A Rose Before Dying (17 page)

“Yes. Please—tired.”

Ariadne caught his sleeve and drew him away.
“We can ask again later, can’t we?”

“Of course.” He had no confidence there would
be a later, but clearly he couldn’t press her for clarity, now.

Miss Baxter had turned away, her harsh
breathing deepening as she slipped into sleep.

If she saw a woman—a maid—then he needed to
reconsider his investigation, unless it was her incipient fever
creating the delusion.

How could a woman have shot Lady Banks? His
mind balked. He’d never heard of a female marksman, though he
supposed it was possible. A woman could certainly stab a man like
Mr. Nivelle if she had the advantage of surprise. But he couldn’t
believe a woman could drag another woman through the marsh and tie
her to a post at the edge of the water.

A jealous woman might conceive of such a
plan, however. Perhaps a woman who had loved Sir Edward and been
thrown aside. Jealousy and revenge were powerful enough to give
anyone strength.

Still, the notion did not sit well with
him.

He simply couldn’t accept that
alternative.

When Charles moved to the door, Ariadne
stopped him with a hand on his arm. Her eyes were huge and ringed
with exhaustion, peering out of her pale face. He brushed her cool
hand with his fingertips, torn between wishing she were safe in
London and the selfish desire to keep her here.

“How is your uncle?”

“Not well. The doctor believes an amputation
may be necessary.”

Her grip on his sleeve tightened. “Surely he
can do something less drastic?”

“We hope so. Are you able to cope alone? For
an hour or so? I must see to my uncle.”

“Of course. I’m going to prepare broth for
Miss Baxter, can I get anything for you?”

Surprised, Charles realized he was hungry. He
couldn’t remember their last meal. “I don’t know what you’ll find
in the kitchen.”

“Don’t fret.” She laughed. “I’ll find
something, even if it’s just flour and water.”

“Gruel?” He smiled and shook his head.
“You’re a treasure, Ariadne. I can only thank goodness that you’re
my sister.”

“Sister? Shame on you. Only you would remind
me of that dreadful charade. I don’t feel the least
sister-like.”

The air stilled between them. For a moment,
he stared into her face, wanting to kiss her more than anything
he’d ever desired. He caught her by the shoulders, but before he
could draw her close, Dr. Humphrey called.

“Lord Castlemoor!” The doctor stood at the
bottom of the stairs, one hand on the newel post, staring up. “Are
you coming down?”

“Yes.” Charles smiled and gently pushed
Ariadne away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Now, go tend to Sir Edward.”

“You really are a remarkable woman.”

“No.” She brushed a curl off her forehead.
“Just a very tired one.”

Downstairs, Charles found the doctor kneeling
in front of Sir Edward with a pile of wrapping on the floor next to
him. When he saw Charles enter the sitting room, he stood.

“I am concerned about your uncle.” He
motioned toward the seated man. “His foot
must
be amputated.
The necrosis is well advanced. If we don’t remove it, I doubt he’ll
last another week.” He turned back toward Sir Edward. “Didn’t I
inform you weeks ago that it was crushed beyond healing?”

“Yes, damn you! And didn’t I inform
you
that I wouldn’t permit your barbaric butchery?”

“Would you rather die?” Dr. Humphrey waved
Charles forward. “Please speak to your uncle, my lord. He will not
listen to me. If he wants to live, he will have to concede to
surgery. The sooner, the better. In fact, I’d recommend tonight.
I’m here and delay only worsens his condition.”

“And gives him time to find more excuses.”
Charles nodded and stepped forward, his gaze on his uncle’s
uncovered limb.

The foot was swollen to twice its normal
size, and a greenish-black area had spread across the instep to
encompass the toes and ankle. Reddish streaks encircled the ankle,
like the tentacles of a jellyfish clinging to his leg. The odor of
corruption made Charles’s stomach clench.

“How could you allow it to go this far?”
There was no doubt that the doctor was correct. Even Charles could
see his uncle would be in serious difficulties if he allowed his
limb to continue to rot without treatment.

“Would you have me a cripple? Half a
man?”

“I would have you alive!”

Sir Edward laughed harshly. “Why? To keep me
safe for the hangman?”

“Of course not!”

“Then leave it be. This is none of your
affair.”

