A Rose Before Dying (18 page)

The doctor’s movements were quick and sure.
He talked sharply to both his assistants when they grew distracted
by the stifled moans of their patient. “Good. Use this leather to
draw up the muscles and teguments and separate them from the
bone.”

Sweat dripping down his temples, Charles
complied. His fingers felt stiff and clumsy.

“He’s out,” the coachman said suddenly as Sir
Edward’s gasps subsided.

“Excellent.” Doctor Humphrey picked up the
saw and in less than a minute took the foot off just above the
damaged ankle. “Now, Lord Castlemoor, wipe off the area with that
damp sponge. I can’t see what I’m doing. We must discover all the
arteries we can and secure them with ligatures. The extra skin you
pulled up will fit nicely over the lips of the wound.”

He moved swiftly with precision and the
assurance of practice. Three strips of court plaster held the skin
in place while he covered the stump with a pledget of soft lint
spread with common calamine cerate. After placing another soft
cushion of fine tow over it, he bound it all with a long strip of
cotton. When the doctor finally looked up from his patient, Charles
found himself shaking with icy tension.

“Are you done?” Charles asked. His hands
burned under a coating of sticky blood.

“Yes. Shift him into his bed. For God’s sake
try not to wake him. You’ll need to watch him. I’ll leave an
anodyne for the pain. Keep him as still and quiet as possible.” The
doctor arranged a basket to hold the blankets away from the stump
and efficiently tucked the bedclothes around the unconscious man.
“I’ll come by tomorrow evening to check his progress.”

“Can you recommend a woman to come and help
Miss Wellfleet? I’ll have to return to London in a few hours. I
must attend a coroner’s inquest, and I can’t leave her to cope with
two patients with no assistance.”

The doctor nodded. “Mrs. Bewforest and her
daughter, Martha. They do for Sir Edward when he’s here. I’m sure
they can be convinced to stay for a few weeks.”

“Thank you—”

“I’ll send them here, then, shall I?”

“I’d be grateful if you could.” Charles
rubbed his face tiredly. His eyes felt raw, and he couldn’t seem to
escape from the strong stench of blood and purification that
saturated the small room.

The doctor nodded sharply and turned toward
the door. When he opened it, they all stood there, blinking
owlishly in the pale dawn sunlight. “One more thing—I’ll give
detailed instructions to Mrs. Bewforest on the schedule and precise
dosage of any anodynes I prescribe to keep your uncle quiet. It
wouldn’t do to have him become too dependent upon those drugs.”

“No, of course not.” Charles gripped his hand
and shook it. “I’m grateful to you—more grateful than you know. I
hated to force the issue.”

“He could not have lasted much longer.”

Charles swallowed a sharp lump in his throat.
“He’s my remaining family—”

“I understand.” Dr. Humphrey cut him off.
“And in a month or two, he’ll be properly grateful to you. He
will
heal, and he has retained most of his limb. In the end,
it will make his life endurable once more.”

He didn’t stay for Charles’s response.
Instead, he strode out briskly into the sunshine with a straight
back and energetic step as if he’d slept the night through. Charles
watched him, dazed and blinking, before turning back to the
distasteful chores awaiting him.

He spent the next hour scrubbing down the
table and moving it back into the kitchen before disposing of the
rags and organic detritus by burying them at the back of the
garden. When he was done, he washed out his clothing as best as he
could in the kitchen basin, all the while wondering if he could
really find the person responsible for the murders or if he’d
overestimated his abilities.

Surely he could sort through this mess. He
just needed time to think.

After spreading a few wet things over a chair
in front of the fire, he sat down at the equally damp table, too
tired to go upstairs to see how Ariadne was coping. He could only
hope she’d managed to get some sleep.

Sleep…

The thought of her fast asleep with her warm
cheek resting on the palm of her hand brought a tired smile to his
face. She was the only bright spot in this nightmare. Everything
seemed so
right
when she was near… His mood lifted as he
thought of her, with her rich, chestnut hair and glowing skin. He
raised his head, trying to catch any sound from the upper floor.
The house was still around him.

A sharp rap at the kitchen door broke into
his thoughts. He jerked to attention and lurched to the door,
surprised to find his muscles already stiffening after sitting for
just a few minutes.

