Page 33 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
The wolfhound trotted to the front door.
Clasping her pudgy hands nervously, Mrs. Underhill hastened to follow orders—as Verity didn’t.
Mrs. Damned Porter rummaged through the mess of the larder, producing his jug of ale. “We don’t have wine or whiskey. Will this do?”
He was actually grateful, which didn’t make him any less grumpy. “If you mean for me to drink it, yes.” He grabbed the jug and swilled it, drowning the humiliation of being brought down by a damnedwoman—and forcing a genteel lady to endure the consequences.
“Even I know a wound needs cleaning.” Glaring like a demented general, she waited for him to return the jug. At least she wasn’t keeling over. “How do I go about this? May I dab it onwith a cloth or must I pour it? The kitchen is already a mess, so it’s not as if a puddle of ale will hurt.”
With a sigh, Rafe gestured at the wash basin. “Bring that over here. Heat some water. Find a clean towel. I just need to tie it up.”
“I’ve heard of soldiers losing limbs to infection,” she said in indignation, actually following his orders this time. “Do not treat me as an ignorant miss. You’re losing a lot of blood and it’sdeep.”
Now the quiet widow chose to speak...
“The blamed woman was carrying apistol,” he muttered in indignation. “I was politely trying not to knock her down, and sheshotme!”
“Next time, knock her down. Women don’t break.” She set the tea kettle over the fire. “Even a woman deserves punching for creating this mess.”
Rafe stewed over her admonition. “I’m twice the size of any female. I could break bones. I was taught to treat women with respect. They’re not supposed to carry pistols! Even I don’t own one. The bedeviled things can go off any time!”
“As it did,” she said dryly. “Maybe she thought you were going to kill her.”
“If I’d known she’d shoot me, I would have,” he growled. The pain was setting in.
By the time the water heated, they could hear pounding feet on the walk and Wolfie yipping happily. Mrs. Underhill opened the door to Fletch’s knock.
Rafe’s large friend bounded in, took one look at the carnage, and started for the back door. “I’ll fetch Dr. Walker. You know damned well I can’t handle blood. How did you get yourself cut upafteryou left the tavern? Should we be hunting the bastard?”
“Watch your language! There are ladies present.” Rafe knew Fletch did not handle blood well, but he couldn’t send anyone else out. “Don’t take the footpath. The culprit has a pistol and was headed for the manor. I don’t need a leech. Warn Hunt, look for a female in old-fashioned black skirts with petticoats. She wore a black hat that looked like Mrs. Porter’s...” He turned topoint out the enormous monstrosity usually hanging by the door.
Verity turned, too, and cried in dismay, “My hat! It’s gone! That’s the first new hat I’ve had in years. The witch! If you find her, I’ll personally scalp her if she’s harmed that brim. The lace alone...” She looked as if she’d weep.
Everything the woman had gone through, and she cried over an atrocious hat?
“Give me something that smells like you, ma’am,” Fletch asked, waiting in the doorway, ready to escape. “We’ll set the hounds after your hat, and maybe we’ll find this murderous female.”
She handed him the handkerchief from her sleeve, wiping her eyes first. “Send Dr. Walker, please. I cannot stitch this wound.”
“I can,” Mrs. Underhill said matter-of-factly. “We ain’t had a physician here in a pig’s years. Bring me the sewing kit.”
Fletch turned pale and ran.
Rafe swilled more ale. He’d been knifed, shot, and blown up a time or three. He knew the routine. But to have been brought down by a damned woman in skirts...
After he’d been sewn and bandaged up, the ladies insisted he lie down on the sofa and put his feet up. He wasn’t pulling off his boots and revealing his holey stockings and stinking feet in their presence. He took the sofa and propped them on a chair. He was light-headed enough to topple and didn’t want the women fussing more than needed.
They fixed him meat and cheese on the last crust end of a loaf. There would be no bread in the morning. But the food was appreciated. It might keep him upright until the hounds descended.
“Was she still in the house when Wolfie barked?” Verity asked, sorting through the scattered books and returning them to their proper shelves, cautiously examining each one for damage.
Mrs. Underhill had taken charge of cleaning up the kitchen, muttering about the world coming to an end.
“I caught her running out the back gate, with Wolf on herheels. Where’s Marmie?” He glanced to the empty kitten’s basket on the cold hearth.
“He scampered upstairs. He’s never done that before, so he must be terrified. Could you tell if the thief carried anything? I’m checking to see if any of the volumes are missing.”
“I couldn’t even tell she had a pistol,” he said in disgust. “I got close enough to grab at her skirts, and that’s when she turned and shot me. Next time, I’ll break her bones.”