“It
is
my concern—you’re my uncle!
You’re the only family I have left.”

“And whose fault is that? Marry and have a
nursery of children. They’ll soon take my place, I assure you.”

“You’re talking nonsense—”

“Am I? Do you really think I wish to live?
Like this? To be arrested and hung like any common criminal, and my
remains delivered to the physician’s college for dissection? Is
that what you wish for me?” Sir Edward’s face twisted with anger
and frustration.

“I won’t allow that to happen. For once,
trust me—”

“Why? Having an earl for a nephew won’t save
me. What makes you think you can prove my innocence, now?”

“Nothing,” he replied honestly. “But let’s
make a bargain. Allow Dr. Humphrey to do what is necessary to
ensure your survival, and I promise you won’t hang.”

“How do you propose to manage that?”

“By finding the truth. Miss Baxter said a
woman kidnapped her—not man. Perhaps a spurned lover of yours—”

Sir Edward laughed harshly, spittle
collecting in the corner of his mouth. “You must think me a regular
Casanova—first Lady Banks and then Miss Baxter—”

“Miss Baxter?”

“She didn’t tell you?” He stopped, appearing
startled. His thick fingers spasmodically clutched his
shirttails.

“No. Are you saying you and she…?” His
question hung in the air.

“Why else do you think she was here? Near the
cottage? To implicate me, of course!”

“You had an affair with
Miss
Baxter
?”

He nodded and ran his hand over his face. “It
was many years ago. We were both young and foolish. Thank God it
didn’t amount to anything. We escaped from our respective guardians
and spent a weekend here, only to find we did not suit. Nothing was
good enough for that woman—
nothing
! She wanted me to
cook
for her, for God’s sake, so we could be alone! She was
helpless and completely irrational—typical of all bloody
women.”

A chuckle escaped Charles before he could
stifle it. Amusement was clearly inappropriate, but he couldn’t
help seeing the funny side of a young Miss Baxter ordering eggs and
a rasher of bacon from Sir Edward.

“What happened?”

“Why, I returned her to London, of course.
And we agreed never to mention it again.”

“Then no one else knew?”

“Not from me. Though God knows that woman’ll
still be talking a year after she’s dead.”

“I didn’t realize…” He remembered her silent
presence when he spoke to Ariadne at Rosewell. Miss Baxter hadn’t
seemed like a chatterbox, but he supposed age had brought at least
a smidgeon of wisdom. “In any event, are we agreed? I shall prove
you innocent, and you shall live to enjoy it.”

“I doubt I’ll live to enjoy anything if this
old fraud has his way!”

“Would you rather die a long, and undoubtedly
agonizing, death?” Dr. Humphrey asked.

“Less painful, one presumes, than having you
saw off my foot.”

“Look at that grotesquery and tell me you
don’t believe this must be done!” Charles gestured at Sir Edward’s
discolored ankle.

Sir Edward stared at him and enunciated
clearly, “I don’t believe it must be done.”

“Well, it must,” Dr. Humphrey said. “The
sooner, the better. Now, Lord Castlemoor, we’ll need a table that
can bear your uncle’s weight. And is there another man here?”

“My coachman—”

“He’ll do, if he’s got the stomach for it.”
Dr. Humphrey studied Charles for a moment. “How about you?”

Despite a knot of queasiness in his belly,
Charles nodded, avoiding his uncle’s accusing eyes. “I’ll get Mr.
Carroll. We can move the kitchen table into the bedroom my uncle is
using. It’ll be less difficult…afterward.”

Sir Edward’s eyes burned with fury. “Oh, I
doubt he’ll have any difficulties holding me down while you use
that bloody dull knife—”

“And fetch whatever spirits you have—brandy
would be best, my lord,” the doctor called after him.

When he pulled the coachman out of his warm
bed above the stables and explained what was required of him, Mr.
Carroll shook his head and backed away a step.

“Don’t know I care to hold a man down for
that, my lord.”

“I’ve no time to argue with you. Either you
help me, or you’ll have to ride into Rye and fetch someone who
will.”

The prospect of trying to find someone
willing to act as a physician’s assistant in a strange town at six
in the morning obviously gave him pause. He eyed Charles in a
distinctly unhappy way before trying one last time to excuse
himself. “It’s the blood, sir.”

