Chapter 17
Ivy had a notoriously cool head on her shoulders when it came to blood and injuries.
When she was a child, her brothers had suffered all manner of scrapes, bloodied noses, and even broken bones.
Once, her third eldest brother had fallen on a hunting trip and snapped his arm bone clear through.
She prided herself on being immune to the sight of blood at this point in her life.
But this… this was different. The amount of blood that soaked Owen’s coat made her skin buzz.
His face was pale and clammy, and she knew without a doubt that he was dying.
She ripped off her cloak and swung onto Saxony.
The beautiful horse seemed to sense it was an emergency, because he stood statue-still while she awkwardly wedged herself between the stallion’s neck and Owen’s heavy body.
She twisted and tucked her balled-up cloak into Owen’s coat, praying it would stanch some of the bleeding.
When she faced forward again, his full weight fell over her back, but she barely felt the burden.
The closest doctor was half an hour east, and she did not think he had that much time.
She did not allow herself second thoughts as she took off for town, pushing Saxony as fast as she dared.
She grabbed one of Owen’s lifeless hands and pulled it across her belly to ensure he did not tip off.
His chin bounced against her shoulder, and even through her cloak she began to feel the stickiness of his blood.
She pulled a heavily breathing Saxony to a halt in front of the modiste shop and raced upstairs, praying with every fiber of her being that the Dove had come tonight.
She burst into the studio, wild and blood-soaked, her eyes falling with relief on the one woman she needed.
Ivy did not know why she was so certain the Dove would know what to do—but in her bones she knew the Dove was Owen’s only hope.
The Dove assessed Ivy’s disheveled, bloodied state. “Where?”
“Outside. Brackley’s been shot.”
The Dove went into action with a competence that made Ivy want to weep with gratitude.
“Molly, you are a nurse. I need you to go downstairs to the modiste shop and gather as much cotton fabric as you can and tear it into strips. Find needles and other sharp implements that you can sterilize over a flame or with alcohol. We may need to dig the bullet out.” She turned to the youngest of the group, Mable, whose eyes were wide at the blood coating Ivy.
“I need you to find where the modiste makes tea and start boiling water.” The Dove set her lips as she focused on Ivy, Bertha, Tulle, and Tabitha.
“I have seen the viscount. He is a large man and will be heavy. I need all of you to help carry him in.”
Ivy’s feet were in action the moment the Dove finished speaking.
She was keenly aware that with every passing moment, Owen plodded closer to death.
She raced down the stairwell, her soles barely touching the treads, and burst onto the street where Owen still lay slumped over the still horse.
She choked back a sob, praying he was not dead.
The Dove snapped out instructions about where each woman should stand, and on the count of three they slid him off the horse, staggering under his muscled weight. They carried him toward the door of the modiste shop, and Ivy thought it was in his best interest that he was unconscious.
Mable was already holding the door open for them. “The water is on, and I have lit some lamps.”
“Over here!” Molly instructed with the same calm efficiency as the Dove. The stout older woman had already fashioned a bed of sorts by clearing off a sewing table and laying cushions on it.
The women grunted as they heaved Brackley onto the table.
In the light of the candles his face was ghostly pale, his shirtsleeves and coat so saturated with blood that Ivy did not know how he was going to survive.
She leaned over his face and exhaled with relief when she felt the faintest puff of breath on her cheek.
“Scissors,” the Dove said with authority.
Tulle, the young newlywed who had whitened during the lesson on strangulation, was standing by the sewing implements soaking in a bowl of brandy.
Despite her hesitant nature, she immediately jumped into action as the Dove’s assistant.
The Dove snipped away Owen’s expensive coat and shirtsleeves, peeling the fabric back to reveal a raw wound gone black with clots.
Blood coated his broad chest and had dried in rusty rivulets down a stomach delineated with muscles and lightly dusted with hair.
Ivy pressed her knuckles to the side of his rib cage and blanched at the cool feel of his skin.
The Dove began cleaning the wound with a wad of cotton dunked in hot water and shouted, “I need more brandy, or any other liquor that might be available!”
