Danger Wears White. Lynne Connolly
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nothing but a few wisps that stuck to his shiny boot. Served him right.
One of the Georges must have been here. Thank God for that. They’d cleaned up the blood and taken the rags away. There really was nothing to see.
Had this man suspected something? But he turned to her, his smile as charming as ever and his eyes warm, for a change. “We should not linger. You’re right, this place is dangerous. Whatever you plan to do next, I’d have it demolished.”
“You’re right, sir.” She felt like adding something sarcastic along the lines of informing him that she didn’t know how she’d have managed without him. But she forbore. He might take it seriously.
He followed her to her horse and kindly threw her up into the saddle so she didn’t have to lead the mare over to the tree stump. He mounted with an ease that spoke of hours spent riding. But a mite showy for her taste, even though he didn’t appear to think about it. Like his riding habit. Perfectly fashionable, slightly flamboyant, but it made her uncomfortable, as if she weren’t good enough in some way.
Imogen didn’t like feeling like that in her own place, but she did him the courtesy of believing he might not mean it. It was probably his way, but if she threw in her lot with him, he would be forever challenging her to match him.
She caught herself short. What was she thinking? This man had gently hinted, that was all. Probably had no intention of putting himself in the picture, but giving her some guidance. After all, he’d been on the town all his life.
Why had her mind turned to something she’d determinedly put out of it? Nothing had changed, except two handsome men had come into her life. Temporarily. Nothing else. In a few days, they’d move on, both of them, and she’d settle back into her everyday life. Maybe she should practice on him. Or maybe she should continue as she was and not try to add any airs and graces to something she was not.
They turned back to the house, but she had no chance to visit either of the Georges, who were outside servants, before it was time to change for dinner.
She chose a different gown from the night before. Unusual in itself. Once she chose a dinner gown, she wore it for a week before she sent it to the laundry. But she felt she owed their guest something.
Her mother had asked the vicar tonight, alongside the squire. A perfect country gathering and a perfect bore. Just as she liked it, she assured herself. Lord Dankworth was perfectly affable, although at times he showed a little impatience with the entrenched attitudes of the guests. The squire’s daughter showed an alarming propensity to flutter her fan and giggle, something she’d never done before.
Lord Dankworth responded with cool pleasantries and once exchanged a speaking glance with Imogen that told her he preferred her company. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and forced a stiff smile to her face.
The squire showed no desire to join the ladies immediately after the meal, so she had a reason to excuse herself. Pleading a headache, she ignored her mother’s disapproving frowns and made her escape.
Hurrying upstairs, she got to her room without anyone stopping her. Laughter echoed from the dining room and up the stairs as she scurried along the corridor to her room.
She wouldn’t pause to change, but dropped her hooped petticoat, fan, shoes, and stockings in her room and went straight to the Long Gallery. She could see him and get back to the safety of her bedroom.
But she had to see him. Had one of the Georges brought the small beer she’d requested? She couldn’t provide tea or barley-water. People would ask what she wanted it for, and she could hardly tell them.
Even before she slid the panel aside she heard muttering. When she had it open and had slid through, she wasted little time replacing the piece of wood before she leaped down the short flight of steps and ran across the room to his side.
His eyes were half closed, and he’d been thrashing around, twisting the sheets into tangled knots. As she approached, he flung an arm out, barely missing her. It skimmed past her body, sending a breeze across her cheek.
Sweat bedewed his brow, and he’d torn his shirt in his efforts to remove it. Each muscle tensed when he turned. It shouldn’t be like that.
Dark blood stained the bandage that last night had been clear.
Leaning over him, she captured the arm. The knot was too tight, the flesh of his arm bulging top and bottom. The pulse in his throat throbbed, and he didn’t seem to be aware of her until she caught his wrist.
“No!”
He fought back. She was no match for him. He pushed her away.
The panel slid aside with a scrape of wood, and Imogen held her breath.
“Miss?”
She sighed in relief when she saw Young George’s anxious face. “It’s the wound. He’s taken a fever. We need to drain it. Can you get water, a knife?”
Turning, she spotted the table knife sticking out from under the pillow and seized it.
“No, miss, he’s too strong for you.” Young George scrambled down the steps and crossed to her side, taking Tony’s wrist. “Now do it.”
She sliced through the knot she’d been so proud of last night and unwrapped the bandage.
The stink filtered through the room before she got off the last part. The wound was swollen and red. Pus seeped from it. “It’s gone wrong.”
“It’s not too bad, miss. I’ve seen men recover from worse.”
“Can we manage it between us?”
Young George grunted. “I don’t know, miss. If we don’t manage it tonight, we’ll ’ave to call for help.”
He was right. “So you’ll stay with me?”
He stared, his brows raised. “Of course. Now you mop up this mess but keep out of ’is way if he moves around too much. I’ll get what we need.”
As good as his word, George was back within twenty minutes with supplies. Those twenty minutes had been the longest in Imogen’s life.
Tony turned restlessly, muttering incomprehensible half-words. Once he shouted, “Julius!” and she had to stop him before someone came.
She said his name, “Tony,” and immediately he quietened and opened his eyes, gazing at her. For a moment, he appeared perfectly lucid, cupping her cheek softly, and then he was off again.
“I know,” he said then, and panted as if he’d run for miles.
She used the old sheet to wipe some of the sweat from his chest and face, but she daren’t touch the wound. The suppurating mess had become so bad so fast that she could hardly believe it, but they didn’t clean bullets before they fired them.
When Young George returned, he carried a bucket of fresh water, clean rags for bandages, and another cask of small beer. “Best ’e drinks, miss,” he said. “’E’s sweatin’ it out too fast.” He’d also brought another tankard. “We need to keep ’im clean. Listen, miss, if I ’old him down, can you clean him up?”
She swallowed. She too had seen her share of injuries, but never had they affected her in this way. Fearing for his life, she grabbed a rag, soaked it in the water bucket, and wrung it out.
By then, Young George had Tony pinioned by the simple expedient of climbing on the bed, straddling and clamping Tony’s lower body between his thighs, and grasping Tony’s elbows. That held the wound rigid enough for Imogen to work on.
Before she joined the scramble, she paused to unhook and remove her gown, leaving her in her fancy petticoat, stays, and shift. Plenty for modesty. She’d worn as little when she’d labored in the fields when they were short of hands. She had no time for embarrassment.
If her bosom fell out of her stays completely, she wouldn’t care. She only concentrated on cleaning the wound, eliminating every trace