Her Husband’s Lover (34 page)

Lyle stood in the doorway. He caught Emma’s gaze for just a second before he dropped like a felled tree.

‘Lyle!’ Emma leapt from the bed. Her husband lay on his back, eyes and mouth open. A spreading puddle of blood was forming under his right arm. ‘Oh, God!’ she cried. ‘What do we do? He’s hit.’ She knelt down beside him.

‘I didn’t,’ Lucy protested. Her face took on an even wilder expression, slack-jawed and trembling. ‘You pushed me.’ She clawed at Darleston accusingly. ‘You shoved me so that I’d hit her husband and you could claim her for yourself.’

‘Shut up!’ Darleston shook her hard. ‘If I hadn’t knocked you, you’d have shot him dead.’ He tried to hold onto Lucy and drag her over to a chair, but she scratched at his face like a wildcat, forcing him to maintain his hold on her rather than go to Lyle’s aid. ‘Is he badly hurt, Emma?’

‘I don’t know. Yes.’ She’d never dressed a wound larger than a scrape. ‘He’s been hit in the upper arm. I think the ball has gone straight through.’ The misshapen remains of the projectile lay in the middle of the hallway runner, looking like an innocently misplaced marble.

‘You need to fetch the surgeon. Head over to the fight. Hill has a man on hand to see to Jack after the match.’

She knew him. Jimmy Bolden, the village butcher. The man had a good grasp of medicinal herbs but he was also over-eager with his knives and prone to lopping things off with little hesitation. She couldn’t let him sever Lyle’s arm.

‘Emma.’ Lyle, who, despite his injuries, clearly had the same thoughts about Bolden, grabbed her wrist with his unhurt hand as she made to rise. ‘Stay here.’ He gripped her so tightly that even her instantaneous urge to recoil from his touch didn’t free her. ‘Stay with me.’

‘You’re hurt,’ she said soothingly, reaching out tentatively to stroke back the golden curls from his damp brow. ‘I have to fetch help.’

Lyle shook his head. ‘Not Bolden. I’ve seen his work. He’ll only spill more of my blood on the floor. Get Drummond, if anyone.’

His valet? What could he possibly do?
He might remake Lyle’s coat sleeve, but now wasn’t the time to think of clothes.

‘You need to examine the wound. See that it’s clean. Then sew it closed and bind it tight,’ Lyle continued.

Emma watched his blood continue to pool. A wave of nausea slowly rose in her throat. ‘Lyle, I can’t do that.’

‘I trust you. I’ve seen you embroider. Please. If you love me at all, if we’ve a chance at anything good together.’

She tried to pull away from him again, but only so that she could run for help. She did want him to live, but she could not dress his wound. Yet if the bleeding wasn’t stopped his life would drain away. There were servants downstairs. They would know what to do and whom to fetch.

‘Emma,’ Lyle croaked with some effort. ‘I’ve been a soldier. I’ve seen such wounds and helped treat them. Please, do as I instruct.’ A glaze was slowly coming over his eyes, leaving the intense dark pools softly shadowed. ‘Please.’ The rigid tension in his jaw faded into relaxation. ‘Please. Find Drummond to help you.’

A maid and two of the upper servants, one of whom turned out to be Drummond, appeared in the doorway at that moment. ‘We heard the bang,’ Drummond said, before kneeling at his master’s side. ‘Have you a sewing box? We need scissors to remove his coat sleeve.’

‘In the drawing room, downstairs.’ Perhaps he’d hoped it lay closer.

‘Betsy.’ He addressed the maid, while the other footman went to aid Lord Darleston in his struggle with his wife. ‘Go and get Mrs Langley’s scissors, and fetch whatever strong liquor you can find. Gin if it’s there, otherwise brandy or rum. Be quick.’

‘Do you know what you are doing?’ Emma enquired. Lyle’s tight grip upon her wrist was gradually slackening, which only added to her distress. ‘Shouldn’t we call for help?’

‘I was with him in India. He’ll be fine, as long as we get him sewn up and keep the wound clean. The house is almost empty, ma’am. There’s only cook and the scullery girl downstairs. Everyone else has permission to watch the boxing.’

‘Pillowslips,’ Lyle mumbled. His eyelids fluttered, and then closed.

‘Lyle?’ Emma shook him, but he didn’t rouse.

‘It’s probably for the best, ma’am,’ Drummond said. ‘He won’t feel it so much.’ He fetched several of the pillows from the bed. One he placed beneath Lyle’s head, the other he stripped of its case, which he tore into long strips.

