The postilion obeyed, ignoring Billing’s indignant cries as they rattled off down the road again. Jane flopped back against the seat. All things considered, a silent, if battered, man was a far more pleasant travelling companion than Billing with her sour face and nagging voice. Jane shifted on the seat to look at him more closely. He was also considerably better to look at than Billing although, even accounting for bruises, dirt and blood, he was no Adonis. On the other hand, she was now responsible for him, she had no experience of nursing wounded men and goodness knew what he would prove to be like when he regained consciousness. The quality of the coat did promise a certain gentility, at least, although, gravedigger or gentry, she would still have rescued anyone from a beating if she could.

Melissa would be deeply envious. This was the kind of adventure she was always writing about and which, Jane was certain, she yearned to experience for herself. She would just have to make do with letters, which were bound to be less enthralling than Melissa would have hoped. On the other hand, Jane could draw as vividly as her friend could write, which should make up for a lack of dramatic description. With a quick check to make certain the wounded man was still unconscious and the bleeding was under control, Jane took her sketch pad and a pencil from the door pocket and flipped back the cover.


Where the devil am I?

Ivo thought about opening his eyes, then decided against it. Everything hurt, but no one was thumping him at the moment, which was a decided improvement, and there was no point in jeopardising that to satisfy his curiosity. On the other hand, he appeared to be in a moving vehicle and the only thing that he could smell was leather and a decidedly piquant floral perfume.

From the motion of the vehicle he deduced that he was in a post chaise and, from the perfume, that he had been rescued by a lady. That was embarrassing, but preferable to remaining with the brutes that Daphne had set on him. The reality of the transformation in the woman who had once told him that she adored him and would wait for him was not something that he had the strength to consider now. What he would feel when he allowed himself to think of it was beside the point, he told himself. All that really mattered was that he could not honour his promise to his friend, her brother, as he lay dying. That failure was a damned sight more painful than whatever was wrong with his left shoulder.

Distantly he could hear the hoofbeats of the horses, the postilion’s occasional shouted order to them as the chaise creaked and the wheels rumbled. Under those sounds there was a strange scratch-scritch noise, almost a whisper, right on the edge of his consciousness.... It was rather soothing.

The chaise was slowing, turning, stopping. There was noise from outside. Ivo dragged open his lids and found himself staring into a pair of long-lashed hazel eyes.

‘Oh, good, you are awake. I was wondering how we were ever going to get you out of the carriage if you were not. You are rather large,’ the owner of the eyes added critically. ‘And bloody. And dirty.’

He blinked and she moved back, which at least meant he could get her into focus through the headache. Mousy brown hair, freckles, a heart-shaped face. Not pretty, certainly not compared to Daphne’s exquisite blonde delicacy, but the overall effect was vaguely feline in an amiable sort of way. A gentle waft of warm female and floral scent tickled his nose.

‘Do you think you can get out and into the inn? I have asked one of the grooms to help.’ She smiled at him, her head tipped to one side. Smiles were preferable to beauty, just at the moment.

Ivo felt as though he was being studied in order to give an accurate description to the Runners and blinked again. It was possible that he was concussed and imagining this. Ladies did not stare closely at men. Nor did they drag them out of the middle of fights into their carriages, as his vague memory told him this one had done.

‘Come on, shall we try to get you out?’ She leaned across him, opened the other door and a man reached in. ‘Yes, that’s right, mind his left shoulder.’ He was seized, dragged out and, as he struggled for balance, dropped.

‘Oh, dear. Well, hopefully that won’t have started it bleeding again,’ his rescuer said blithely as the groom hauled him to his feet again. ‘Now, what did I do with my bonnet and reticule?’

Ivo found himself in an inn yard, unsteady on his feet and held upright by a large young man who smelt strongly of the stables. ‘Where—?’

‘The Pack Horse in Turnham Green. Do you want to lean on me as well? No? This way then.’

‘Who—?’

‘I am Jane Newnham. Ah, Landlord. I would like a private parlour, some hot water, brandy and the services of your best local doctor. My brother has been attacked by footpads,’ she added clearly, with a sharp jab in Ivo’s ribs, presumably so he paid attention to her story. They began to move again. ‘Excellent, thank you. This will do nicely.’

