Mad About the Marquess by Elizabeth Essex

Author:Elizabeth Essex
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: ERB Publishing
Published: 2016-04-04T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Alasdair knew exactly what he was doing—it was as if the words had been in his head, fully formed, and waiting for just the right moment to assert themselves. Desperate times called for desperate measures. And they were beyond desperate.

“My lady, forgive me.” Alasdair rose to face his future mother-in-law. “But your daughter has been injured.”

“Injured.” Quince’s voice was made petulant by the pain. “He shot me.”

“My God, Quince!” Her mother was at the bed in an instant. “Where?”

“On the Leith Links.”

“Oh, good heavens. I meant where on your person, though I hope there is also to be some explanation for why the two of you were out on the Leith Links shooting at each other in the middle of the night.”

“By accident. Though he was the only one shooting. And it’s my arm.”

“Even so—” Lady Winthrop was already delicately peeling back the blood-caked linen.

“Along the side, there.” Quince broke off, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. She hissed another breath or two between her teeth before she went on. “I don’t think anything is broken. You needn’t take on so.”

“I have already sent for a physician, my lady,” Alasdair hastened to assure Lady Winthrop. “Though I think perhaps a surgeon ought also to be called.”

“Mr. Talent will do,” Quince insisted. “Even though he’s a physician, he’s not so particular and nice about titles, or so squeamish that he won’t dirty his hands doing a surgeon’s work.”

“You seem to know this Reverend Talent fellow fairly well.” Alasdair could not seem to help the derision in his tone. “You spent some considerable time alone with him this evening.”

Quince didn’t give anything away. “I know him well enough.”

He was sure she would have tossed up her shoulder in a shrug if she had been able—that shrug that he was coming to recognize as meaning she was concealing something.

Lady Winthrop spoke over their fruitless exchange. “Mrs. Mowatt,” she directed her housekeeper, “if you would see the physician up as discreetly as possible, please? And if you would furnish him with whatever necessary items he might request upon his arrival. But bring some dark cloths as soon as possible.” She turned back to scold her daughter. “You’re bleeding all over the coverlet.”

“That’s what I told him.” Quince was still trying to be nonchalant, but he could see her lips were white with the effort to suppress the pain. “Pass me the basin from the stand, and I’ll bleed into that.”

“Yes.” Lady Winthrop was as practical as her daughter, and held out her hand for Strathcairn to pass the basin and ewer to her. “My lord, if you would? And then you may leave.”

“Certainly.” He passed the articles in question. “But I should like to speak to you, and my Lord Winthrop, if I may.”

Lady Winthrop spared him only the barest of looks. “Yes, when Quince has been tended to. Ah, thank you, Mrs. Mowatt.” With the housekeeper’s assistance, Lady Winthrop fussed over her daughter’s arm, bringing over a table and a lamp upon which to place the basin and examine the long, oozing wound.

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