Лорен Уиллиг - The Seduction of the Crimson Rose

Mary's throat constricted uncomfortably.

"I refuse to enact a touching deathbed scene," she said harshly. "You're not dying."

Vaughn's lips twisted up in the ghost of a smile. "If you…say so."

His eyes drifted downwards, taking in the blood streaking the front of her formerly white gown.

"'Who would have thought the old man would have so much blood in him?'" he murmured, and lapsed back against the pillow, his face as white as the linen beneath his head.

"Madam?" It was the butler, at the foot of the dais. "The surgeon has arrived."

A portly man in a plain black coat and breeches shouldered around him, using his battered leather bag to clear the way in front of him, as though he were used to forcing his way through to the scene of accidents. His wig was askew, sitting sideways on his wide forehead. It was an old-fashioned wig, of the woolly variety. It had presumably better suited the sheep.

Seeing Mary, the surgeon stopped short, looking her up and down with professional detachment.

"Is this the patient?" he asked.

Considering the bloodstains streaking her gown, his question was not entirely unjustified.

"The patient is over there," Mary said, all but shoving the surgeon up onto the dais. "There was an accident. Involving a bullet."

The doctor shot her a sideways glance from beneath his wig, as his hands busied themselves untying Mary's makeshift bandage. "I find such accidents generally occur at dawn."

"This one didn't," Mary said flatly. "My…cousin had taken me to see the troops in Hyde Park. One of the recruits was overexcited, and accidentally fired into the crowd."

If the doctor questioned the story or the relationship, he gave no indication of it. He was too busy cutting through the matted layers of cloth covering Vaughn's chest, peeling them carefully back. Despite his old-fashioned wig, he did seem to know his trade. His eyes were keen as he poked about at Vaughn's side, muttering to himself as he did. Whatever he was doing caused Vaughn's hands to clench the sheets, drops of sweat standing out against his brow as he arched with pain.

"There will be worse to come," said the doctor, in response to Mary's indignant stare. "You might want to remove yourself, Miss…?"

"Isn't there something you can do for him?" demanded Mary. "To relieve the pain?"

Rummaging in his bag, the doctor produced a small brown bottle. "Tincture of opium mixed with spirits of wine. Use it sparingly, unless you want him sleeping until the next trump."

There was no time for such niceties as glasses. Tipping back his head, Mary lifted the small bottle to Vaughn's lips.

The doctor did something else to Vaughn's side, and he jerked beneath Mary's hands, sending a stream of thick, reddish brown liquid cascading down the side of his lips. Blotting it with the end of the sheet, Mary examined Vaughn's face anxiously. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was irregular, but he managed to open his cracked lips wide enough to mouth what looked like "thank you" before his body arched again with pain.

Mary rounded on the doctor, who lifted a bloody sponge from the wound and dropped it with a cavalier plop into the slop jar.

"Your friend was fortunate," commented the doctor, drawing the edges together and skewering them with a thick needle threaded with cotton thread. Vaughn's body twitched in response. "It's a good, clean wound."

It looked anything but clean to Mary, with blood sluggishly oozing between the jagged edges of flesh. The acrid scent of raw alcohol, mingled with the baser tones of blood, made her stomach churn.

Tying off a stitch, the doctor admired his handiwork. "The bullet went straight through without shattering."

"The bullet is gone?" asked Mary.

"Oh yes," agreed the doctor, rolling Vaughn over to get to the hole on his back. Taking his scissors, he snipped neatly away at what remained of Vaughn's jacket and shirt, clearing the area over the wound. "The bullet didn't have far to travel, just through this area above his collarbone, here. He was quite lucky it wasn't lower."

At Mary's look, he elaborated, "The bullet went through the fleshy part of his shoulder. Painful, but seldom fatal. Had the bullet struck a few inches farther down, you would have had no need for my services." The doctor poked professionally at Vaughn's back. "Had it struck here, it would have gone right through his heart."

"You mean it would have killed him," she said.

"Instantly," agreed the doctor. "Or the next thing to it. As I said, your friend is very fortunate."