‘Why—?’

‘Because you have been stabbed, I think, and there may be other injuries and my knowledge of human anatomy is entirely theoretical so, although I do not think you are in mortal peril, it is best to make certain. Here we are. Do you want to sit down on this bench or lie on the sofa? It doesn’t look very comfortable and you might drip on it.’

‘I will sit.’

A miracle, I have uttered three words without being interrupted.

The groom deposited him on the bench with a thump.

Ivo bit back the things he felt inclined to say and waited for the lad to shamble out. ‘It appears I am in your debt Miss—is it Miss? Yes?—Newnham. But I confess I am puzzled. I seem to recall being dragged into your carriage and that there were two women in it. Now you appear to be unaccompanied.’

‘That was Billing. I put her out at the last inn and gave her the money to go home. She is my mother’s maid and she was driving me quite distracted, even before you joined us—and we had only driven from Mayfair. I do find disapproving people very wearing, don’t you? It is like being constantly rubbed on the soul with emery paper.’

From her speech and her clothes this was a lady. Therefore, she should not be out alone on the highway, however unusual and whimsical she might be. She should most definitely not be in an inn with a strange man. Ivo said so. Firmly.

‘Nonsense. I could hardly abandon you, now could I? And clearly you are a gentleman or you would not quibble about this. And I told the landlord that I was your sister and I do not know anyone in Turnham Green, so there is absolutely no cause to worry.’

Ivo reminded himself that, until a few weeks past, he had been an officer in his Majesty’s army, had been wounded far more severely than this in the past, did not appear to be concussed and therefore he was more than capable of summoning the authoritative manner necessary to detach this female. Only, if he did, then she would be alone and unescorted. Damn.

‘This sounds like the doctor arriving,’ Miss Newnham said brightly. ‘You are being positively heroic about your wounds, but I am sure he will have you feeling better soon.’

There was a tap at the door and a redheaded, be-freckled man in his late twenties came in and smiled at them. ‘I believe the gentleman has been attacked? I am glad to see you conscious, sir. My name is Jamieson.’ He appeared to be expecting some reaction because he added, ‘I know I do not look old enough, but I assure you that I am a fully qualified graduate of the medical school of Edinburgh University. Now, sir, let us remove your upper garments. I imagine it will require some care.’ He advanced purposefully on Ivo.

‘Doctor Jamieson, there is a lady in the room.’

‘That is quite all right, dear,’ his rescuer said soothingly.

Dear?

‘My brother is being unduly shy. I am sure that between us we can remove his coat and shirt and so forth with less pain to him than if you attempt it alone.’

So forth?

‘Of course, ma’am. It is hardly as though we need to remove your brother’s nether garments, now is it? Ha-ha! At least, not yet.’

Over my dead body are my breeches coming off with this female in the room, Ivo thought grimly.

On the other hand, his shoulder appeared to be infested by devils wielding tiny pitchforks and his ribs were aching as though he had been kicked by a horse, not merely by four brainless louts. He knew from past experience that this process was easier if the patient was relaxed, so he nodded. ‘As you think best, Doctor.’

Miss Newnham was, to do her justice, both gentle and deft and did not fuss about, which usually ended up causing more pain. His coat came off eventually, his waistcoat was simple by comparison, his neckcloth was already untied and after five minutes he was down to his shirt. The makeshift pad that Miss Newnham had applied to his shoulder fell away and he saw she had used something with good lace on it. He would have to replace that, it was clearly beyond repair.

Miss Newnham, who appeared to have no inhibitions whatsoever, was pulling the shirt out of the back of his breeches, the doctor, thank goodness, was tackling the front. He dragged it over Ivo’s head and stepped back.

‘A military man, I assume,’ Jamieson remarked after half a minute’s steady scrutiny from narrowed eyes. ‘You will have a matching pair of shoulders now, sir. What was this one?’ He touched cold fingertips to the old scar above Ivo’s right collarbone.

‘Splinter from a gun carriage that was hit by shot,’ he said tersely and glanced down to the left as a line of blood tickled, creeping down his chest. He could almost feel Miss Newnham’s gaze on his back. The effort not to move made sore muscles tense painfully.