The Book Of Scandal (30 page)

He missed.

Nathan kicked Cedric hard and sent him flying down the path. As he suspected, the man’s horse was no match for Cedric, and when Nathan caught up to him, he sent Cedric alongside the other horse on that narrow path, causing the smaller horse to draw up for fear of being run into the river. It was enough that Nathan was able to launch himself at the bastard, catching his leg and pulling him off his saddle.

The two men fell to the ground behind the horses, rolling partially down the embankment. The bastard struck first, catching Nathan in the jaw. But he’d underestimated Nathan’s rage—he grabbed the cretin by the lapels and slammed his head into the earth. The man cried out.

“Who are you?” Nathan roared. When the man did not immediately answer, Nathan slammed his head against the ground again.

Still, the man would not respond. He squeezed his eyes shut and locked his jaw, and tried to buck Nathan off of him. Nathan straddled him and sat up, holding him tightly with his legs and his hands. “By God, if you want to escape with your life this day, you will bloody well tell me who you are!”

The man’s response was to try to reach for his waist. Nathan struck him hard across the jaw. He went slack, his head lolling to one side. “Take a shot at me, will you?” he breathed angrily as he unwound his neckcloth. “You’re lucky I don’t skin you here and now,” he said. He stood up, kicked the man over onto his belly, then knelt down, put a knee to his back, and proceeded to bind his hands with his neckcloth. “As it is, I will settle for seeing you hanged.”

He’d managed to get the man up and prop him against a tree when help arrived in the form of three groundsmen. They were quick off their mounts, each of them noticing the blood on Nathan’s arm—an arm that was beginning to ache like the devil, Nathan vaguely noticed. They stood at Nathan’s back, glaring down at the culprit. He was a small man, at least a decade older than Nathan. He looked as if he’d lived a hard life, judging by the lines around his mouth and between his brows.

“Who are you?” Nathan asked.

The man bowed his head.

“Very well then. Pick him up, lads, and deposit him in the river,” Nathan said casually as he inspected his bruised knuckles.

His men instantly moved to do just that.

The bastard’s head jerked up and he gaped at Nathan wide-eyed. “What? No, milord!” he cried frantically as they hauled him to his feet.

“All right,” Nathan said, looking up. “Then tell me your bloody name.”

The man glanced nervously at those who held him. “John.”

“How helpful. John who?”

John pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Nathan took a step closer. “What quarrel have you with me?”

“No quarrel, milord. But the man offered me fifty pounds—”

“What man?” Nathan demanded.

John clenched his jaw.

Nathan sighed. “Into the drink with him, then,” he said with a shrug, and watched insouciantly as his groundsmen dragged the bellowing man to the river’s edge. They held him up, his feet dangling over the rushing water.

“For the love of God, don’t do it, sir!” John cried.

“You’d have me save your bloody neck when you just tried to put a bullet through mine, is that it?”

“Please, milord, please!” he begged. “Don’t kill me!”

Nathan walked down to the river’s edge and looked the man square in the eye. “If you think I won’t put you in that river and watch you drown, you are a fool. If you want me to spare your life, you will tell me who sent you.”

“Rhys!” the man cried. “Rhys Sinclair, that’s the name he give me.”

Nathan nodded at his two footmen, who eased back from the edge, putting John’s feet on muddy terra firma. He sagged with relief.

“From Eastchurch?” Nathan asked him, trying desperately to think who he could be.

“London, milord.”

“London? A lord’s man?”

John seemed confused by that, but shook his head.

“If you won’t tell me more than that, then to hell with you, man,” Nathan said with a flick of his wrist, and turned away.

“I don’t know more than that, milord, I swear I don’t! I was in London looking for a bit of work and he give me fifty pounds!”

Nathan slowly turned, peering closely at him, trying to detect any sign that he was lying. If John truly had been hired in London, then Nathan could rest assured it was a man of import who wanted Nathan’s hide. “And what did this man Sinclair tell you to do, precisely, for fifty pounds? Kill me?”

The color bled from John’s face; he shook his head rather violently. “I won’t say,” he said tightly.

“Bloody stupid of you,” Nathan said, and nodded at the groundsmen to lift him up again. But as they held him over the rushing water, John leaned his head back and looked up to the sky, apparently resigned to drown.

