The Hunt Club Chronicles Bundle (34 page)

Four pale faces met his stare, worry in each expression. The closest groom answered. “A duel, Mr. Redding. He wouldn’t send for you to attend him.”

Francis gritted his teeth over a moan as he sighted the bloody mark on the Duke of Staines’ cream silk waistcoat. The ball looked to have pierced his chest and the duke’s face had paled of all color. He looked dead.

Frantically, he searched for signs of life, holding his ear over the duke’s mouth and waited for breath or sensation. A faint breeze stirred across his ear. He grabbed the duke’s cold hand and clasped his wrist. A pulse, weak but constant, pumped under his fingers.

Unspeakable relief surged through him. There was still a chance to save him. “Get him upstairs and into bed as gently as you can. Angus, fetch my bag from my chamber and have the housekeeper supply linen for bandages. Quickly man. The duke’s life hangs in the balance.”

Perhaps a bit dramatic, but Francis had learned long ago that people needed firm instructions during uncertain times, especially when the duke was injured. He followed the agonizing progress of his for-once-silent master up the grand staircase and into the largest bedchamber of the Townhouse. The furnishings in the duke’s apartments cost a small fortune and he winced that his master’s blood would once again turn the pristine white and gold bedding to scarlet.

A moan escaped the duke’s lips as he was settled on the wide bed.

Fairmont
rushed forward and captured the duke’s hand. “I’m here,
Staines
.”

Francis flicked his hands at the milling grooms, sending them away as the butler appeared with the tools of the surgeon’s trade he kept in the house.

Angus wrung his hands as he stared at the still form on the bed. “Will he die?”

A yawning void opened up at Francis’ feet. He could not imagine his life without the duke smack dab in the middle of it, creating one catastrophe after another. “Not if I can help it. But have Lord
Bracknell
sent for immediately.”

Angus paled and hurried out again.

Fairmont
turned from the duke. “Surely it shan’t come to that.”

Bracknell
was rarely in a good humor with his father.
Nothing to be done about it now
. He wouldn’t be a party to any deception about the duke’s health.

Francis shrugged out of his coat, his mind turning to what he had to do to save his master from yet another folly. “His son will want to know.
Bracknell
sent word yesterday that he had arrived in Town. If you don’t mind, my lord, I have work to do. Could you please wait outside?”

Fairmont
looked set to argue, but he suddenly sagged. “Send word to
Fairmont
house. I must break the news to my wife gently and prepare her.”

Francis held in a snort of derision. Some friend
Fairmont
was to the duke.
Couldn’t even be bothered to wait around for the outcome
.

Lord Fairmont was replaced by the housekeeper, her arms stacked with linen. “Oh, my lord, don’t take him yet,” she cried at the sight of the duke’s deathly pallor, and then set to ripping the linen into bandages while she mumbled a prayer.

Francis prayed along with the housekeeper as he pulled scissors from his bag. Judging by the location and amount of blood on the dukes clothes, he’d need all the help of divine intervention he could get. He turned and methodically cut the duke’s clothing from his upper body to see what he had to deal with.

Although a dark stain marred the perfection of the duke’s muscled chest, he breathed a sigh of relief. The injury could be far enough from the heart and lungs to prove far less dangerous than he’d first feared. There was only possibility of infection and blood loss to counter. Both of which could still kill his duke.

The housekeeper cleared her throat as she picked up the duke’s shredded clothing. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Not yet. You may wait outside until I call for you.” The servants did not like to see him at work and their gasping and fainting was often a great distraction. He worked better alone and was grateful when the woman closed the door behind her.

The duke’s eyes fluttered open, their gaze unfocussed. “Are they all gone?”

“Mrs. McClurry just stepped out,” Francis murmured, lifting a wadded cravat used to stop the bleeding clear of the wound to see the worst of it. Blood welled slowly to the surface.

“Good, she can pray for my soul at a distance.” The duke swallowed. “How bad?”

“Bad enough that I cannot possibly scold you. Yet.” He lifted the long chain that hung from the duke’s neck and stared at the late duchess’ ring attached to it. Francis rubbed his fingertips over the expensive bauble then lifted the piece to the duke’s line of sight and then to the duke’s lips. “For luck.”

The duke kissed the ring and Francis’ fingers, too, and then closed his eyes.

A tight lump formed in his throat and Francis left the duke to scrub his hands and collect his instruments. He willed calm to replace his anxiety. He could not let the duke die from any mistake he made. He had to remain in control and dispassionate as he dug into the duke’s flesh. His life depended on it.

Calmer, Francis picked up what he needed, laid them beside the duke’s fluttering chest and braced himself to dig for the ball lodged in the duke’s right shoulder.

As he took a breath, the duke’s left arm curled around his thigh.

Francis frowned. “Do you want me to cause you greater pain? Should I have you restrained?”

A ghost of a smile crossed the duke’s lips. “Just wanted one last pleasant memory before I forget why I like you. This is bound to hurt even if I die in the end.”