“Already ahead of you,” Molly said, bustling forward with a bottle of gin.
“Found this hidden beneath the counter.” She had taken over organizing the other women, setting Tabitha, the widow, to sterilizing the tools with alcohol, and her cousin Bertha to ripping strips of muslin.
The Dove grasped the bottle of gin and poured it over the cleaned wound.
She leaned closer to study the ragged flesh, but still she did not lift her veil.
Without the clots, the bullet wound had begun to freely bleed again, although it looked much smaller and less gruesome than before.
“I believe the bullet is still in him,” she said, straightening.
“We will need to extract it before we can sanitize and stitch the area. Ivy, I need you to apply as much pressure as possible to stop the bleeding while I prepare.” She laid several layers of muslin over the wound and Ivy stacked both her hands on top of it.
“Press hard, Ivy. He is unconscious and you cannot hurt him, but if you do not apply enough pressure he may die.”
Ivy leaned her full weight on him, feeling his flesh depress.
“Good.”
Ivy was vaguely aware of the women bustling around her, of the dancing shadows and the pungent smell of gin, but all she could focus on was Owen’s face.
His lashes were dark against his deathly white cheeks.
One lock of hair curled over his forehead, and his lips were partially opened as he struggled to breathe.
She hated this for him, not only because he might die, but because he would abhor being as vulnerable as he was in that moment.
He was a vibrant, active man who, if he were conscious, would despise lying here at the mercy of others.
She pressed harder, blood oozing through the cotton and wetting her fingers. “Do not dare die, Owen,” she whispered fiercely. “There are better ways to get out of this courtship.”
The Dove appeared at her elbow with a tray of sterilized sewing and dining implements.
“It is best that he is unconscious for this. Ivy, are you able to hold the lamp over the wound with a firm hand?” Ivy nodded.
“Excellent. Molly, I will need you to insert the sugar nips and separate the wound while I remove the bullet.”
Ivy forced her hand not to tremble as she left her compress and took the lantern Tulle silently handed to her.
She would not fail Owen now. Forcing her breathing even, she held the lamp over the splotched white cotton while the Dove and Molly bent over his chest and peeled back the fabric.
They murmured to one another as if they had previously done a thousand surgeries in the middle of a modiste shop.
Ivy blessed their competence and synchronicity as they expertly probed the wound.
“It appears to have nicked the brachial artery,” the Dove said.
Molly peered closer. “But it is not severed, thank heaven.”
“Indeed. I am not delicate enough of a seamstress to sew arterial walls together.” The Dove reached for the tweezers while Molly lifted the slender nips and inserted them into the wound with a wet sound that Ivy forced herself to block out.
Blood had never bothered her before, so she did not understand why hearing the work on Owen’s wound should make her want to scream.
It seemed like forever, but it could not have been more than half a minute before Ivy heard the clatter of metal and the rolling of the bullet.
Then the Dove and Molly were moving quickly, the bleeding having turned ferocious again.
They disinfected the site and the Dove began sewing the skin together with silk thread, unflinching as she pierced the viscount’s skin over and over.
Ivy shifted her gaze to the net concealing the Dove’s face. This woman had obvious experience with traumatic injuries. She was clever, excelled at defense, was the spymaster of an entire network of governesses, and had known exactly what to do to save Owen’s life.
Who could she be?
“We need to get him to Brackley Estate and fetch the doctor,” the Dove said, straightening.
She had knotted the thread and snipped it away, leaving a neat row of white stitches holding the puckered, raw skin together.
“However, before any of us leaves the safety of this building, I must speak with Ivy about what happened.” She gestured with her chin to Molly.
“Molly, will you bandage the wound? Ivy, come into the back with me.”
“Will he survive?” Ivy asked, trailing after her in a daze.
“I have done all I can. If his body can fight off any infection that occurs, he should make it. The artery nick will heal itself in time. If the bullet had been a fraction of an inch to the side… I would have different news for you.”
Ivy numbly followed the Dove into the small kitchen, where the woman washed her hands with a pitcher of cool water. After wiping them on a towel, she turned to Ivy, who was still standing with a white-knuckled grip on the lamp. “You are covered in blood. Come wash yourself.”
