stabbed and had lost blood on an empty stomach.
He needed tending at once.
“Make sure no one sees us,” he murmured.
Audrey nodded, tightening her hold as they approached the front door.
She would return before Lady Astley arrived.
Truly.
But … just in case …
“Wait!”
Lord Trafford halted, and Audrey reached down. Taking hold of the birdcage, she swung it toward him.
“You must take Flapper.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Carry the birdcage.”
With a blink of disbelief, he accepted it.
Audrey bent to shut her valise, her fingers slipping against the damp leather before she managed to seize the handle.
She would need her medical supplies. As she hoisted it up, a murmur escaped her lips.
The valise was heavier than she had recalled.
Coupled with Lord Trafford’s tall frame leaning on her, the burden was far beyond what she was accustomed to bearing.
She squared her shoulders. There is no one else to carry him.
She should summon one of the servants, but Trafford seemed to believe it wiser to avoid involving the staff.
And they might inform Lady Astley where I am.
Flapper chirruped in alarm when Audrey wrenched the door open, and they were met by a drenching gust. The sound of the storm enveloped them instantly. Once outside, Audrey questioned her own sanity. Had she truly agreed to cross the street in this?
A wall of water. That was the only suitable phrase. The heavens had opened without restraint, and the portico offered scant protection.
Glancing about, Audrey saw no one in the street.
It was as if London had been abandoned. Still, they would have to risk it.
If they delayed further, the bloodthirsty scoundrel might return, and though it seemed unlikely, she could not dismiss the thought.
Surely, he needed time to report back to his master and gather his wits?
Setting out into the storm, they stumbled, slipping on the cobbles slick with runoff. Lord Trafford’s groans were barely audible above the hammering rain.
“Ring at the tradesman’s entrance,” he muttered.
Audrey guided them to the gate. Blindly feeling for the bell, she rang it in frantic succession. She waited, her breath ragged, and rang it again.
At last, with aching relief, she heard the creak of the door. Looking down, she spied Patrick, Lady Hays’s elderly retainer, his leathery face peering through the narrow gap.
“Who’s there?” he called into the storm.
“It is Lord Trafford!” Audrey shouted back. “He needs your assistance!”
“Master Julius?”
Patrick swung the door wide and sloshed up the stairs. Flapper’s cage was deposited on the top step just before Lord Trafford’s weight lifted off Audrey’s shoulder. Patrick took him from the other side, grunting under the strain.
Her patient groaned as they navigated the slick steps, each one treacherous. Audrey followed with the birdcage, her shoes squelching with water. Flapper looked thoroughly miserable, feathers sodden and chirruping noiselessly in the falling rain.
Pausing a moment, Audrey turned back toward the street. She saw no sign of anyone watching—no shadowed movement, no figure lingering in the torrent. Visibility was poor. The road was shrouded by the thunderous curtain of rain.
It was a rare storm, she mused. A portent, perhaps?
Yet the timing had been a blessing. Had it not poured, she would have left long before the attack occurred. Lord Trafford might well have been killed.
And now, he was alive.
Because she had stayed.
Julius was surprised how much the slash ached. Miss Gideon had told him earlier it was a shallow wound, but it throbbed with each breath. Perhaps he needed to eat?
Patrick guided him into the warmth of the kitchen, surprisingly spry for a man of his age. There was a steely strength in the aged servant, belying his short stature.
“Have him lie down on the table,” commanded Miss Gideon from behind. Rose came hurrying forward, her broad face wreathed in alarm. Meanwhile, Miss Gideon set her belongings, including the inexplicable birdcage, on a nearby bench and discarded her drenched cape with practiced efficiency.
“Master Julius? What has happened?” Rose’s voice quavered, and Julius felt an unwelcome pang of guilt. He hated involving them.