Brewster’s eyes snapped open again. He had difficulty focusing, but he managed to speak. “King’s Court. Off Great Wild Street.”
“I’ll go,” Grenville said. “It’s not far.”
Without waiting for argument, he was off again, running faster than I ever dreamed he could. Grenville was an athlete, however much he hid it, riding, walking, fencing, dancing, and boxing with enviable skill.
“Tell Em,” Brewster whispered. “You know what to tell her.”
His eyes slid closed.
I pressed down harder with the towel. I did not want him to sleep—he might die before the surgeon could even arrive.
“Brewster,” I said sharply. “No, wake up and talk to me.” I shook him. My voice cracked. “Thomas. Tommy …”
***
When Grenville returned in about twenty minutes, he not only brought the surgeon, but also James Denis.
Denis’s face was dark with rage. I rarely saw him this angry—only when one of his men got hurt.
He said nothing at all, only stood aside while the surgeon fell to his knees next to Brewster, a canvas bag clinking to the floor beside him.
The surgeon looked over the little I’d done: a folded blanket for Brewster’s head, the towels on his abdomen, the smaller blanket I’d spread across his legs to keep him warm, the basin of water standing ready.
“Should we put him on the bed?” I asked.
“Not yet.” The surgeon spoke with clipped, decisive words. His hands, thin and deft, skimmed the wound, feeling around it. Brewster’s eyes opened and widened in pain, but the surgeon quickly finished.
“Give him this.” The surgeon handed me a flask.
I obediently sat down at Brewster’s side, lifted his head with my arm, and poured the liquid into his throat.
Brewster swallowed. “Aw, that’s foul,” he whispered, but the draught stayed down.
I had no idea what the surgeon had given him. I expected brandy or laudanum, but the odor was wrong for either. Brewster’s face went slack, but he breathed hoarsely, and grunted in pain when the surgeon probed him again.
“Hold him down,” the surgeon said.
I put my arm across Brewster’s chest. Grenville got down on the carpet, regardless of his pristine clothes, and held on to his legs.
I could not see all that the surgeon did, but there was the flash of a very thin knife and the scent of blood. Then the man reached into Brewster with the slenderest pair of forceps I’d ever seen.
His hand was steady, without a tremor. Slowly he pulled out a round iron ball and dropped it onto my carpet.
Immediately, he pressed the towels to the wound again. Surgeons I’d observed in the army would let a wound bleed a bit, to clean it. This surgeon kept the towels on Brewster and ordered Grenville to shove the basin over to him.
My carpet grew sodden with blood and water as the surgeon used nearly a gallon of the stuff to wash out the wound. He then sewed up the gash with needle and thread, his stitches smaller and neater than the elegant stitching on my wife’s underclothing.
The surgeon washed the wound again when he was finished, wrapped a long bandage around Brewster’s middle, and rose.
“Heave him on the bed now—carefully. Don’t break the stitching. He doesn’t move after that until I say so.”
I carefully took Brewster by the shoulders. His eyes were open, gleaming with pain, but clouded by whatever drug he’d been given.
It was not Grenville who took his legs, but Denis. He lifted Brewster with careful strength, letting me guide us all into the bedroom. Grenville came behind with the blankets and whatever towels could be salvaged. The surgeon, I saw, with some surprise, had poured water into another bowl and now threw his instruments into it.
Denis’s strength came to me through Brewster’s body. I’d known the man was strong when we’d fought for our lives in Norfolk, but it came as a sharp reminder that he’d begun life struggling for survival. Denis so often sat still while he directed others to do things for him that I forgot about his brute strength, just as I forgot Grenville’s agility.
I gave Denis a nod when I was ready, and we lifted Brewster as one and placed him on the bed. Brewster gave another grunt of pain, his eyelids fluttering, then he settled down.
Denis stepped back, and Grenville and I carefully laid the blankets over Brewster’s inert body.
The surgeon came to look him over. “Keep him warm. If he takes a fever, give him more of this.” He set the flask on the bedside table. “Not more than a swallow or two at a time.”
“What is it?” I asked in curiosity.
“An extract of a native plant from the Americas,” the surgeon said. “I do not know its true name. A sage of some kind.” He continued before I could ask more questions. “The bullet did not penetrate any organs, so he should mend. Keep him here, and do not let him move. Feed him if he wants food, but not too much. Someone will have to nurse him.”
“Em,” Brewster whispered.
I laid my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll bring her. You and she are welcome to stay as long as you need.”
The surgeon gave me a final nod, the last of the sunlight touching his balding head. “I will return in three days.”
Without further word, he walked out. I followed, but the surgeon moved quickly, and I did not catch him until he’d reached the bottom of the stairwell.
“What do I owe you?” I asked him. “Beyond what Denis pays you, I mean. You saved his life.”
The surgeon looked me up and down, his eyes so cold, with no pride in what he’d just done. “As I told you before, Captain, my price is silence. I have no other.”
With that, he opened the door and walked out into the darkening lane.
Grenville came clattering down after him. “Strange fellow, but remarkable.” He put on his hat. “I am off to fetch the good Mrs. Brewster. Poor lady—I’ll break it as gently as I can.”
“Thank you. Can you also get word to Donata? Tell her what has happened and to keep Gabriella home. Tell her I will come as soon as I can.”
“I’ve sent Jackson back to Mayfair already,” Grenville said. “The surgeon’s house was close enough and the streets so crowded it was easy for me to go on foot.”
A knot eased inside me. Grenville was a good friend and a wise man.
Grenville continued. “Mr. Denis requests that I send you up to him. I believe he wishes to confer.”
“Mr. Denis is eager to give orders in my own rooms,” I said, but I was too tired and worried for anger.
“No doubt he wants to know what happened. He saw me as I went sprinting down Drury Lane and into the heart of molly territory. I shudder to think of the newspapers tomorrow. Denis insisted that his carriage bring us back, but I have never seen him so angry. Even that business in Norfolk didn’t enrage him as much I think.”
Grenville nodded at me, slipped out the door, and was gone.
I climbed the stairs and entered my front room. Denis had moved there, and was lighting candles. He was not one for sitting in the dark. He’d also drawn my curtains, so that the light would not show us to those outside.
Denis pointed to the chair by the fireplace, indicating I should sit. “Tell me about this man who shot Mr. Brewster.”
To remind him of my independence, I took the straight chair at the writing desk. I soon regretted my decision, because my leg was starting to ache, with a deep hurt that I knew would stay with me for days.
“I know nothing about him,” I said. “He has been sending me threatening letters, he rode at Peter and me in the park, and tonight he shot at me. He looks like me and has my voice, though he sounds as though he’s been living elsewhere in the world. I’d never seen him before.”
Denis took the wing chair and cross his trousered legs. “A relation?”
I shrugged, pain seeping through my entire body now. “If so, I’ve never known of him.”
Denis touched his fingertips together. “I will find him, have no fear of it. I will
explain to him that I do not like gentlemen shooting one of my own.”
“To be fair, he was aiming at me, not Brewster. Brewster jumped in the way.”
Denis’s eyes went hard. “I was talking about you.”
I met his gaze as silence fell between us.
I did not want to belong to him; I hadn’t from the day I’d met him. And yet, there now existed between us a complicated mesh of obligation, favors, secrets, and gratitude that I would never untangle. I did not know whether Denis had won the game, or entangled himself in it as well.
“I would be obliged,” I began, “if you would keep this person away from my family.”
“That shall be done,” Denis said. “I sent two of my men to South Audley Street as soon as Mr. Grenville babbled out what had happened.”
More knots loosened. “Thank you.”
Denis merely rested his hands on the arms of the wing chair. He hated being demonstrative.
We waited in silence for a little while. One of the candles, wax, Donata had insisted, gently crackled as its wick drew up fuel.
