Page 40 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
“Rubbish.” There were still hours of daylight left. “You just want me gone.”
“I’ll not deny it,” Rafe said. “I’ve got better things to do than to listen to you whinge about the state of your marriage.”
“Like what?” Chris snarled—and regretted the question instantly when Rafe grinned. “Ah, hell,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I’m going, I’m going.Pleasedon’t fucking say it.”
“Good luck,” Rafe said, with a mocking, jaunty wave as Chris headed for the door. “I have a feeling you’ll need it.”
He would turn out to be correct, as he generally was. But not for the reason either expected.
Chapter Twelve
Phoebe sailed into the house late in the afternoon, staggering beneath the weight of an armload of books. Her latest excursion to the bookstore had been an unqualified success, though she’d still shelves and shelves left to fill within Chris’ library.
Brooks came jogging down the stairs and into the foyer, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” she said. “Could you send some footmen out to the carriage? There’s dozens of books left—” She paused abruptly, her brows knitting. Something about the strange tightness of Brooks’ jaw troubled her. “Brooks? What is wrong?”
“If you would come with me, Madam,” he said, his voice grave. “The surgeon, Mr. Fisk, is here already.”
“The surgeon!” The books fell from Phoebe’s hands with a succession of thumps as they piled up on the floor around her feet. “Whatever for?”
“There’s been an incident,” he said, and turned once more for the stairs, gesturing for her to follow. “I am given to understand that Mr. Moore met with foul play on his walk home this afternoon.”
His walk home, Phoebe thought, a skirl of guilt churning in her gut. Because she had had the use of the carriage. Brooks wasworried. Phoebe could hear it in his voice, in the strain within it. However little he and Chris might get along, however much they might bicker, Brooks was stillworriedfor him. “What sort of foul play?” Phoebe inquired.
“The sort that comes when someone discharges a pistol in one’s direction.” Brooks rounded the corner sharply and proceeded up the next flight of stairs.
“A pistol.” Phoebe’s knees trembled and she nearly missed the step. “He was shot?”
“Yes. The surgeon is removing the ball from his side as we speak.” A ragged, rueful sort of laugh. “The damned fool had some business on Bond Street,” he said. “I suppose he had the misfortune to cross paths with someone bearing both a grudge and a gun.”
Phoebe swallowed down the strange lump that had risen in her throat. “However did he make it back home?”
“Madam, I’ve told you. The damn fool walked. It wasn’t the first time he’s been shot.”
Those scars. So many of them, peppering his skin like birthmarks. But they hadn’t been that at all—someone had given him those marks. Many someones, most likely, and over a great many years.
“And the man who shot him? He was caught?”
“No,” Brooks said. “I’m given to understand the shot caught him unawares, and anyone who had been on the street scattered with the sound. In the chaos of a crowded street, I doubt anyone got a good look at who fired.” From down the hall, a pained groan split the silence, and Brooks redoubled his pace.
“But you must have some sort of inkling as to who might have wished him dead.”
“Madam, it would be a far easier task to prepare a list of those who do not.” Brooks gave only a cursory rap upon Chris’ door before he flung it open to admit them.
And there—the greying hair of Chris’ valet, Haddington, came into view alongside a man who was wearing a bloodstained apron more suitable to a butcher. Both were bent over the bed, intent upon the body stretched out upon it.
For just a moment, in the terrible stillness that lingered, Phoebe thought she’d arrived too late only to find herself suddenly a widow. And then— “Ouch! Christ,” Chris swore. “Are youtryingto kill me?”
“I believe, sir, that he is trying to stitch you back up,” Haddington said, in an unflappable dry voice, as if nothing of much import was occurring.
“Hold him down, will you?” The surgeon growled to Haddington. “Liable to stitch him straight to the bed if he keeps squirming.” A rough sound, severe and annoyed, as he redirected his attention to Chris. “Poured enough laudanum down your throat to kill a horse and you’re still flailing.”
“Of course I’m damn well flailing! You’re stabbing me with a needle!”
Phoebe could have cried with relief. As wretched as the wound might be, she could not believe that he was in any true danger if he could still complain so mightily. Her shoulders sagged as she approached the bed, wedging herself there at the end near his legs. His flailing ceased as she laid one hand upon his thigh. “Chris,” she said, “you have to be stitched up.”
Up close he looked worse. A huge red stain marred the parted fabric of his white shirt, and his face was too pale with the loss of blood. There was just the tiniest ring of icy blue around the massive black circles of his pupils. Sweat had bloomed upon his brow, plastering whisks of his blond hair to his forehead. And still he strained against the press of Haddington’s hands upon his shoulders and the small, neat stitches that the surgeon placed in his ruined skin.
No one had helped him, she thought. He’d been shot in apublic street and had still walked the rest of the way home. No one—not one person—had thought to offer him aid.
