Page 47 of Never Beguile a Duke
“Doctor Barnes is heading to my estate,” Silas murmured, gesturing toward the foreboding prison towers looming in the distance. “Wouldn’t it be better to have him?—”
Mr. Hollingsworth’s body buckled, and Silas darted forward, ducking under Mr. Hollingsworth’s free arm to support his weight.
“He may not survive the journey to your residence,” Roxburghe replied, glancing at Silas over the top of Mr. Hollingsworth’s filthy golden-brown hair.
“If he wakes in the prison again, the shock might kill him,” Silas said as they half-carried, half-dragged Mr. Hollingsworth down the street, the tips of his shoes scraping the cobblestones.
“Aside from Doctor Barnes, there are no other physicians residing in Wiltshire.” Roxburghe maneuvered them around a trio of men arguing about the cost of a chicken. “If you have a better suggestion, this would be the moment to share it.”
He didn’t.
With the dissipation of the throng previously clogging the prison, Silas and Roxburghe moved quickly toward the iron gate.
“Your Grace!” Mr. Dunn, Roxburghe’s driver, rushed forward and relieved his master of Mr. Hollingsworth’s weight. “By the time I reached the prison, you’d vanished. What occurred before I arrived?”
Roxburghe grimaced. “We may have terrified Mr. Hollingsworth on our last visit. He didn’t realize our intentions until the unfortunate incident that caused his current loss of consciousness.”
“When you paid,” Mr. Younge’s deep voice crawled out of the shadows, “I never suspected you intended to beat him to death yourself.”
“We didn’t do this,” Roxburghe said, striding toward Mr. Younge. “By the time we caught up to him, he’d managed to anger an elbow crooker.”
“It would have been kinder to let him hang.” Mr. Younge’s dark blue eyes slid over Mr. Hollingsworth. “What do you expect me to do?”
“You employ a physician, do you not?” Roxburghe asked, slashing his arm toward the prison.
“A surgeon.” Mr. Younge shrugged. “He learned the trade from a prisoner.”
Silas leaned around Mr. Hollingsworth. “As long as he can prevent a man from dying, we’d like to speak with him.”
Mr. Younge shifted his attention to Silas. “You are, Your Grace.”
“Can you save him?”
Pressing his lips together, Mr. Younge ambled over to Mr. Hollingsworth, pushed the man’s head back, and peeled open Mr. Hollingsworth’s right eyelid. Then, he bent and pressed his ear against Mr. Hollingsworth’s chest.
“Possibly,” Mr. Younge replied, stepping back. “However, there’s a small cost associated with my services; ten pounds.”
“We’ll pay the fee,” Roxburghe growled, his face darkening, “if Mr. Hollingsworth survives.”
“Agreed.” Mr. Younge shook Roxburghe’s hand. “His chances will increase if he’s housed in a different locale from the prison.”
“What do you suggest?” Silas asked, his gaze skating over the seedy buildings surrounding the prison.
“There’s a tavern with rooms not far from here.” Mr. Younge pointed toward the opening of an obscured alleyway entrance. “Inform Mrs. Voss that I directed you to secure lodging for Mr. Hollingsworth, and I’ll ensure he survives.”
“Your Grace,” Mr. Dunn said, tightening his hold on Mr. Hollingsworth, “if I may suggest… allow me to see to Mr. Hollingsworth while you and His Grace continue on to Mrs. Webb’s residence. I’m concerned if we linger too long, those dark clouds will transform into another storm, trapping us in town.”
Roxburghe glanced at Silas, who nodded his accord and transferred Mr. Hollingsworth’s bulk onto Mr. Dunn.
“Advise me of the expense,” Roxburghe said as Mr. Dunn turned away.
Mr. Younge cleared his throat. “When should I expect my payment?”
“Two days.” Silas raised one finger. “If Mr. Hollingsworth appears at my house in a recovered state. Otherwise, you receive nothing.”
“I understand,” Mr. Younge said, adding a bow, as though he’d just remembered he’d been conversing with men of title. “Good day, Your Graces.”
Without waiting for Silas, Roxburghe strode down the street and passed his vehicle.