“Lord Castlemoor?” A broad-faced woman pushed
past him into the house. Another woman, younger but no less
Amazonian, followed her inside. “I’m Mrs. Bewforest. This is
Martha. Say hello, Martha.”

Martha dipped a quick curtsey but kept her
wide mouth shut, clearly understanding that her mother was not
through speaking. She placed an ancient portmanteau on the chair
where Charles had been sitting and pulled out two well-worn aprons.
Her mother took one and both women proceeded to tie them around
their waists as they glanced around the small cottage, taking in
his damp clothing and efforts to clean up.

“Now, Dr. Humphrey said Sir Edward is asleep
and should remain so for now. And he said as how there’s another
poor lady upstairs, half-drowned. So we’ll be preparing broth for
the both of ‘em and seeing to everything. You look a right pulled,
as it were, my lord.” She shoved Charles toward the hallway. “Now
you go and rest. We’re here, now. You’ve no call to wear yourself
down this way.” She glanced over her shoulder at her daughter who
was fussing over Charles’s damp waistcoat and jacket. “Don’t be
dawdling, girl. Find an iron and set to. Now, if you please!”

“Yes, Ma’am.” She replied meekly, draping his
clothing over her brawny arm. When she caught Charles’s glance, she
rolled her eyes and shook her head before striding off toward the
pantry, clearly knowing her way around the cottage.

Despite Mrs. Bewforest’s sage advice to get
some rest, Charles went first to check on his uncle, who was still
unconscious, and then upstairs to see Ariadne.

When he walked into the quiet bedroom, he
found her bent over the bed, her hand pressed to the forehead of
Miss Baxter. He paused in the doorway, concerned at Ariadne’s wan
appearance. Dark circles shadowed her hazel eyes, deepening their
color to a tired brown. The normal bloom of her cheeks had
disappeared, leaving her pale skin stretched tightly over the
curves of her face. She looked impossibly fragile, worn by
worry.

“How is she?” he asked.

“I truly don’t know. She’s been unconscious
for hours.” She gave a brief, uncomfortable laugh. “I may be
imagining it, but she seems warm to me. Too warm.”

Bending over the bed, Charles rested the back
of his hand on Miss Baxter’s forehead. Her skin felt thin and
papery beneath his hand. Ariadne was right. The patient was warm.
Too warm. He shook his head when he caught her glance.

“She’s feverish,” he confirmed. “It’s
fortunate you’re able to stay—she’ll need your care.”

“My care?” She laughed. Exhaustion gave the
sound an unnatural, sharp edge that cut through the stale air. “She
deserves better. I’m no nurse—I’ve no skills in that art.” She
rubbed her temples. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My father
always said it was a good thing we owned a nursery as I had no
social talents to speak of and plants don’t seem to mind.”

He gripped her arm and turned her to face
him. “That’s ridiculous. Look how you responded to my outrageous
insistence that you take Rose into your household!”

“Inexplicable and unnatural. Or so my father
would say.”

“Nonsense. Kind and generous are more apt.”
His voice deepened as his awareness of her grew in the stillness of
the room. In the distance, someone’s cock crowed. The village
around them began the bustle of a new day.

Then, before she could reply, he drew her
closer and kissed her. He needed her—needed to feel her warmth
after their hellish night.

When she gripped his coat with shaking hands,
his body tightened
.

“I’m sorry.” She pushed him away and glanced
down. “You must have the most terrible impression of me.”

“No.” He gripped her hand. “You’re a
wonderful woman—”

“Wonderfully odd—”

“Why must you devalue yourself? I—” He
stopped, suddenly unsure of what he could, or should, offer her.
The disparity in their positions made it difficult, though others
had courted scandal by pursuing women outside of their social
circle. The Gunning sisters had certainly made a success of
marrying well above their station. But the uncertainty of Ariadne’s
position, combined with a lack of a father or close male relative,
made him wary of placing her in an untenable position.

He did not wish for a mistress. He wanted a
wife, a helpmate who would stand by his side.

But who would want to marry the nephew of a
murderer, no matter how noble? Despite his efforts, it seemed ever
more likely that Sir Edward would face the hangman.

