And then there was the head wound.
She shook her head. He lay so still and white. No wonder she’d mistaken him for dead. But all the same, Hedge could’ve already been on his way to Doctor Fremont in the time they’d taken to argue over the poor man.
Lucy checked again that he was breathing, her palm hovering above his lips. His breath was light but even. She smoothed the back of her hand over his cold cheek. Almost invisible stubble caught at her fingers. Who was he? Maiden Hill was not so big that a stranger could pass through it without notice. Yet she had heard no gossip about visitors on her rounds this afternoon. Somehow he’d appeared here in the lane without anyone noticing. Then, too, the man had been obviously beaten and robbed. Why? Was he merely a victim, or had he somehow brought this fate upon himself?
Lucy hugged herself on the last thought and prayed Hedge would hurry. The light was fading fast and with it what little warmth the day had held. A wounded man lying exposed to the elements for Lord knows how long . . . She bit her lip.
If Hedge didn’t return soon, there would be no need of a doctor.
“HE’S DEAD.”
The harsh words, spoken at Sir Rupert Fletcher’s side, were much too loud in the crowded ballroom. He glanced around to see who stood near enough to overhear, then stepped closer to the speaker, Quincy James.
Sir Rupert gripped the ebony cane in his right hand, trying not to let his irritation show. Or his surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said.” James smirked. “He’s dead.”
“You’ve killed him?”
“Not me. I sent my men to do it.”
Sir Rupert frowned, trying to comprehend this information. James had settled on a course of action by himself, and it had succeeded? “How many?” he abruptly asked. “Your men.”
The younger man shrugged. “Three. More than enough.”
“When?”
“Early this morning. I had a report just before I left.” James flashed a cocky grin that gave him boyish dimples. Seeing his light blue eyes, regular English features, and athletic form, most would think him a pleasant, even attractive, young man.
Most would be wrong.
“I trust the matter cannot be traced back to you.” Despite his efforts, an edge must’ve crept into Sir Rupert’s voice.
James lost the smile. “Dead men can’t tell tales.”
“Humph.” What an idiot. “Where did they do it?”
“Outside his town house.”
Sir Rupert swore softly. To waylay a peer of the realm outside his own home in broad daylight was the work of a half-wit. His bad leg was giving him the very devil tonight and now this nonsense from James. He leaned more heavily on the ebony cane as he tried to think.
“Don’t get worked up.” James smiled nervously. “N-n-no one saw them.”
The elder man arched an eyebrow. Lord save him from aristocrats who decided to think—let alone act—on their own. There’d been too many generations of leisure for the typical lordling to easily find his own prick to piss with, never mind something more complicated like planning an assassination.
James was blithely unaware of Sir Rupert’s thoughts. “Besides, they stripped the body and dumped it half a day’s ride outside London. Nobody’ll know him there. By the time it’s found, there won’t be much to recognize, will there? P-p-perfectly safe.” The younger man’s hand crawled up to poke a finger into his golden-yellow hair. He wore it unpowdered, probably as a vanity.
Sir Rupert took a sip of Madeira as he contemplated this latest development. The ballroom was a stifling crush, redolent of burning wax, heavy perfume, and body odor. The French doors leading into the garden had been thrown open to let in the cool night air, but they had little effect on the room’s heat. The punch had given out a half hour before, and there were several hours yet before the midnight buffet. Sir Rupert grimaced. He didn’t hold out much hope for the refreshments. Lord Harrington, his host, was notoriously stingy, even when entertaining the cream of society—and a few upstarts such as Sir Rupert.
A narrow space had been cleared in the middle of the room for the dancers. They swirled in a rainbow of colors. Lasses in embroidered gowns and powdered hair. Gentlemen turned out in wigs and their uncomfortable best. He didn’t envy the young people the pretty movements. They must be dripping sweat under their silks and lace. Lord Harrington would be gratified at the massive turnout so early in the season—or rather, Lady Harrington would. That lady had five unmarried daughters, and she marshaled her forces like an experienced campaigner readying for battle. Four of her daughters were on the floor, each on the arm of an eligible gentleman.
Not that he could stand in judgment with three daughters under the age of four and twenty himself. All of them out of the schoolroom, all of them in need of suitable husbands. In fact . . . Matilda caught his eye from some twenty paces away where she stood with Sarah. She arched a brow and looked meaningfully at young Quincy James, who was still standing beside him.
Sir Rupert shook his head slightly—he’d rather let one of his daughters marry a rabid dog. Their communication was well developed after nearly three decades of marriage. His lady wife turned smoothly away to chat animatedly with another matron without ever revealing that she had exchanged information with her husband. Later tonight she might quiz him about James and ask why the young man wasn’t up to snuff, but she wouldn’t dream of badgering her husband right now.
If only his other partners were so circumspect.
“I don’t know why you’re worried.” James apparently couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “He never knew about you. Nobody knew about you.”
“And I prefer to keep it that way,” Sir Rupert said mildly. “For all of our sakes.”
“I wager you would. You left m-m-me and Walker and the other two for him to hunt in your stead.”
“He would’ve found you and the others in any case.”
“There’s s-s-some who would still like to know about you.” James scratched at his scalp so violently he nearly dislodged his queue.
“But it would not be in your best interest to betray me,” Sir Rupert said flatly. He bowed to a passing acquaintance.
“I’m not saying I would let it out.”
“Good. You profited as much as I from the business.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then all’s well that ends well.”