Lady Alameda charged into the bedroom, her hair awry and an expression on her face that would have put Medusa to the blush. “Good God! What happened? Is he dead?”
Elizabeth didn’t know if the countess referred to her nephew or the Frenchman on the floor, and she had neither the time nor the inclination to look at Merót. No time to be sick.
“Send for a doctor.” Elizabeth ordered.
“You heard her, man. Go! Send a rider. Fetch the sawbones, and hurry up about it.” Lady Alameda shoved a manservant out of the door. She turned to her brother. “William, what are you doing out of bed?”
Lord Ransley’s coughing subsided. He stooped over, breathing heavily, a kerchief pressed to his lips. “Lad was in a bit of a tangle.”
“So I see. Excellent shooting.”
Lord Ransley had no interest in surveying his marksmanship. He shuffled toward Elizabeth. “How bad is it?”
Elizabeth cautiously slid her hand under Valen’s shoulder, probing to see if the bullet had passed through. It hadn’t. She sighed, bowing her head as she answered. “I pray it did not hit his lung. But the lead is still lodged in his shoulder.”
For a moment she thought grief would overtake the frail lord, but his countenance suddenly turned resolute. “Honore! Tell the rider I will pay a hundred sovereigns if he carries the doctor back within the hour.”
Lady Alameda wasted no time. She ran to the window and leaned out. “You there!” She relayed Lord Ransley’s promise to the messenger as he ran to the stables. Indeed, the lady’s voice bellowed with such force Elizabeth calculated half of Britain had heard the offer.
“What shall we do in the meantime?” Elizabeth pulled a blanket up over Valen, thinking his quaking meant he must be cold.
Lady Alameda turned from the window. “We’ll need some whiskey. You there—build a fire. We’ll want potash if the wound turns sour.”
Lord Ransley dropped resignedly into a chair. “Cart that vermin out of here.” He waved at Merót’s body.
Servants sprang forward to rid the room of The Fox’s remains.
“I should have acted more quickly.” Lord Ransley lowered his head into his hands.
“Don’t!” His sister commanded and patted his shoulder. “He will not die. Far too stubborn, our Valen. You have my word on it.”
He glanced up at the wild-haired countess. Hope flickered in his eyes, but it was only a small candle standing in a breeze. “Would that I could hold you to it.”
Valen groaned.
“Laudanum. Find some laudanum.” Lady Alameda clapped her hands at the maid who was on her knees wiping up blood from the floor. “Run, girl.”
Elizabeth held Valen down while Lady Alameda poured hot whiskey into the wound. He roared like a lion. His eyes flew open, but they were wild and unseeing. Both women nearly landed on the floor when he fought them off.
After she regained her equilibrium, Lady Alameda adjusted her bed jacket and leaned cautiously over their delirious patient. She glanced up at Elizabeth. “Clearly I didn’t dose him enough.”
That seemed impossible considering the amount they’d forced him to swallow.
Finally the doctor arrived, his clothing askew, his hair mussed, looking as if he’d been snatched out of bed, thrust on a horse, and hauled across the countryside with the devil nipping his heels. Which must have been exactly what happened.
He blinked when he entered the brightly lit room gripping a leather case in one hand and lugging an apothecary box in the other. “What happened?”
Lady Alameda exhaled loudly. “For pity’s sake! Isn’t it obvious? He’s been shot. The ball is still in and you must take it out.” It sounded such a simple thing, like removing a loaf of baked bread from the oven.
It would not be simple. Elizabeth dreaded the procedure, but it must be done. She vowed she would not get sick. She would see it through. Assist in whatever way she might.
The gentleman didn’t look much of a doctor, a pock-faced middle-aged man, far too reluctant as he peeked at his patient. “Fellow this size—we’ll need a couple strong lads to hold him down.”
Lady Alameda had her hands on her hips. “I dosed him quite heavily with laudanum.”
“So I see.” He pulled up Valen’s eyelids and checked the pupils. “Ought to have waited until after. But never mind. We’ll still need two men.”
Lord Ransley coughed and added in a hoarse voice. “I’ll triple your customary fee if he lives.”
The hesitant doctor was not immune to this incentive. “Right.” Suddenly more confident, he rolled up his sleeves and frowned at his benefactor. “Lord Ransley, you ought return to bed. It’ll do no good to stay here. The strain will be too much for you. I cannot cope with two crises at once.” He opened the latch on his leather case and displayed a frightening set of instruments. “As soon as the procedure is complete, I shall bring you a full accounting.”
Lord Ransley answered with a coughing fit, and then relented. “So be it, but I insist you report to me as soon as possible.” Lady Alameda assisted her brother back to his room.
The surgeon turned to Elizabeth. “And you, young lady, off to bed as well. This is no place for the faint of heart.”
“This is my bed.” Elizabeth straightened her shoulders and elevated her chin stubbornly. “And I am certainly not fainthearted,” she lied. “I’m staying. You’ll need my help.”
“Very well, but I’ll not have you getting missish on me.” The doctor selected several gruesome-looking tools and placed them on the bed table. He raised a long slender probe and directed two footmen to hold Lord St. Evert up in a sitting position. Elizabeth prayed fervently that she’d be able to live up to her promise. The doctor inserted the probe and began his grisly search for the bullet and any other matter that might have been carried into the wound.
Valen groaned in agony, clenching his teeth. The footmen tightened their grips, although, amazingly, he seemed to be cooperating.
“Surely he can’t be conscious?” Elizabeth held her hand over her
