Page 15 of Enticing Odds
He was young. Matthew hadn’t noticed it before, but he was probably no more than sixteen. Just as some of the soldiers in Crimea had been. A lump formed in his throat.
“Keep your voice down,” he said, then reached forward with a steady hand. “Let’s have a look.”
Fliss watched him for a moment, wary as a cornered animal. But then he nodded.
“It’s my hand—I got it on the broken glass,” he said in a shaky voice as he extended his arm toward Matthew.
He choked back a cry as he slowly opened his hand, revealing a deep laceration across his palm.
Matthew cursed.
If only they were at his home, at his surgery, where everything was clean, there was ample lamplight, and he’d all the modern tools of his trade to hand. But instead they were in a filthy, moonlit yard, hiding from the barking dogs and shouts of the police in the distance.
“You really ought to have this cleaned as soon as possible,” Matthew admonished. “And you need stitches—several, at least. I’m in no position to do so now, otherwise I would.”
Fliss sniffed and nodded.
Matthew reached into his coat and withdrew a clean handkerchief. Harriet had gifted it to him last Christmas, his initials finely embroidered by her own hand.
The barking grew louder, closer.
He rolled the handkerchief into a semblance of a bandage, then did his best to be gentle as he dressed the wound as tightly as possible. Fliss winced, but there was nothing to be helped.
“There. That should stanch the bleeding for a short time. Enough for you to find yourself someplace safe.” Matthew placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder, pushing his spectacles back up with the other. “Do you know of someone who might be able to stitch you up at this hour?”
“I—I think so.”
“Good. Don’t neglect this, or you’ll suffer infection.”
Matthew squeezed his shoulder. Now the shouts of the police were clear enough to make out. He hesitated for a moment. He couldn’t leave the young man alone like this, not when he’d been unable to treat him properly.
He could almost hear the screams of wounded soldiers, the roar of gunfire outside the tent.
Should he take the boy back to Marylebone, and see him sorted?
“Go on then, Doctor. You’d better run,” Fliss said urgently.
Matthew stood, then helped the young man to his feet.
As soon as he was upright, Fliss took off.
Matthew watched for a moment as the boy disappeared around a corner. And then he made haste.
When he arrived back at home—filthy, blood-stained, and more than a hundred pounds richer—he felt alive and elated.
Matthew prayed it would last.
Chapter Four
How many times hadshe stood here, at the top of Rowbotham House’s grand staircase, waiting?
Cressida nodded graciously at Lord and Lady Pelling as they were announced. It was late now; most of the guests had already arrived—save the one she was particularly keen to see.
Let’s see,she reckoned silently,Bartholomew and I wed eighteen years ago. Arthur was born the following year…
That made it sixteen years, which meant sixteen balls to mark the first weeks of the season. Sixteen times she’d stood in this spot, the picture of elegant hospitality. She’d even managed to do it the year Henry was born, for he had been a winter baby and she’d had enough time to recover. And blessedly, for most of the past sixteen years she’d stood here alone, a widow.
Free.