Nathan let him hang there a moment, and with a sigh, gestured for the groundsmen to set him down again. The man’s knees gave way and he fell to the ground, landing face-first.

“Take him to the stables and hold him there until the sheriff arrives,” Nathan said. “Do not let him out of your sight.”

“Aye, milord,” the tallest of the three said. “Have a care for your arm, milord. The doctor should have a look at it.”

Nathan glanced down again, noticing that the sleeve of his coat was drenched in blood. The bullet must have taken quite a lot of his hide. He nodded and gestured for them to go on. He watched them drag John up the embankment, then put him on a horse. One of his men swung up behind him. Another picked up what appeared to be a rather old musket, and they rode on.

Nathan followed them, accompanied by the third and youngest groundsman. When he reached the house, people from the village had already begun to arrive, having heard of the attack on the earl’s life when a stable hand rode to the village in search of the doctor and the sheriff.

Nathan called out to them all that he was all right, and sent Cedric off with a lad who stared with wide-eyed terror at his blood-soaked coat.

“Did you find him, my lord?” one of the men from the village called out to him.

“That I did!” he said. “He’s in the stables, where he’ll keep until the sheriff arrives.”

“He’s on his way!” another man called out to him.

Nathan nodded and turned toward the house. The door opened as he walked up the steps, but Nathan waved off Benton as he entered. “It looks rather bad, but it is only a superficial wound.”

“The doctor is away from the village, my lord,” Benton said, frowning a little at his arm.

“Nathan!” Evelyn hurried down the staircase and threw her arms around his neck. For a moment. She quickly reared back and looked at his arm. “Oh no. Oh dear God.”

“It is nothing,” he assured her. “It seems much worse than it is.”

She frowned and exchanged a look with Benton. “Did you find him? Who was it?” she asked as she began to tug him into a corridor. “Did you know him? Why would he try to shoot you?”

“Never saw the bastard before in my life,” Nathan said.

“Nathan, you are bleeding badly. We have to clean it—we cannot wait for a doctor. Benton, we need hot water and some bandages!” she said over her shoulder as she pulled Nathan along. “And…and…” She looked at Nathan’s arm. “Lord, but I’ve never dressed a gunshot wound.”

“A bit of whiskey on the wound ought to do the trick,” Nathan said.

Surprised, Evelyn blinked up at him.

“I’ve not dressed a lot of gunshot wounds, if that is what you think,” he groused.

She pulled him again, dragging him along until they reached a sitting room near the servants’ stairwell. She sat him in a chair and helped him remove his coat. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked completely with blood, and Evelyn, finding a letter opener, ripped the cuff. Using both hands, she tore the sleeve up to the shoulder.

“Very well done,” Nathan said with a grimace. He’d never had a bullet graze him before and was surprised at how bloody painful it was. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were a nurse.”

“Hush,” she said, frowning at his arm. “It looks as if the bullet went through.”

“No,” Nathan said with a disbelieving snort. “It just grazed me, Evie.”

She shook her head. “There is a hole.”

Nathan looked down, saw dark red blood oozing from a hole in his arm, and suddenly everything in the room began to swim. “Oh hell,” he said, leaning his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. “Oh hell.”

“There now,” Evelyn said soothingly, and caressed his brow the way she used to caress Robert’s brow when he was ill. Nathan had no choice but to let her, for seeing his blood pumping so starkly from his body had compounded the situation by making him quite ill.

He heard the door open, heard Benton’s familiar footfall across the room.

“You will have to help me, Benton,” Evelyn said. “I think the bullet is lodged in his flesh.” She touched the backside of his arm, but her finger felt like fire, and Nathan jerked at the excruciating pain.

“I gathered as much,” Benton said, his manner as unflappable as always. “I took the liberty of bringing a few things. Tell me what you would have me do, madam.”

Nathan opened one eye and saw the silver tray that held a knife and a small pair of forceps that he believed was used in the kitchen. “No,” he said, instantly shaking his head. He glared at his butler. “I’d advise against it, Benton!” he said loudly. “If you value your employment—no, your life—you will not touch me.”

“The bullet is protruding from the wound. If you hold his arm, I think I can pull it out,” Evelyn said. “And then Nathan thinks we should pour whiskey on it.”

