Regency Secrets: My Lady's Trust. Julia Justiss

stone steps, he approached the flickering torches flanking the entry of Squire Everett’s manor house. Before he reached the front portal, however, a tall, freckled lad he recognized as Kit’s Oxford friend rushed out.

      “Lord Beaulieu, thank God you’re come. I’m so sorry—”

      “Where is he?” At the stricken look coming over the young man’s face, Beau briefly regretted his abruptness, but after a message designed to convince him Kit could die at any moment and the most exhausting gallop he’d endured in years, he had no patience for an exchange of courtesies.

      A shorter, rotund man with a balding head darted into view. “This way, my lord. Squire Everett here, but we’ll not stand on formality. Cook has a platter of victuals and strong ale waiting. I’ll have them sent up at once.”

      Beau spared a brief smile for the older man who, though obviously anxious, made no attempt to delay him with excuses or explanations he at the moment had no interest in hearing. “You, sir, are both kind and perceptive.” Taking a deep breath, as he followed the squire to the stairs he voiced the anxiety that had eaten at him every second of the arduous ride. “How goes it with Kit?”

      The squire gave him a sidelong glance as they started up. “Not well, I’m afraid. We very nearly lost him this afternoon. When do you expect your physician?”

      The tension in his chest tightened. Kit—laughing, sunny-tempered Kit, so full of the joy of life. He could not die—Beau would simply not permit it. “Morning at the earliest. Who tends him now? Have you a doctor here?”

      “Only a jug-bitten fool I’d not trust with a lame dog. Mrs. Martin keeps vigil, a neighbor lady skilled with herbs who is often consulted by the local folk.”

      The image of an old crone mixing love potions for the gullible flew into his head. “An herb woman!” he said, aghast. “‘Od’s blood, man, that’s the best you could do?”

      The squire paused at the landing and looked back in dignified reproach. “‘Tis not in London we be, my lord. Mrs. Martin is widow to a military man and has much experience tending the sick. She, at least, I was confident could do young Kit no harm. Indeed, she’s kept him from death several times already. In here, my lord.”

      He should apologize to the squire later, Beau noted numbly as he paced into the chamber. But for now all his attention focused on the figure lying in the big canopied bed, his still, pale face illumined by the single candle on the bedside table.

      Still and pale as a death mask. Fear like a rifle shot ricocheted through him as he half ran to his brother’s side. “Kit! Kit, it’s Hugh. I’m here now.”

      The boy on the bed made no response as Beau took his hand, rubbed it. The skin felt dry—and warm.

      “He’s turning feverish, I fear.”

      The quiet, feminine voice came from the darkness on the far side of the bed. Beau looked over at a nondescript woman in a shapeless brown dress, her head covered by a large mobcap that shadowed her face. This was what passed for medical aid here? Fear flashed anew—and anger. “What do you intend to do about it?”

      “Keep him sponged down and spoon in willow bark tea. He was so chilled initially, I did not think it wise to begin cooling him from the first. I’m afraid the shot is still lodged in his chest, but I dared not remove it. When does your physician arrive?”

      “Not before morning,” he repeated, anxiety filling him at the echo. This kindly old biddy might do well for possets and potions, but was she to be all that stood between Kit and death until MacDonovan came?

      No, he thought, setting his jaw. He was here, and he’d be damned if he’d let his brother die before his eyes. “Tell me what to do.”

      “You have ridden all day, my lord?”

      “Since afternoon,” he replied impatiently. “‘Tis no matter.”

      The woman looked up at him then, the eyes of her shadowed face capturing a glow of reflected candlelight. Assessing him, he realized with a slight shock.

      Before he could utter a set-down, she said, “You should rest. You’ll do the young gentleman no good, once he regains consciousness, if you’re bleary with fatigue.”

      He fixed on her the iron-eyed glare that had inspired more than one subordinate to back away in apologetic dismay. This little woman, however, simply held his gaze. Goaded, he replied, “My good madam, the boy on that bed is my brother, my blood. I assure you, had I ridden the length of England, I could do whatever is necessary.”

      After another audacious measuring moment, the woman nodded. “Very well. I’ve just mixed more willow bark tea. If you’ll raise him—only slightly now, heed the shot in his chest—I’ll spoon some in.”

      For the rest of what seemed an endless night, he followed the soft-spoken orders of the brown-garbed lady. She seemed competent enough, he supposed, ordering broths up from the kitchen, strewing acrid herbs into the water in which she had him wring out the cloths they placed on Kit’s neck and brow, directing him to turn Kit periodically to keep fluid from settling in his lungs.

      Certainly she was tireless. Although he’d never have admitted it, after a blur of hours his own back ached and his hands were raw from wringing cloths. Mrs. Martin, however, gave no sign of fatigue at all.

      Their only altercation occurred early on, when he demanded she unwrap the bandages so he might inspect Kit’s wound. The nurse adamantly refused. Such a course would engender so much movement his brother might begin bleeding again, a risk she did not wish to take. Unless his lordship had experience enough to remove the shot once the wound was bared—a highly delicate task she herself did not intend to attempt—she recommended the bindings be left intact until the physician arrived. So anxious was he to assess the damage, however, only her threat to wash her hands of all responsibility for her patient, should he insist on disturbing Kit, induced him, grudgingly, to refrain.

      Despite their efforts, as the long night lightened to dawn, Kit grew increasingly restless, his dry skin hotter. When, just after sunrise, the squire ushered in Beau’s physician, both he and Mrs. Martin sighed in relief.

      “Thank you, Mac, for answering my call so quickly.”

      “Ach, and more a command than a call it was.” His old schoolmate Dr. MacDonovan smiled at him. “But we’ll frash over that later. Let me to the lad. The squire’s told me what happened, and the sooner we get the shot out, the better. Mrs. Martin, is it? You’ll assist, please.”

      The nurse murmured assent, and Beau found himself shouldered aside. “Go on with ye, ye great lown,” his friend chided. “Fetch yerself a wee dram—ye’ve the look of needin’ one.”

      “I’m staying, Mac. Let me help.”

      His friend spared him a glance, then sighed. “Open the drapes, laddie, and give us more light. Then bring my bag. I may be wanting it.”

      By the time the gruesome procedures were over Beau was almost sorry he’d insisted on remaining. First came the shock of the jagged entry wound, the flesh angry red and swollen. Then he had to endure the torment of holding down his struggling, semiconscious brother while the physician probed the wound with long forceps to locate and remove the shot. His back was wet with sweat and his knees shaking when finally Dr. MacDonovan finished his ministrations and began to rebind his patient.

      It wasn’t until after that was complete, when the physician complimented Mrs. Martin on the efficacy of her previous treatment, that he remembered the woman who had silently assisted during the procedure. With the cap shadowing her lowered face, he couldn’t read her expression, but her hands had remained steady, her occasional replies to the physician calm and quiet throughout. He had to appreciate her fortitude.

      Having lowered his once-again mercifully unconscious brother back against the pillows, he followed as the physician led them all out of the room.

      The squire waited in the hallway. “Well, Sir Doctor, how does