Betsy arrived back from her trip to the drawing room clutching a decanter and Emma’s best embroidery scissors. Her mousy hair had escaped its cap in her flight and stuck out in frizzy curls, an offence that in any other circumstances would have earned her a reprimand. She’d also brought a needle and a reel of bright-blue thread. Drummond set to removing Lyle’s sleeve, cutting through both the soft wool and the cambric shirt beneath.

Lyle had worn one of his better coats today, one he normally reserved for special occasions, finely worked around the buttonholes and less coarse and squire-like than some of the garments he wore for overseeing matters of the estate. He’d curse the loss of it, for he loved to look well. Emma had often suspected that, if they’d spent more time amongst the city set, her husband would have become something of a peacock. Maybe that was one of the things he found so appealing about Darleston.

The blood flow, which had become sluggish, quickened again once the sleeve was stripped away. Drummond made her press two pieces of wadding made from the pillowslips against the wounds, one on either side of Lyle’s arm.

‘Give me that thread,’ Drummond ordered.

Betsy wet the end of the yarn between her lips and set to threading the needle. She had a good eye and nimble fingers and handed it over at once. Drummond started on the upper wound first, pulling the skin together with a chain of bright blue stitches that turned purple as blood seeped into the cotton. He bade Emma hold Lyle’s arm upright by the wrist as he worked on the back of his master’s arm. Once the flesh had been drawn together on both sides of the arm, Drummond poured neat brandy over both of the wounds. Then he bound Lyle’s arm with the remainder of the strips torn from the pillowslip and lifted him onto the bed, a notable feat, for he was a good deal shorter than her husband.

‘If there are any signs of infection tomorrow we can use blowfly maggots to clean out the necrosis. They’ll eat up whatever’s rotten and keep the gangrene at bay.’

At that, Emma voided the contents of her stomach. The image of wriggling, crawling things gnawing on putrid flesh was too close to one that routinely disturbed her sleep. She didn’t stumble, though she did feel faint. She reached out and grasped the bedpost. She would not lose Lyle to a fever as she had lost so many of her siblings. He would live, even if that meant trusting in Drummond’s horrific methods.

‘Maybe you should lie down too, ma’am,’ Betsy suggested. She fussed around Emma, taking care not to touch her.

Emma accepted the kerchief she offered, but shook her head at the notion of retiring. She had thankfully only made a mess of the floor and not herself. Since she had missed breakfast there had been little in her stomach anyway. Nor was she tired, and a room would have to be made up for her, since Lyle was occupying their bed. ‘I’ll stay here, and sit with him.’

‘Very well, ma’am.’ Betsy ran at once to fetch another chair and settled Emma in it.

‘Should I run over to Mr Hill?’ asked Drummond. ‘Will the constable need to be called?’ He glanced uncertainly at Emma and Lord Darleston, as if not sure whom he should best consult. Darleston, with the aid of the footman, had finally secured Lady Darleston in an armchair. She had her hands bound before her in her lap, tied with what looked suspiciously like one of Lyle’s galluses. She had succumbed to a fit of weeping, but her tears were now and then punctuated by a hysterical laugh.

She would have to be removed to another part of the house.

Darleston came over to where Lyle rested deathly pale upon the bed. ‘Dear God! This should not have happened.’ He took Lyle’s good hand in his and bowed over him as if in prayer. When he straightened up, he kissed Lyle gently upon the brow.

‘Bring Hill,’ he instructed Drummond. ‘Tell him what’s afoot, and that I’d prefer it if we could avoid the involvement of the constable. I should like to speak with him first and see if we can’t settle the matter amongst ourselves. I’m sure neither of us wishes to court a scandal.’

‘She mustn’t get away with it,’ Emma exclaimed.

‘She won’t.’ Darleston regarded her calmly. He cast an inscrutable glance at his wife before returning his attention to Drummond. ‘Send for a physician too, and a midwife. There’s a matter I need to clear up before I speak to Hill.’

‘Rob! Robert … where are you, damn it?’ Neddy’s voice echoed inside the glass walls of the Orangery like a series of cannon blasts. Darleston didn’t reply. He remained at the back of the grotto, watching a steady stream of water trickle past his feet, numb to the noise but little else. Life had become so twisted and tormented over the last few hours that he wished he could lock himself away from it all. Staring at the water seemed to be the closest he could get to that.

‘Rob. Thank the Lord!’ His twin hunkered down beside him. Neddy still wore the tweed outfit he’d donned for the fight, which was now creased and rather grubby. ‘I’ve been looking for you for ages. What are you doing out here? You’re needed inside.’