“I didn’t mean to pour whiskey into a bullet hole!” Nathan exclaimed.

“We’ve some just here,” Benton said, holding up a decanter with the amber liquid.

“Yes, that should do.” Evelyn studied his arm. “All right then, Benton, if you will take him in hand?”

Benton walked behind Nathan and locked his arms around his chest with surprising strength.

“No—” Nathan started, but Evelyn had already caught the tip of the bullet in the forceps. She gave it a yank, pulling it free of his flesh with what felt like a torch. Nathan hissed at the pain, felt the decanter pressed to his lips, and opened his mouth. Benton poured whiskey into his mouth as Evelyn pressed a cloth of hot water to the wound in his arm.

Nathan pushed the decanter from his mouth. “By God, that’s it,” he said hoarsely as she worked to clean the wound. He clutched the armchair against the pain. “You should remove that undertaker suit of clothing you wear and pass it on, Benton, for you are no longer the butler here! You may stay on as a chambermaid if you like, but you’ll not be opening my doors any longer!”

“Very good, sir,” Benton said, and held his arm tighter as Evelyn continued to clean it.

“This might sting a bit,” she said, and poured whiskey on the wound.

Nathan came out of his chair.

“There,” she said, after his arm had gone quite numb. “I should think that will serve until a doctor arrives, don’t you, Benton?”

“Indeed. Shall I wrap it?” he asked, as if he were asking if he might arrange flowers for her or something equally sedate.

“Please.”

She sat back on her heels and looked at Nathan as she dipped her hands into the basin Benton had brought. “Dr. Bell will examine it as soon as he arrives. In the meantime, what should we do?” she asked simply.

“About Benton?” he asked crossly. “Hang him.”

“The man who shot you,” she said patiently as she dried her hands. “Who is he? Who would do this? Who would want to shoot you?”

“According to my father, any number of people,” Nathan said gruffly. “This man would give me no more than the name of the man who’d hired him. A Londoner. Rhys Sinclair is his name—do you know him?” he asked as Benton began to wrap his wound.

“Rhys Sinclair,” she repeated, and shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him. Have you?”

“No,” he said. “But I intend to go to London and find him.”

“I’ll go with you—”

“No,” he said, and sat up, caught her chin in his hand. “You will stay here, Evelyn. There is still the…the scandal,” he bit out. Funny how he’d managed to allow himself to forget that. He’d been too caught up in the promise of having his life back to allow it to cloud things. Funny how quickly the mention of London brought it back to loom over them. Frankly, it made Nathan feel a little sick.

Maybe Evelyn was right. Maybe they couldn’t escape reality after all.

“I don’t know what I will find,” he said shortly, and tried to smile. “I would rest easier knowing you were here, safe with the chambermaid,” he said, indicating Benton. “I don’t intend to be gone more than a few days. A week at most.”

“No, Nathan,” she said sternly. “Since I’ve come back to Eastchurch, we’ve been attacked by highwaymen, the orangery has burned, someone tried to shoot you—”

“Strange coincidence,” he said abruptly. “This shooting is a coward’s attempt to make a point with me, nothing more. You are safe here, Evelyn. You mustn’t worry.”

“I don’t want to stay here!” she insisted.

“Evelyn,” he said calmly as Benton finished bandaging his arm. “You must. I’ll send for your sister if you like, but you must remain here.”

Her hazel eyes filled with helplessness. “But…what of your arm?”

“There are doctors in London.” He leaned forward to kiss her. “There is no time to waste, Evie,” he said, and stood, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. “Come help me gather a few things in a bag,” he said, and put his good arm around her, forcing her to come along, trying very hard not to think of all he might discover in London.

N athan had left before dawn the following morning in a cold rain and with an aching arm. The sheriff and his men had come last night and had interrogated the man who’d tried to kill Nathan—but he’d revealed nothing more than what he’d already told Nathan.

The sudden turn of events left Evelyn no choice but to face her last few demons.

She thought she’d been well on her way to doing it, but with Nathan gone, the house seemed big and empty and full of ghosts. Evelyn could almost hear the ghosts of her past echoing in the halls.

Benton sent a messenger to Evelyn’s sister, and Evelyn tried to occupy her thoughts and hands as she waited for a response by continuing to work on the public rooms. The next day, however, Clarissa sent word back through a note: