Chapter Twenty-One
Pain flooded Portia’s senses, as if she were being ripped apart. Gritting her teeth to stem the scream, she tried to lift her head and caught a glimpse of Stephen’s booted feet disappearing as he strode away from her without even a backward glance.
“Don’t try to move,” Nerissa whispered. “You’ve been shot.”
“Ner—”
“Hush!”
Portia reached up, and a spike of agony tore through her arm.
“Keep still, please! I must stop the bleeding before I move you.” Nerissa lifted her head and called to the retreating figure. “Colonel Reid! Please help us!”
But his footsteps continued to crunch on the gravel path as he walked away.
“No!” Portia cried, her voice tight. “He m-mustn’t know…”
“Would you rather die than have him discover your identity?”
“Nerissa, do what I ask.”
“I care not what you want, Lady Portia,” Nerissa said, her voice sharpening. Then she tilted her head up and cried out, “Colonel Reid!”
The footsteps did not slow, but he called out, his voice cutting through the air, “Devil take you!”
Stephen…
Portia lifted her head again, and a low cry escaped her lips.
“Devil take him!” Nerissa said. She tore at her neckerchief until it came loose. “Stay still while I bind your wound, but I fear it will hurt you.”
I fear it will hurt you…
Tears filled Portia’s eyes as she recalled Stephen’s words—spoken with such tenderness when he took her for the first time.
Then she cried out again as the pain ripped through her arm. When it dulled, she opened her eyes, blinking to remove the fog of moisture until her maid’s face solidified in front of her.
“Nerissa…”
Dear, faithful, loyal Nerissa, who served her unquestioningly—not merely because it was her duty, but because she wanted to, out of loyalty and friendship.
Portia reached up, and Nerissa took her hand. She curled her fingers around her maid’s, drawing strength from Nerissa’s solidity and calm, tender care.
“Is that better, my lady?”
Portia nodded.
“The bleeding’s stopped. Let me help you up—we need to leave. The park will be full of people soon.”
Fueled by the urgency in her maid’s voice, Portia tightened her grip on Nerissa’s hand and, gritting her teeth, struggled to her feet. She glanced at her arm and suppressed a cry. The thin neckerchief was already stained, dark red and glistening.
“Come, quick!” Nerissa said, and they set off.
Each footstep caused another pulse of pain in Portia’s arm, but they increased the pace as the sound of voices filled the air—tradesmen going about their business, lovers indulging in an illicit liaison—but they couldn’t obliterate the one voice that swirled in her mind, the voice of the man she loved.
I pray, with my whole soul, that you rot in hell.
Perhaps, today, his prayers would be answered.
By the time they slipped through the servants’ entrance on St. James’s Square, Portia’s arm was engulfed in an inferno of agony, as if it had been thrust into a furnace. Sweat dripped from her brow, stinging her eyes, and she stumbled as Nerissa steered her toward the back stairs.
“Quick, my lady, we must get you safe before Mr. Reeve sees us!”
“I-I can handle Reeve,” Portia said.
“Do you want His Grace to discover you?”
Portia shook her head and let her maid steer her to the third floor, pain stabbing at her with each step, until they reached a tiny room, less than half the size of Portia’s dressing room, with a bed nestled in a corner beneath the sloping ceiling and a four-paned window overlooking the London skyline.
“Is this your room, Nerissa?”
“It’s the safest place for you. Nobody comes here.”
Not even I’ve been here—and I’m her mistress.
Nerissa led her to the bed, and Portia lay back, inhaling deeply to dispel the nausea swelling in her gut.
“Stay there, Lady Portia. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“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—”
“Dr. Lucas is at home in his bed, Lady Portia,” Nerissa said.
“Surely you didn’t think I’d bring him when his daughter has more aptitude for medicine in her right hand than he…
” Her voice trailed off, and she sighed.
“Forgive me, Miss Lucas. I’ve been worried about my mistress, and spoke out of turn. I meant no insult to your father.”
“It matters not,” Euphramia said. “I’m loyal to Papa, but not to the point of foolhardiness.” She arched an eyebrow and pressed the spoon against Portia’s mouth. “I trust you’re not stubborn to the point of foolhardiness, Lady Portia. Now, would you be so kind?”
Her gentle persuasion breached Portia’s defenses, and she parted her lips, bracing herself for the bitter taste.
“It’s for your benefit,” Euphramia said, her tone almost apologetic.
“Perhaps, but why must everything for our benefit be so unpleasant?”
Euphramia gave a soft laugh. “It’s a question my patients at the hospital are always asking. Before he left for Yorkshire, Captain Broom asked the same question when I removed the stitches from his wound.”
“We can’t all be as courageous as Captain Broom,” Portia said, smiling at the memory of the soldier’s infectious optimism.
“Or the man who saved his life,” Euphramia replied with a sigh. “Colonel Reid is a most—”
“Shall I apply another bandage, Miss Lucas?” Nerissa interrupted.
Euphramia frowned. “You ought to know by now, Nerissa, that too tight a bandage for this type of wound can hamper recovery.”
“Of course. Forgive me, Miss Lucas.”
“The tincture should prevent putrefaction, but I’ll need to check it again in a day or so—that is, if you’ve no objection to my visiting again.”
“Why should I object?” Portia said. “You’ve likely saved my life.”
“There’s been an outbreak of smallpox in the hospital. I am, of course, taking every precaution, but I wouldn’t want to risk exposing you to danger.”
“I’ve done enough of that myself,” Portia said, nodding to her arm, which was bandaged below the elbow.
“But you’ll not be placing yourself in such danger again, will you?” Nerissa said, her tone that of a nanny chiding a wayward child.
“Is the pain lessening at all?” Euphramia asked.
“A little,” Portia replied.
“Good, the laudanum’s taking effect.”
“I don’t want to sleep.”
“In which case, I’d recommend you sit up…and perhaps return to your own chamber if you don’t want anyone finding out how you were injured.”