Was he? What could he do? He couldn’t offer comfort; Emma had retreated into herself. He couldn’t bear to look upon his wife, and Lyle’s fate was way beyond his skill. The only option left to him was prayer, and, since he had no faith in God, that seemed altogether pointless.

He raised a hand to wipe away the sweat that lathered his brow. ‘Will he live?’ It was the only question that mattered now. He knew that Neddy didn’t have the answer. It was too soon to say. The ball had passed straight through Lyle’s arm, damaging muscle and sinews. Bolden thought it might have splintered some of the bone and wanted to dig around in the wound. Drummond had held him off, backed up by the physician that Hill had called in, Waddington, Waddingbeck or whatever his name was. At least they’d all agreed that further bloodletting wasn’t the answer. The maids had mopped bucketfuls off the floor already.

‘Rob, I don’t know. He might mend. He could lose his arm. The main worry is keeping him free of fever. If they manage that, he might make it.’

Fever – like those five tiny bodies Emma had shown him in the graveyard. He couldn’t allow her to suffer another loss like that. He’d promised her that everything would work out. She’d trusted him, opened up to him, and all it had achieved was the pain she’d striven so hard to avoid.

‘God, I’m so sorry.’ His brother bowed his head as though this were all somehow his fault. Ned had guided him here, but he hadn’t pushed him into Lyle’s bed, and had hardly encouraged him into Emma’s. It was no more Ned’s fault than it was anyone else’s – except his.

‘Here.’ Neddy passed him a silver flask. ‘Take a swig. You need it. And for heaven’s sake talk. Spit out all that nonsense I know you’re thinking.’

The brandy burned as it hit his gullet, leaving him coughing and fighting back the tears he’d been restraining for hours. ‘I thought … I thought maybe it would work out, and we’d manage to be happy together.’ He ought to have known better. Lucy was never going to agree to free him. If she hadn’t spoilt it now, she’d have found a means to do it later. It’d been foolish to think she’d walk away quietly from being publicly humiliated. She’d intended to appear the stricken party in her little performance on the stairs, and instead she’d shown herself up. He ought to have known she’d retaliate.

The only good thing was that she hadn’t realised the depth of his feelings for Lyle. If she had, then likely the shot would have been fatal from the outset. Instead, she’d meant only to strike fear into Emma and make him bow to her wishes. Lucy hadn’t understood that this time he’d found something he had no intention of giving up.

‘Emma?’ he enquired.

‘She’s by Lyle’s side.’ Neddy reclaimed his flask. He drained it dry before returning it to his inside pocket. ‘Let’s go in. Waddingthorpe wants to talk to you about Lucy’s condition.’

‘Is she pregnant?’ He knew in his heart that she wasn’t, but he needed an unbiased opinion to confirm that. Trusting to his guts alone seemed too treacherous these days.

‘I think that’s what he wants to talk to you about.’ Neddy tugged upon his arm, encouraging him to stand.

Did he really want to know? What difference would it actually make? He ought to have her arrested and tried, but he was not about to send for the constable, who would no doubt find reason to poke his nose into his privacy, regardless of its tenuous bearing on the case. Hill had no desire to invite such attention either. It had been the first thing he’d said after he’d been told that Lucy had shot his son-in-law.

‘Stay with me when we go in, Ned.’

His brother promised with a solemn nod. He rose and offered Darleston a hand to get up, squeezing a fraction too hard as he tried to communicate some measure of reassurance. ‘It’ll work out, Rob. Somehow it always does.’

For Neddy perhaps. He couldn’t honestly say that anything in his life had worked out quite as he’d wished it.

* * *

Dr Waddingthorpe’s robust figure occupied the whole of the drawing-room sofa. He sat alone in the large chamber beside a rapidly collapsing heap of coals. For a country doctor he dressed rather finely, his waistcoat clearly grosgrain silk, even if his curled periwig showed signs of age. He started out of his repose the moment Darleston entered, and his jowls quivered as he shifted his enormous bulk upright.

‘Milord.’ He dipped his head in a gesture towards a bow, then waited, sweat bubbling above his lip, for his lordship to sit.

Darleston chose to stand. He’d always found bad news easier to stomach that way. He waited until he was sure that Neddy was present too before addressing the doctor. ‘I understand you’ve examined my wife.’

Waddingthorpe swayed uneasily. He looked at his hands as if expecting that something to eat would suddenly materialise there. ‘I have, milord, though with some trouble, I may add. She was not entirely co-operative.’ He rubbed at something on his finger that Darleston suspected might be a bite mark. ‘Though she is resting peacefully enough now that I’ve administered a small sedative.’