My curiosity would never let me sit quietly for long. “The surgeon,” I said, “who remains nameless. What on earth did he do?”
Denis’s brows lifted a fraction. “He is a killer.”
So Brewster had intimated when I’d first asked. Knows exactly where to stick the knife if he has to … Brewster had said.
“More specifically?” I asked. “Did he do away with his wife? A patient? He seems so very cool that I cannot imagine him losing his temper and stabbing a man with his scalpel.”
“There is nothing amusing about him, Lacey. I will tell you so that you do not go blundering about asking him. He murdered, not one man, but a dozen.”
I went still. “A dozen?”
I’d killed men myself, in Mysore, on the Peninsula, in other places during the long wars. I’d fought for my life, to win battles, to take my men to safety.
One man killing another in anger, in a fight or struggle in London’s streets was understandable. A dozen bordered on horror.
“Why? Is he a madman?” I’d never met a calmer, more collected madman if so. “Please do not tell me he killed his patients for the scientific knowledge of it.”
“Nothing so macabre.” Denis’s voice was quiet. “He is an extremely competent surgeon and is quite angry if one under his care dies. But he knows how to kill quickly and efficiently, exactly where to cut, what to sever. Other men began hiring him to do so. I believe he asked a reasonable fee and did the job so competently it left no trace. He was caught not because of anything he did, but because the last man who hired him panicked and told the magistrates. The surgeon did not discover this in time to leave the country, and he was convicted of two of the murders. His sentence was commuted to transportation, possibly because I asked it to be done, but more likely because of his professional skills. Someone like him would be needed in the colonies.”
“You employed him?” I asked. “Is that how you knew him?”
Denis’s eyes held no emotion I could see. “No, indeed. Someone else employed him to kill me. Needless to say, he was not successful.”
“Your guards stopped him?” I asked.
“My guards were useless against him. He got past them all and into my bedchamber.”
I stilled in amazement. Denis never, ever let anyone get close enough to him to so much as touch him.
Denis went on, “I am alive because he let me talk to him, and then I paid him a large sum, far larger than the other man had given him. It was that employer who went to the magistrates. He was terrified I’d send the surgeon after him.” He shrugged. “I was tempted, but that would have been too obvious.”
I pictured the situation, two men of equal sangfroid and ruthlessness squaring off.
“If you paid him, why did Brewster tell me you considered yourself in his debt?”
“Because the surgeon’s professional pride did not want him to turn on his employer. I persuaded him, and he liked the idea of having me under his obligation. So … I worked to get his sentence commuted, and I provided the means for him to escape that confinement when he wished. And so when you kept asking to send for him …” Denis shook his head. “You do try my patience, Captain.”
“An explanation might have saved you much trouble,” I said.
His fingers moved on the chair arms. “I forget that you will not leave well enough alone simply because you are told to.” Denis gave me a severe look. “For this man who is trying to kill you—leave that alone as well. I will hunt him and find him.”
My irritation stirred. “You wish me to ignore a man threatening me and mine?”
“No, I wish you to take care of your family while I and my men find this person. Go to Norfolk as planned; do not alter your journeys without telling me.”
Were I the only one in danger, his guarding me might grate, but I would do anything to keep Gabriella, Peter, and Donata safe.
“I thank you for your help,” I said. “Truly.”
“I have invested much time, wherewithal, and money in you, Captain. I would not like to see that be for nothing.”
“Hmm,” was all I could think of to say.
We waited again in silence, not very long, until we heard Grenville on the stairs, calling up to us.
Mrs. Brewster—Emily—once a lady of a bawdy house, now Brewster’s devoted wife, barely acknowledged me. She threw off her shawl and plunged into the bedchamber, her exclamations drowning Brewster’s tired rumbles.
We saw them settled, and I went downstairs and told Mrs. Beltan, before she went home, that Brewster and his wife would lodge there for a time. They were to have anything they wished, and I gave her coins to cover the cost.