“What’s wrong?” Ariadne’s eyes stared into
his, their mutable color a deep, confused golden brown.

“I’m sorry. I came up to tell you—I must
return to London. The coroner’s inquest starts tomorrow. I must
attend.” He had to discover what, if any, evidence they had that
might implicate his uncle. So far, it was only motive and
opportunity.

She flicked a quick glance at the bed before
looking up at him. Her hands restlessly smoothed his lapels.
“Should I—do you require my presence? We both heard Miss Baxter say
it was a woman—not your uncle—who kidnapped her. Surely, there
can’t be two murderers sending roses as warnings to their victims.”
She gave a sharp, sad laugh. “A rose before dying—what a terrible
gift.”

Pulling her against him, he ran a hand over
her soft hair, breathing in her scent before he kissed the crown of
her head. “I wish I could take you with me, but you’re needed here.
We had to amputate my uncle’s foot—” He pressed his fingers against
her lips when she tried to speak in sympathy. “It had to be done.
He’s resting, unconscious. I’ve arranged for two ladies from the
village to help you. You can’t manage alone, and I regret
abandoning you here with two patients. But Mrs. and Miss Bewforest
strike me as very capable women.” He smiled. “Two very
large
and capable women.”

“Then I’m sure we’ll do quite nicely. But if
you should need me—”

“I’ll send for you. Never fear.” He paused,
wanting to let her know how he felt, wanting to know if she felt
the same. But his own uncertain future stayed his tongue. He gently
released her and stepped toward the door. “Take care of yourself,
Ariadne.” He dared to use her given name and held his breath for a
moment, awaiting her rebuke. But she smiled back at him, her hands
clasped in front of her. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

“Then I’ll remain here, awaiting your return.
You’ve nothing to worry about. Your uncle and Miss Baxter will soon
recover.”

He nodded as he went through the door. At the
threshold he turned back for one more, long look. “As long as
you’re here and unharmed, I fear nothing.”

After an interminable journey back to the
city, Charles changed his dusty clothing and made his way to Second
Sons.

The butler, Mr. Sotheby, opened the door and
stood aside, but Charles only entered far enough to allow him to
close the door.

“Is Mr. Gaunt here?”

“No, my lord. He left well over an hour ago.
He is attending the coroner’s inquest into the death of Lady
Banks.”

“Have they viewed the remains yet?”

“I believe he indicated they are to do that
this morning. At the lady’s domicile.”

“Then I’d better hurry.” Distracted, Charles
brushed past Mr. Sotheby and left, determined to present what
little evidence he had to the coroner.

Weariness cramped his legs. He stretched the
protesting muscles and walked faster. Had the physician already
described his findings to the coroner’s jury? The thought made
Charles increase his pace. There were still things he didn’t know
about Lady Banks’ death, and any small fact might exonerate Sir
Edward.

The townhouse occupied by Lady Banks was
abnormally quiet when the butler ushered him inside. The deceased
was laid out in a large room on the first story that occasionally
saw service as a ballroom. The floor was a lovely Italian marble
streaked with translucent pink and gold. Small groups of delicate
gold-and-white painted lyre-backed chairs clustered around golden
maple pie-crust tables that were pushed to the side. A group of
people stood in front of a mahogany casket and stared down at the
still form of Lady Banks.

Mr. Gaunt’s tall, black-clad form was
noticeable among the shorter members of the group. Charles edged
over to him while the physician, a cherubic-looking man called Dr.
Joshua Letheby, droned on about his examination of the deceased and
his findings.

“…a shot fired at an obtuse angle of
approximately 145 degrees.”

The coroner nodded and asked, “And what, in
your opinion, is the significance of this?”

“Whoever took the fatal shot was taller than
Lady Banks and therefore, was pointing the barrel of his rifle in a
downward direction.”

A sharp tingle of excitement pierced Charles.
He had to question Letheby. The question was,
when
? The
coroner and jury could question him, but Charles couldn’t question
them, at least during the official proceedings. His involvement was
therefore circumscribed.

However, no matter what the coroner’s initial
verdict, Charles could continue to investigate. Someone had to
uncover the identity of the person who was trying to discredit and
ruin the life of his uncle, an ill man who might, despite the
amputation, be dying.