Page 19

At last, with aching relief, she heard the creak of the door. Looking down, she spied Patrick, Lady Hays’s elderly retainer, his leathery face peering through the narrow gap.

“Who’s there?” he called into the storm.

“It is Lord Trafford!” Audrey shouted back. “He needs your assistance!”

“Master Julius?”

Patrick swung the door wide and sloshed up the stairs. Flapper’s cage was deposited on the top step just before Lord Trafford’s weight lifted off Audrey’s shoulder. Patrick took him from the other side, grunting under the strain.

Her patient groaned as they navigated the slick steps, each one treacherous. Audrey followed with the birdcage, her shoes squelching with water. Flapper looked thoroughly miserable, feathers sodden and chirruping noiselessly in the falling rain.

Pausing a moment, Audrey turned back toward the street. She saw no sign of anyone watching—no shadowed movement, no figure lingering in the torrent. Visibility was poor. The road was shrouded by the thunderous curtain of rain.

It was a rare storm, she mused. A portent, perhaps?

Yet the timing had been a blessing. Had it not poured, she would have left long before the attack occurred. Lord Trafford might well have been killed.

And now, he was alive.

Because she had stayed.

Julius was surprised how much the slash ached. Miss Gideon had told him earlier it was a shallow wound, but it throbbed with each breath. Perhaps he needed to eat?

Patrick guided him into the warmth of the kitchen, surprisingly spry for a man of his age. There was a steely strength in the aged servant, belying his short stature.

“Have him lie down on the table,” commanded Miss Gideon from behind. Rose came hurrying forward, her broad face wreathed in alarm. Meanwhile, Miss Gideon set her belongings, including the inexplicable birdcage, on a nearby bench and discarded her drenched cape with practiced efficiency.

“Master Julius? What has happened?” Rose’s voice quavered, and Julius felt an unwelcome pang of guilt. He hated involving them.

“No one will know I am here,” he said, more to reassure himself than the others. “I was attacked outside. It is imperative that my presence remain a secret.”

Julius clutched his side and moved toward the worktable with Patrick’s support. Rose hastily cleared away a set of bowls while Julius shrugged out of his overcoat. It fell damply to the bench with a splat, and with Patrick’s help, he pulled off his boots.

Sitting at the table’s edge, Julius swung his legs up to stretch out along the long wooden surface where many a roast had once been carved.

Rose handed him the towel that had been draped over her arm, and he reached up to dry his hair. The familiar scent of hearth and bread and spice enveloped him. His favorite beaver hat was a casualty of the storm, left behind in the road, but he doubted it would have survived its plunge through mud and rain.

“I need hot water to wash the wound,” Miss Gideon said, her tone crisp and assured. Julius let out a quiet breath. Thank the Lord for little Audrey. She had followed her physician father for years, had seen wounds and worse. She was a godsend.

Rose nodded vigorously, her gray hair escaping her mobcap, and bustled toward the hearth to hang a heavy iron kettle.

Miss Gideon’s calm presence was an anchor in the chaos. Julius closed his eyes, letting himself exhale into the stillness. “Rose, do you have something I might eat? I am ravenous.”

Perhaps food would dull the ache and restore some of the strength that had seeped out with his blood.

He could sense Miss Gideon stepping closer. The pressure on his side eased. She had released the makeshift bandage. The gentle rustle of fabric indicated she was adjusting his coat. Her fingers were steady as she unfastened his waistcoat, revealing the ruined linen beneath.

“If Lord Trafford has an appetite,” she said, her voice calm, “we must feed him to keep his strength up.”

The kitchen clanged to life with the sound of pots being drawn forward, and his stomach growled in anticipation.

Cool fingertips ghosted along the edge of his shirt as she tugged it gently from his buckskins, lifting it just enough to expose the wound. Her movements were professional, but still he felt her nearness, felt the fragility of his own state.

“Perhaps …” Julius opened his eyes to find her watching him, silver-gray gaze quietly attentive. “Perhaps under the circumstances, it will be easier to address me as Julius … Audrey?”

There was a glimmer of a smile on her full lips before she returned her attentions to the knife wound. “Very well, Julius.”

Despite his pain, Julius felt an unexpected sense of calm at the sound of his given name on her lips. There was something reassuring about her presence, something steadying. He let his eyes drift shut, grateful for her capable hands and quiet confidence.