He glanced speculatively up at her over Vaughn's body as he pronounced the word "friend."

"My cousin and I," Mary emphasized, "are both very grateful for your prompt assistance."

The surgeon eased the long end of a bandage around Vaughn's side, coaxing it beneath his back. "A curious man," he said conversationally, "might wonder how, if your cousin was watching the recruits, he came to be shot in the back."

"A clever man," returned Mary pointedly, "knows better than to ask profitless questions."

A veteran of countless illegal duels, the surgeon didn't need to be warned twice. Tying off the end of a bandage, he patted Vaughn's side with a professional air. "He'll need the stitches out in a day or so. You'll want to give him cold compresses for the fever."

Mary looked at Vaughn's gray face, his forehead clammy with sweat. "What fever?"

"They all get fever," the surgeon said cheerfully, closing his bag with a distinct click. "The fever kills more than the bullets. You just have to hope it won't be too high."

"How very encouraging." Doctors were such nasty little men, all puffed up with their Latin phrases and useless diagnoses. One would think he could at least offer to do something about the fever, rather than just predict it. "Is there anything one can do to bring the fever down?"

"You could bleed him." The doctor produced a small brass box from his bag. At a touch, the box sprung open, revealing twelve sharp blades, positioned with all the care modern medical science could afford. "Bleeding will release the corrupt blood and lower the fever."

Mary glanced down at the pile of blood-soaked cloth on the floor by the bed, the remnants of Vaughn's shirt and jacket. "He's lost enough blood already."

The surgeon refrained from giving the appropriate medical lecture. It would only be wasted on a woman. Shrugging, he took up his bag. "Hot and cold compresses, then."

Mary looked to the butler, who was waiting by the door. "Your fee will be seen to." She nodded to the butler. "If you would?"

The butler moved smoothly forwards to usher the surgeon from the room.

"If you're quite sure about the bleeding…," the surgeon tossed over his shoulder.

"Quite sure," Mary said firmly.

She stayed sentinel by the side of the bed until the surgeon was safely out of the room. Sprawled on top of the coverlet, Lord Vaughn was by no means an inspiring sight. He looked, in fact, rather as though he had come out the wrong side of a barroom brawl, with his coat and shirt half torn away and the dark stain of opium-enhanced wine snaking down his cheek and onto his chest. Blood streaked his chest below the white bandage the doctor had wound around his shoulder, where red already showed in an ominous circle against the white.

Vaughn's skin showed surprisingly dark against the white band, dusted with dark hair. There was the line of an old scar near the join of his shoulder, a crescent-shaped slash, as though someone had aimed for his heart and missed. Apparently, this wasn't the first time someone had attempted to kill Lord Vaughn. Mary shouldn't have been surprised. A decade ago, London had been more wild, with duels fought by dawn on Hampstead Heath and gangs of toughs ready to prey on inebriated gentlemen. And heaven only knew what he had got up to on the Continent. Vaughn's chest, seamed, scarred, and lightly muscled, suggested that he had been more than equal to any adventures.

It would be too absurd for him to have survived so much only to be felled by one little bullet in the domestic dullness of Hyde Park. It was just the sort of cosmic joke Vaughn would appreciate. Only this time, it was on him.

"Madam." It was several moments before Mary realized that the insistent noise buzzing behind her ear was a voice, and that it was intended for her.

Dragging her gaze away from Vaughn, Mary realized that the butler — what was his name? — had returned and was standing just behind her.

He would be entirely within his rights to suggest that she leave. Aside from thrusting her own way into the house, her position was entirely anomalous. Despite her lies to the surgeon, she wasn't cousin, or ward, or wife. She was a nameless woman — a nameless woman with a tendency for appearing at inappropriate hours of the night, in whose company the master of the house had been severely wounded. And even if she were a proper sort of guest, her presence in the master's bedchamber would be highly improper.

Without turning her head, Mary said briskly, "The surgeon says his temperature will rise. Make sure there are cold cloths ready."