Lauren Willig (38 page)

 

 

With the sleeves pulled tight, there was only just enough room to make a knot. The material, designed for fashion rather than function, slipped free as she tried to tie it off. Cursing beneath her breath as the material scooted away from her blood-slick fingers, Mary grasped the ends and pulled them fast, tugging them as tight as they would go.

 

 

Rocking back on her knees, she regarded Vaughn helplessly. Would he bleed less if she turned him onto his back? Or would the movement merely make him lose more blood? Letty would probably know, Letty who bandaged cuts and soothed banged knees and did whatever else one did with small children who had a habit of falling onto sharp farming implements. But Mary had never paid the slightest attention to any of that. Blood, after all, stained one’s clothes.

 

 

“Do you need help, dearie?” Caught squatting ignominiously on her haunches, Mary glanced up to see crooked feathers towering over her head, like a great, black bird of prey.

 

 

The feathers were attached to a crooked bonnet, and the bonnet, in turn, to a raddled face from which wafted the strong scent of gin. It was the same woman she had seen before, the one who had been standing just in front of her in the crowd, watching the King ride up and down the ranks.

 

 

Remembering the brush of fabric against the back of her dress, Mary shied violently away. What better disguise than a raddled lady of the night? The broken bonnet cast her face into permanent shadow, and the reek of gin would keep away any but the most hardened sot. For a woman, her shoulders seemed unnaturally broad; they blocked the sun and sent a long shadow falling across Vaughn’s helpless form.

 

 

“No,” said Mary fiercely, shielding Vaughn with her body. “We’re quite all right.”

 

 

The woman—if it really was a woman—shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

 

 

Hoisting her bottle to her lips, she wandered back towards the main crush of people. But Mary noticed that she stopped not far away. One hand held the bottle aloft, but the other was hidden by the tipsy fall of her shawl, long enough and thick enough to hide any manner of things, from a bottle…to a pistol.

 

 

It probably wasn’t her, Mary belatedly concluded. There had been no gin smell around the Black Tulip, and goodness only knew that she had been pressed close enough to him—or her—to tell. But the Black Tulip might be anyone, dressed as anything.

 

 

Mary crouched protectively over Vaughn. No matter how dangerous moving him might be, she had to get him out of the park and back to the relative safety of Vaughn House. With all the crowds milling about, there were too many opportunities for the Black Tulip to finish the job.

 

 

“You. Boy!” Without leaving her protective crouch, Mary reached out and grabbed a small boy by the scruff of his pants.

 

 

“Yes, miss?” Staring google-eyed at the broad streaks of blood decorating Mary’s dress, the urchin shrunk back as far as his waistband would allow him to go.

 

 

Mary hastily scooped up her fallen coins and thrust them in front of him. “If you find me a sedan chair and make it come here right now, all of these are yours.”

 

 

“All, miss?” The boy’s eyes lit as visions of gingerbread danced through his head, greed trumping caution.

 

 

“All,” Mary repeated emphatically, waving the handful of shiny metal back and forth. “But only if you come
quickly
. Understand?”

 

 

“Yes, miss!” the boy was already in motion, racing for the gates. Mary fervently hoped he was running for a chair, and not just away. With Vaughn’s blood streaking her hands, she looked like the sort of person who would snatch up small children and bake them into pies, or whatever it was that parents used to frighten their children these days.

 

 

Scrubbing her hands hastily against her skirt, she eased one hand gently beneath Vaughn’s head. The short hairs prickled against her fingers. His head weighed against her hand like lead, entirely inert.

 

 

“I don’t care,” she whispered to him, leaning her lips close to his ear. “I don’t care how many wives you have. If you pull through this, you can have a hundred more. Just don’t die. Please.”

 

 

If he heard her, he gave no sign.

 

 

Where
was
the boy with the chair? There were so many places for a would-be assassin to hide among the crowds. Even the very tree above their heads. In the background, the martial clamor rattled on, with the clatter of hooves, the
rat-tat-tat
of the drums, the shrill cry of the horn. No one would notice a cry in the midst of the cacophany. Even the sound of a shot would be entirely inaudible beneath the gabble of the crowd and the screech of the pipes and drums.