“I’m not overjoyed at the prospect, either.
Lest you forget, the patient is my uncle. No one wants to do this.
So no complaints and come with me.” Charles climbed down the stairs
without looking to see if Mr. Carroll followed. To his relief he
heard the man’s ponderous footsteps shuffling along in his wake. On
their way out, Charles grabbed a selection of leather straps,
trying not to think about the use they’d put them to.

The only way he was going to get through the
next hour was to empty his mind and obey the doctor without
thinking. If he stopped to consider the agony they were about to
inflict upon his uncle, Charles would never be able to carry it
through. The thought made him ill, and he already felt the
prickling of cold sweat along his sides.

Inside the house, the two men maneuvered the
kitchen table into the back bedroom and arranged it parallel to the
bed. Then Charles opened the liquor cabinet and removed a nearly
full bottle of brandy. For one moment, he considered taking a dram
or two, himself, and catching the eye of the pale coachman, he
almost offered it to him. He looked about ready to drop where he
stood.

“Sorry,” Charles said. “Sir Edward needs it
more.”

“Just a drop, my lord?”

What could it hurt? He poured a few drops
into a glass and handed it to the man who gratefully knocked it
back in one long swallow. Charles picked up another glass and
deposited both in his uncle’s bedroom.

On his way to the sitting room, he ran into
Dr. Humphrey. The physician was laden with his leather case and an
armful of implements, and Charles hastily glanced away from the
wicked-looking saw.

“Are you ready?” Dr. Humphrey asked.

“Yes. Mr. Carroll is waiting in my uncle’s
bedroom.” He caught the doctor by the elbow. “Are you sure this is
absolutely necessary?”

“Upon my honor, I wouldn’t recommend it if it
wasn’t. You saw his limb. It should have been done at once. He’s
almost waited too long. That foot is necrotic. And despite opinions
to the contrary, I enjoy the prospect less than anyone, with the
possible exception of the patient. This isn’t going to be easy. Are
you prepared?”

He took a deep breath and forced his
expression into the semblance of confidence. If he focused on the
procedure itself and didn’t dwell on his uncle or the agony of
hacking through sinew and bone, he’d manage it.

He had to.

Just like he had to prove his uncle’s
innocence. If he failed, all the horror and suffering would be for
naught.

“I’ll get him to drink as much as possible,”
Charles said.

“Not enough to make him vomit, mind you.
We’ve got to strap him to the table so he cannot move. If he gets
ill, he may choke.”

Was there no mercy?
Even drunkenness
was forbidden.

“I wish he would just faint—”

“Certainly, that would be ideal. And I hope
he may do so at some point during the procedure. It would be best.
One last thing, do you have a basket or wire frame? You will want
to place it around the end of his leg when we move him to the bed
to keep the bedclothes from putting pressure on the wound.”

“I’m sure there’s something in the
stable.”

“Fetch it before we begin. When this is over,
the sooner we can remove him to his bed, the better.”

Focusing solely on the doctor’s terse orders,
Charles carried out the preparations. His uncle needed no urging to
down as much brandy as possible. The more he drank, the quieter he
got until he stopped speaking to anyone or answering any questions
altogether. His gaze turned inward as he prepared himself,
obviously striving to divorce himself as much as possible from the
surgery.

His uncle’s twisted face tore so deeply at
Charles that he finally left his uncle to drink alone. He couldn’t
stand the gray look of despair in his eyes.

“Are you ready?” Charles wandered into the
kitchen and watched Dr. Humphrey tie a leather apron over his
clothing. His gut tightened.

“Yes. Your uncle?”

“Drunk.”

“Then it’s time.”

A few minutes later, Charles and Mr. Carroll
strapped Sir Edward to the table and fitted a thick piece of
leather between his teeth to bite down on. After applying a
tourniquet just above Sir Edward’s knee, Dr. Humphrey picked up a
knife.

“You—Lord Castlemoor—get a good grip just
below his knee. Draw the skin and cellular substance toward his
thigh as far as possible.”

As Charles pulled the skin and muscles toward
the knee, the doctor quickly made a circular incision down to the
muscles. Charles kept his attention on the doctor, unable to look
at the sweating, contorted face of his uncle as his jaw clamped
down on the piece of leather.