Six
Fort
Rafe brought word of still another murder in the village. Now Fort had to worry if the visitors had any connection to Weston. Surely not. Death simply happened in a village called Gravesyde.
He kept telling himself that. The weight of responsibility for two young boys and conceivably the fate of everyone in the manor was not one he felt capable of shouldering. Tacticians were not warriors for a reason.
Keeping Fort company while they awaited Weston’s arrival, Arnaud paced the chamber they’d set up. With the bed against the inner wall and nothing but draperies over the windows, the enormous salon had plenty of room for pacing, even for a long-legged giant like Arnaud.
“Are you certain it is the insurrectionists who shot your brother, or has he annoyed les brutes like Humphries?”
Fort winced as the artist hit on one of his many fears. “We’ll have to wait until he arrives and hope he is well enough to tell us.” With a grimace, he acknowledged, “Weston is capable of lying to conceal the truth from anyone who might have stolen his message.”
“Lovely, an entire family of liars.” Lavender entered with a tray to collect dirty dishes. She and Thea had taken over the task of servants so Fort and Arnaud might guard the boys—and the earl, once he arrived.
The modiste had been keeping her distance since they returned from the inn.
This waiting period would have been the perfect interlude for her to practice reading.
The distraction would be more than welcome.
But she’d made it clear he was currently persona non grata.
That hurt, but Fort supposed she had the right of it.
He’d deceived her and would probably continue to do so.
It was what he did, to the dismay of his entire family.
“Dissembling,” Thea corrected, entering the chamber with an array of candlesticks and lamps borrowed from other parts of the manor.
“Society works more smoothly if one never says what one thinks. ‘Oh, what a beautiful necklace, my lady’.” She mimicked an elderly drawl.
“One does not say it emphasizes her three chins. Or ‘damned fine speech today,’ and not, ‘I fell asleep on the second paragraph.’ The truth is seldom beneficial and often dangerous.”
Thea Talbot had an interesting history, Fort knew. Her cynicism held some unfortunate truths.
“I tell the dowagers when an excess of frills makes them look ridiculous! It is the proper thing to do. They would blame me if they heard anyone snickering behind their backs.” Indignant, Lavender carried her tray to the door, evidently forgetting her purpose in coming in.
Fort took the tray and added his plates to her stack. “I fear you are both—”
Davy and Oliver dashed in. “The cart! At the service entrance!”
“Thank you, Davy, Oliver.” Fort nodded gravely. “Now that your task is done, it is time for you to prepare for bed. Miss Lavender, if you will notify Dr. Walker?”
Until he saw his brother, Fort didn’t want any distraction. He’d prefer not to have Arnaud around, but Weston was large and heavy. If he couldn’t walk—
Not protesting, everyone but Arnaud departed, probably to watch out the windows. The manor’s only exterior service entrance led to the cellar and a public corridor containing kitchen storage and housekeeping rooms. Dr. Walker had her laboratory set up there.
Once in the cellar, Arnaud blocked the corridor with his bulk while Fort opened the exterior door to the clatter of boots on the outside steps. Not expecting any deliveries, the kitchen staff made so much noise on the far end of the corridor that they were unlikely to hear one more bump or thump.
Clinging to the shoulders of two sturdy farmers, the earl looked as gray as the twilight. Fort cringed at the sight of Weston’s usually arrogant features marred with pain. His tailored attire torn and bloody, his cravat missing, the earl resembled a war-battered soldier, not a polished noble.
Arnaud stepped in to support Weston’s weight. Fort paid the farmers enough to promise they wouldn’t speak of this. They tipped their caps before retreating to the drive and their animals.
“Thanks,” was all Weston managed to murmur as they half-carried him down the unlit cellar hall, away from the kitchen and to the unused rear tower.
Studying his brother’s broad back as Fort followed the larger men up the narrow tower stairs, he bottled his curses and questions.
Sword slashes had tattered his coat, but it was the bullet hole.
. . Whoever had shot Weston had been at close range or used a powerful weapon.
The bullet had torn through coat padding, tailoring, and possibly a few bones, leaving his arm and shoulder a bloody mess .