 

 

“I’ve brought ‘em,” the boy announced.

 

 

Behind the boy stood two men, in the traditional livery of the chairman, a loose blue kersey coat over black breeches, with large cocked hats shading their faces. Between them, they held a black box with long, springy poles threaded through metal brackets on the side. It was a far cry from Vaughn’s own sedan chair, painted in shiny black lacquer and chased with silver, but it would have to do. Closed up in the box, he should be safe from harm—or, at least, safe from further harm.

 

 

“There was an accident,” Mary said imperiously, emptying her handful of coins into the boy’s palm. The boy scampered happily away, taking the remains of her quarter’s allowance with him. “Move him gently.”

 

 

The chairman regarded her laconically. “It’ll be extra if he bleeds on the cushions, like.”

 

 

“It will be nothing unless you move him,” said Mary acidly.
“Now.”

 

 

With a shrug to show what he thought of uppity wenches, the chairman leaned over, his blue kersey coat flapping about his calves, and hoisted Vaughn up by the armpits.

 

 

“Both of you!” snapped Mary. “Gently!”

 

 

With an expression of extreme martyrdom, the second chairman reluctantly grasped Vaughn’s legs. Together, the two men shifted him through the opening between the poles into the chair. Ignoring the chairman’s protests that his vehicle was meant for one, Mary climbed in after him, pressing Vaughn’s head protectively against her shoulder.

 

 

“Vaughn House,” she commanded, cutting through the man’s protests. “In Belliston Square.”

 

 

“Don’t think I know where Vaughn House is?” muttered the chairman rebelliously beneath his breath, but he picked up the front poles as his comrade picked up the back, hoisting their burden into the air.

 

 

Easing an arm around Vaughn’s shoulders to hold him steady, Mary fussed over his bandage. The chairman’s cavalier treatment had shifted it upwards, and the wadded mass that had once been her reticule was sticking out beneath one end, heavy with blood.

 

 

Vaughn, she had no doubt, would have a perfect quotation for the occasion, something about a pound of flesh, or taking one’s price in blood.

 

 

Mary blinked, hard. From the dust in the road, of course. It was a singularly dusty drive, and the windows of the sedan chair didn’t keep the dust out as they ought.

 

 

On the street, as if from a continent away, people went about their business, unaware that inside the sedan chair the entire world hung pendant over a dark abyss, suspended by nothing more than the fragile thread of Vaughn’s weak breathing. From the gates of the park, weaving through the traffic with the ease of long practice, rode Lady Hester Standish, looking like a self-satisfied cossack in her fur-trimmed red habit. Mary caught a glimpse of black boot beneath a muddied hem as she rode by, her legs on a level with the window.

 

 

On the opposite corner an ink seller hawked his ink, as black as Vaughn’s hair, dulled now with dirt and sweat and the sticky moisture from her bloody hands. A drably dressed man, ledger clamped under his arm, scurried in the front of the chair, causing the chairmen to veer sharply to avoid him, eliciting a low groan from Vaughn as he was flung against the side of the chair.

 

 

Mary clutched him closer, silently urging the chairmen on. Once away from the congestion around the park, the trip to Vaughn House went quickly. When the chairmen started to let down their burden at the foot of the stairs, Mary poked sharply at the chairman’s back.

 

 

“Inside,” she ordered. Leaning out the window, she addressed the two liveried servants holding open the door. “Your master has been hurt. Call a surgeon.”

 

 

The white-wigged servants shifted uneasily at their posts as the chairmen lumbered through with their human burden.

 

 

“What are you waiting for?” Mary snapped at the one nearest her window. “Don’t just stand there goggle-eyed. Your master needs a surgeon. Go!”

 

 

The man’s mouth opened and closed like a guppy. Vaughn’s footmen had evidently been chosen for appearance rather than intelligence. Aunt Imogen would approve.