Then Grenville and I, in Denis’s carriage, went home.
Chapter Thirty-One
The first person I saw upon entering the South Audley Street house was my daughter. I entered alone, Denis’s coach moving off with Grenville in the direction of Grosvenor Street.
Gabriella halted in mid-flight toward me, taking in the blood on my coat, waistcoat, shirt, and breeches.
“Father,” she gasped. “Are you hurt?”
I did not bother to explain. Barnstable, equally aghast, had taken my hat and gloves. I thrust my walking stick at him as well, and opened my arms to sweep up my daughter as she came off the stairs.
I embraced her, hard, feeling her warmth, the beating of her heart, hearing her voice, so melodious. She was alive and well, whole and beautiful.
“Good heavens, Lacey,” Lady Aline said, as she came down the stairs in Gabriella’s wake. “You are covered with blood and ruining the gel’s gown.”
I pulled back. Gabriella’s pink and white striped satin now bore a smudge of dirt and blood.
“I do not mind,” Gabriella said. “As long as you are all right, sir.”
“I am whole. The blood is not mine. It is poor Brewster’s, but he will mend, I am told.”
“What on earth happened?” Gabriella demanded. “A great thug of a man came to deliver a message to Bartholomew that Lady Donata and I were not to stray a step.”
“This after I gained us invitations to two extremely exclusive soirees,” Lady Aline put in indignantly.
“Not tonight,” I said to Gabriella. “Tonight, you will stay home, and I will tell you of my adventures.”
Gabriella’s face softened in relief. “I am happy to stay,” she said. She laced her arms around my neck and whispered into my ear. “Truly. You have spared me an ordeal.”
A flurry of steps on the stairs announced the arrival of Peter. He paused on the landing, as though expecting me to scold him for eluding his nanny and fleeing the nursery.
Instead, I crouched down and held out my arms. “There’s my boy.”
Peter dashed the rest of the way down. I caught him and lifted him as I came up, ignoring the protest of my knee. It was not done for a man to dote on his son, especially one not of his body, but I kissed Peter’s cheek. br />
“I will go to your mother,” I said to Peter. “So that she will not have me boiled in oil. Then we will have supper, all of us together, and I will tell you the whole story. My lady, you are included in the invitation.”
Lady Aline flashed me a wistful look, as though she’d like nothing better than to dine informally with us, but she shook her head, the feathers in her hair dancing.
“No, indeed. I moved heaven and earth for the invitations, and I must go. I will say that you were hurt and Gabriella stayed home to tend you. That will go over well—a devoted daughter might make a man a devoted wife.” Aline came to me and dropped a light kiss to my cheek, taking care to not let me soil her clothes. “Do clean yourself up before you go to Donata. You’ll give her the vapors.”
Aline turned away, taking a wrap from her maid, who’d hurried to attend her. “What shall I do with you, dear boy?” she muttered, even as she lumbered out of the house.
I set Peter down, promising I’d see him and Gabriella in the supper room, kissed my daughter again, and ascended the stairs.
Aline was correct that I was a mess, and I continued to my chamber without stopping at Donata’s. The last time I’d come home covered in muck, my wife had convinced me to come in and speak to her regardless. Today, however, I wanted to wash myself of the evening’s horrors before I approached her.
Bartholomew answered my summons and my command to bring me a large basin of water and a sponge. I stripped off while he fetched the things, then I sent him away so I could bathe myself in peace. I had to promise to tell him everything, in vivid detail later, before he would take himself off.
The quiet trickle of the water as I glided it out of the basin at my feet was soothing, incongruous with the frantic events of the day.
I found myself shaking. The roar of the pistol came back to me, then the voice of the man who’d shot it. I saw the bright blood gushing from Brewster’s side, soaking rapidly through his shirt then the towels I’d held.
Blood that should have been mine.
I barely heard the door open, but I sensed her presence, the crisp coolness of it, like an autumn breeze cutting the torpid heat of summer.