An inch or two closer and Fort’s dimwitted next oldest brother would now be heir. That he was this weak meant he’d lost a lot of blood. He could still lose him.
Dr. Walker was waiting for them at the top.
Watching with concern, she followed them to the room they’d assigned to the patient.
She already had hot water and her instruments waiting.
Fort had never needed her services, but he’d heard her praises sung by all and sundry.
Well, except for bigots. A brown female physician didn’t suit that sort, but if they wanted to deal with the manor folk, even the stupid knew to keep their lips sealed.
“More light,” she commanded as they settled Weston into the prepared bed. “If one of you will remove his upper garments, please.” She mixed some concoction in brandy as she spoke.
Arnaud propped the patient up on the bed pillows so Fort could strip off his shredded coat, vest, and shirt, revealing a wad of bloody linen strapped to his upper arm and shoulder and multiple crusted cuts across his bare torso.
Dr. Walker held the glass to her patient’s lips. “Drink. It won’t help a great deal with the pain, but anything is better than nothing.”
Weston grimaced but obediently drank.
Once they had him lying back on the bed, the physician gestured for them to hold the patient down while she examined him. Without regard to his rank, she ripped off the bandage, then poked about his wounds as if he were naught more than one of the boys.
“The bullet wound is festering. The sword lacerations are mostly surface wounds. A few need stitching but they should heal.” She glanced down at the earl’s trouser legs. “Remove his boots, please. I’m not seeing any other blood. You were on a horse, my lord?”
“Riding like hell,” Weston muttered.
Fort was fairly certain that insurgents didn’t ride horses. And all Weston’s wounds were on the upper body—from men on horses. He wanted answers now. He needed to prepare. But even he could see Weston would be useless for the night, at the very least. “Your servants, Monty? Where are they?”
His brother managed a glare. “Not on horses.”
“But they were there? They saw what happened?” Fort knew Weston seldom rode anywhere alone. At the very least, he had outriders with him, if not a herd of politicians or gentlemen wishing to bend his ear. Someone had been with him, somewhere.
“We got separated. Don’t know.” Weston gasped and passed out as the physician dug into his shoulder with a hot blade, then poured alcohol over the suppuration.
With Fort and Arnaud’s aid, Dr. Walker finished bandaging the patient. She gave instructions as she worked. Fort knew he couldn’t ask if Weston would live. Surgeons couldn’t cut off infected shoulders.
He dug into Weston’s coat pockets. Producing a pistol and setting it aside, he found the purse his brother always carried—he’d not been shot down by thieves.
Fort emptied all the coins into the physician’s bag.
“He’s worth more,” Fort explained when Dr Walker widened her expressive brown eyes. “Keep him alive, please.”
“He seems physically fit for a man of his age. I’ll be back in the morning. His coins will pay to finish my clinic, so I and the entire village thank you.”
“He can do much more if he stays alive. I regret that we must ask you to lie and keep up the measles myth until we discover who’s behind this.
” Fort settled wearily into an old wing chair Thea had foraged.
“Arnaud, you should get some rest. I thank you. Weston will thank you when he wakes. Take a peek to see if the boys are preparing for bed, if you will.”
He didn’t know how he could look after the ever-curious pair and Weston at the same time.
“I must escort Meera home first,” Arnaud declared.
Dr. Walker—Meera—shook her head. “We’re staying at the manor while my husband is out of town. I’m afraid we’ll have to give Clare a better story than measles in the morning.”
Fort knew the physician and the captain’s wife were good friends. It was hard to ask her to lie. “Just don’t mention Weston yet, please. There is little we can do to find his assassins until he’s recovering.”
“It seems unlikely, but we must hope Rafe will discover if there is any connection between his guests and Weston.” Arnaud opened the door for the physician. “I shall sleep on your cot tonight, if you mean to stay here. I will hear anyone on the drive.”
Fort nodded in relief. He’d asked enough of the household. He hated to ask for more.
“But if your brother is bringing trouble on us, I shall toss him out,” Arnaud warned, before leading the physician out of firing range.
Well, at least Fort knew where he stood in the manor’s pecking order.
With that thought, he systematically rooted through his brother’s clothing in search of anything anyone might kill him for.