Ivy rinsed her hands, watching the water turn pink with Owen’s blood. Her dress was stuck to her back with blood, the material stiffening and pulling on her skin.
When she finished, the Dove’s competence morphed into a steely flatness that sent fear skittering down Ivy’s spine. “Now tell me everything.”
Ivy recounted the run-in with the highwayman, and when she finished, the Dove said, “It sounds as if Lord Brackley was specifically targeted.” Her stance was preternaturally still, and a whisper of danger brushed against Ivy’s skin.
She would not cross this woman—ever. “He intended to make it appear as a robbery, but based on your account, he had an ulterior motive.”
“You believe his true intention was to murder Brackley?”
“To humiliate the viscount, at the very least.”
Ivy was appalled to discover her lower lip was trembling. She clamped her teeth over it. “Do you think he is the same man who has been lurking at the estate?” She had already written to the Dove about the curious interloper Eliza had spotted.
“It is possible.” She seemed thoughtful, her only tell a slight press of her lips. “Why does this man suspect Brackley of wronging his own mother, and why does he care? Does he have anything to do with the mysterious disease in London? These are questions we must find the answers to.”
“How?”
“I have a number of plans in motion and a brilliant mathematician searching for patterns related to the hysteria. If this highwayman did intend to murder Lord Brackley, his lordship is in peril. Would you feel comfortable staying in your position, not only to continue probing into his past deeds and now his relationship with his mother, but to keep him safe until we have gathered all the facts?”
Ivy nodded. “There is something else I must tell you. Owen—Lord Brackley—is courting me.”
The Dove did not appear to be surprised, and Ivy realized with a flush that of course the Dove would have already heard the gossip. She was a spymaster.
“It is not real,” Ivy hurriedly added, and launched into the details of their scheme.
“This works to our advantage,” the Dove said when Ivy had finished.
“As the woman he is courting, you will be expected to be near his bedside during his recovery. He will be bored and stationary, and he may be willing to talk more than usual. Probe into his business. Ask about his contacts in London. Find out where he was over the past year. There must be a connection somewhere, and I will not rest until we find it. Above all else, stay alert.”
The Dove’s words slipped into her ears without really sinking in. She turned her eyes downward and distantly noted that she had missed a streak of blood on her wrist.
“It has been a trying night for you.”
Ivy lifted her chin. “Indeed, but it is not over yet. Someone must fetch the doctor, and I must ride back to Brackley Estate and send the carriage to collect his lordship.”
The faintest hint of a smile touched the Dove’s lips. “Women always do what needs to be done.”
When they returned to the main part of the shop, Owen’s face was pale, his breathing shallow as his chest rose and fell. Ivy stopped at his side and comforted herself by observing his inhalations for half a minute.
“You will take care of him while I am gone?” she said to Molly.
“Like he was my own brother.”
“Thank you,” Ivy whispered. “I am leaving to fetch the carriage from Brackley Hall.”
“Who is riding to the doctor’s house?” Tabitha asked.
The Dove pulled her gloves on. “I will, after I escort Ivy to the estate.”
Tabitha shook her head. She was too young to be a widow, Ivy thought, but her face was set when she said, “Nay. That will take too long. I shall ride to the doctor.”
The Dove hesitated.
“Go with Tabitha,” Ivy said. “If the highwayman is still on the road, he will not be lingering near Brackley Estate. I will be fine.”
The Dove gave a brusque nod. With one last look at Owen, Ivy followed the two women from the modiste shop.
Tansy stood by Saxony, having followed them on their mad gallop to the modiste.
Ivy petted her neck and pressed her forehead to her warmth.
“Sorry, my girl, but I need maximum speed right now. I shall be back for you.”
Tansy nickered as if she understood, and Ivy mounted Saxony. Saxony was a large horse, and because his owner was the top horse breeder in Europe, he was also fast.
Ivy leaned forward and gripped the reins, praying she could control him. He had been a perfect gentleman when they had galloped to the dress shop, but then he had still had his owner on his back. “Let us fly, Saxony.”