“You’re not going to die, Your Grace. Only the good die young.” Francis nudged the duchess’ ring with his smallest finger to prove his point. The duchess had been a remarkable lady and had died far too young. The household staff still marked her birthday with a silent toast: the duke marked her death in a dark mood.

“And I’m far from good nowadays.” The duke squeezed Francis’ backside. “Ask me to repay you properly when you’ve saved my life again. I’m sure we can come to some mutually pleasurable arrangement.”

Francis signed. “Only you could proposition someone while you’re bleeding to death.” He leaned close to the duke’s ear. “Ambrose Manning, if you don’t stop groping me and distracting me from saving your life I can promise you you’ll never use your prick again. I know you’re afraid but let go. Trust me.”

“Always trust you.” The duke’s lips quivered. “Will you let me put my prick anywhere I like after you’ve saved my life if I comply?”

Francis frowned at the absurd question. “You already do.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t put it in you,”
Staines
whispered. “And I’m regretting that I haven’t rather badly just now.”

Francis gasped at the blunt confession. The duke’s eyes remained closed, although his hand still kneaded Francis’ backside, fingertips dipping into the crack of his arse with disturbing agility. Was he not as ill as he made out?

Yet his life’s blood seeped from his chest with startling persistence.

The duke sighed; his hand lost its strength. “Don’t let me forget, Red.”

Francis tucked the duke’s arms tightly under the sheeting to keep him still in preparation for the surgery. He also pushed the duke’s proposition from his mind. Now was not the time to think of any of that nonsense. The duke would likely ignore his bold suggestion when he was well again.

He slowed his breathing as he positioned the forceps and probed the gaping bloody hole for the ball.

The duke swore.

Francis dug a little deeper and the duke groaned and whimpered. But Francis could not avoid inflicting pain. The ball had to come out and soon. The forceps scraped over metal.

The duke howled in agony. “Fucking hell,
Redding
, you bastard. If you don’t get that ball out of me in the next moment, you can consider yourself unemployed.”

Francis ignored the duke’s outburst and attempted to capture the ball once more. His employment had been terminated too many times in the past for him to get concerned about it yet. He’d only believe the duke if he said it while he wasn’t under duress.

He had it secure when the duke stiffened suddenly, and then slumped in a faint. But that was a relief for
Redding
since he could not give the duke any potion for the pain. The duke hadn’t the head for the usual pain relief afforded by laudanum. And
Redding
would never go through the trauma of ending the duke’s addiction to the opiate again, as he had during the early years after the duchess had died in childbirth.

He pulled the small round free and placed it on his palm, then rolled the ball around with the tip of his finger, coating his palm with the duke’s blood as he checked that it hadn’t shattered against bone on impact. Luckily, he had the whole of it.

Francis set it aside and mopped carefully at the blood seeping from the gaping hole. His work was far from done. He still had to find the missing piece of the duke’s shirt.

The bedchamber doors burst open. “What the hell has he done now?”

Francis didn’t look up as the duke’s eldest son, Lord Bracknell, stormed into the room without knocking, but continued to search the bloody mess for fragments of fine linen. He looked at the shirt again, comparing the gap with the pieces he found and dug deeper. “He’s trying not to die, my lord.”

Bracknell
gagged and coughed and staggered away from the bed. “You mean you are trying to keep my foolish father in one piece. How did this happen?”

Francis studied the material again and let out a sigh of relief that he had filled the gap. “I was not with the duke at the time, but I am told he dueled this morning.” He looked up briefly, met Lord Bracknell’s concerned gaze, and nodded. “It looks worse than it is. As long as infection does not set in he should be up and around in no time.”

“More mischief.”
Bracknell
leaned against the far wall. “Thank God we have you to patch him up and nursemaid him back into health. No other physician will tolerate his ways.”

Francis chuckled, a nervous relief from the stress of moments ago. “I believe he’s ended my employment again so you may have to send out enquiries.”

Bracknell
looked up, a curious expression on his face. “Again?”

Francis pressed against the wound to sop up the blood. “My eighth termination, I believe.”

A wicked grin crossed
Bracknell
’s face. “Would you care for another position,
Redding
?”

Francis frowned, reaching for needle and thread in preparation for stitching the duke’s chest back together. “Now is hardly the time.” Really,
Bracknell
had been much easier to deal with when he was in short pants and had half Francis’ height. He’d grown into a man much like his father—far too impatient with life to take heed of the gravity of a situation. Francis threaded the needle and lifted the cloth from the wound.

“When he’s silent is the perfect time for any reasonable conversation,”
Bracknell
continued from the far side of the room. “I want to employ you as the family physician.”

Francis shook his head. “But I’m only a surgeon, as you can see. A physician has to be registered with the Royal College of Physicians and does not tend to wounds like this. He is a gentleman. I’m hardly that. My father was a farmer.”