 

 

It was with some relief that Mary noted the approach of the same superior personage who had done his best to deny her access two weeks before. It would have been beneath his dignity to scurry. Instead, Vaughn’s butler strode forward, every lineament radiating outrage at this crude invasion of his well-polished precinct.

 

 

“Lord Vaughn has been hurt,” Mary said crisply. “He needs to be placed in his bedchamber. Where is it?”

 

 

The butler stared owlishly down at the window of the sedan chair, clearly less than pleased to be having a conversation with a conveyance. “This is most irregular, madam. If madam would be so good as to—”

 

 

Mary froze him with a glance. “Is your dignity worth your master’s death?”

 

 

The butler stepped aside. “Up the stairs, third door on your left.”

 

 

Accepting this new direction philosophically, the chairmen began to ascend the great, spiral stair, which twined around a fourteen-foot-high statue of Hercules wrestling with snakes. The chair tilted backwards at a dizzying angle as they spiraled upwards. Through the window of the chair, Mary could see Hercules, with his club in one hand and the neck of a snake in the other, lion skin slung over one shoulder, spinning around and around. At long last, the chairmen reached the landing, bringing the chair level. Stiff-legged, they marched down the hall to the third door on the left, where the butler, who must have raced up the back stairs to get there before them, thrust open the door.

 

 

“The surgeon?” Mary demanded though the window of the chair.

 

 

“Has been sent for,” the butler assured her, indicating to the chairmen where they were to set down their burden.

 

 

Mary had only a confused impression of large seashells and a great deal of blue velvet before the chair came to a stop in the middle of the room, the chairmen’s dusty boots leaving dark prints on the pristine pastels of the carpet beneath their feet. They set down the chair with a thump. The butler reached out a hand to help her out, but Mary wafted him aside, motioning him to take Vaughn instead.

 

 

“He needs two men to move him,” she directed. “Whatever you do, do
not
take him beneath the arms.”

 

 

“Right stroppy one, ain’t she?” muttered the chairman.

 

 

The butler ignored him, saying impassively, “Yes, madam. You.” He snapped his fingers at the chatty chairman. “Take his feet.”

 

 

“And there’s another one for you,” grumbled the chairman, but he did as he was told.

 

 

Together, the butler and the senior chairman eased Vaughn between the front poles, carrying him up to the bed, which rested on a raised dais in the French style. Braced between them, Vaughn looked like a prop in a play, a wax figure of a man. One hand fell limply over the side, the once-bright white lace grimed with dirt and dried blood. Only the diamond on his bloodless finger gleamed with its accustomed luster, and its very dazzle seemed a mockery.

 

 

Mary scrambled out of the chair after them. Kicking her skirts impatiently out of the way, she lurched to her feet and hurried up the two steps to the dais, as the butler settled Vaughn upon the impeccable blue silk counterpane, moving with all the grave deliberation of an undertaker laying out a corpse. He looked remarkably small in the vast expanse of the bed, his skin nearly as pasty as the two marble nymphs propping up the elaborately curved seashell that formed the headboard.

 

 

Vaughn’s fingers flexed weakly against the silk of the counterpane.

 

 

All but bowling over the butler to get to his side, Mary grasped his hand. His fingers felt miserably cold.

 

 

“Mary…,” he said weakly.

 

 

Mary’s throat constricted uncomfortably.

 

 

“I refuse to enact a touching deathbed scene,” she said harshly. “You’re not dying.”

 

 

Vaughn’s lips twisted up in the ghost of a smile. “If you…say so.”

 

 

His eyes drifted downwards, taking in the blood streaking the front of her formerly white gown.

 

 

“‘Who would have thought the old man would have so much blood in him?’” he murmured, and lapsed back against the pillow, his face as white as the linen beneath his head.

 

 

“Madam?” It was the butler, at the foot of the dais. “The surgeon has arrived.”

 

 

A portly man in a plain black coat and breeches shouldered around him, using his battered leather bag to clear the way in front of him, as though he were used to forcing his way through to the scene of accidents. His wig was askew, sitting sideways on his wide forehead. It was an old-fashioned wig, of the woolly variety. It had presumably better suited the sheep.