Most of the activity seemed centered at the top of the central stairs, so she balanced the heavy tray down the upper hall in that direction.
She could hear Lord Dare’s voice shouting orders, so he, at least, was alive—and cursing. He was a physician. She wouldn’t worry about him.
Closer up, she could hear men consulting in quieter voices. The marquess? He, too, was a physician and reportedly a Malcolm healer. She eased nearer that conversation.
“Look for an exit wound. If there is none, you’ll have to cut into that hole and remove the bullet. Have they taught you that yet?”
Iona winced. But surely that meant either Phoebe’s husband or Gerard was still alive or they wouldn’t be operating.
A pair of gangly students abruptly emerged from the nearest chamber, off to dig into a bullet hole. Iona took a step back but they scarcely noticed her as they dashed the other way, past the door where Dare was shouting at his minions.
The marquess might recognize her, but she had to know—
Boldly, she carried the tray into the chamber he occupied.
Lord Ives lay half naked on the bed. She almost swallowed her tongue at the sight of broad, muscled shoulders and chest, except the blood everywhere had her swaying as badly as Isobel.
His valet—his own wrist heavily wrapped in bandages—attempted to remove his employer’s boots. A frightened maid dabbed at the blood running from the earl’s shoulder. The marquess alternately sponged blood from his patient’s hair to find the wound while attempting to staunch the bleeding gap revealed.
Iona had seen wounds sutured. She didn’t like watching, but she knew what it involved. She hardened her senses against the roiling odors of pain and fear. At least Gerard was unconscious, and it was only the servants she sensed. The marquess was oddly—odorless.
Setting the tray down, she washed in the basin by the table, picked up a roll of gauze, and made a thick compress.
Barely looking at her, the marquess nodded approval. “If you can press down on that part, I’ll start work on this end.”
Iona stayed silent in fear that any moment he would recognize her.
Another student rushed in to help with the shoulder wound. The maid retreated to help Lowell with the boots.
Another student arrived and was sent for clean water. The marquess calmly stitched at the head wound.
Lord Dare walked in just as Iona stepped back to allow Rainford to finish stitching. The physician/viscount wore his shirt unfastened and a bandage around his torso, but he seemed otherwise able and willing.
He glanced at Iona, and she was sure he recognized her, but he said nothing as he took over treating the shoulder wound.
Iona hovered in the shadows, praying. She tried to concentrate on the earl’s splendid muscles, but mostly, she watched him breathe. It wasn’t steady. He appeared to be gasping but that didn’t seem to concern the men. She took a breath for each of his, willing him to live. She tried not to watch too closely as one of the students sponged off all the blood.
“Drew has a bullet lodged in his thigh from a ricochet.” Lord Dare began winding gauze around the earl’s shoulder. “You should probably look at him next. I just have cracked ribs.”
“Ran into a chair, did you?” The marquess knotted his thread and held out his hand. Iona hurriedly handed him a clean bandage. “And Drew couldn’t pry his pistol out of his pocket?”
“It’s either that or tell the police Ives knocked us flying to protect us from a hail of bullets he couldn’t have seen coming. Your choice.”
Iona felt as if their words were directed at her. She hadn’t helped Gerard do any of that. All she had done was try to murder a man with bees.
Bees. There had been lots of bees. They shouldn’t have been near the earl. . .
She had nothing to offer to explain what he’d done.
“Exceptional hearing,” the marquess suggested when she didn’t claim responsibility. “But the chair and pistol will satisfy the authorities.”
Iona wanted to shout That won’t get those monsters hanged! But she didn’t know how the law worked. The thugs might hang simply for carrying weapons—provided they were caught.
Rainford washed his hands and finally glanced at Iona. “That’s what you’ll tell everyone, right? Ives likes his privacy.”
“I was there. I saw it all,” she agreed solemnly. “Lowell did, too.” She nodded at the valet.
Lowell set down the boots he’d finally pried off. “Broken chairs all over. Scoundrels flung them about. Pistols fire when that happens.”
“Right. Let’s take a look at Blair. Tell us if this scoundrel wakes.” The slender marquess picked up his bag of supplies and stalked out, looking almost regal in his evening tails.
“He’ll make a proper duke one day,” Lowell said in admiration as the maid and students followed the physicians. Lowell was no fool. He recognized her too.
Iona wasn’t interested in the handsome marquess or his future dukedom. “I sent for Aunt Winifred. She’s a healer, but Lord Ives won’t appreciate her.”
Lowell furrowed his already wrinkled brow. “Head wounds can be bad. More important that he gets well than mad. You oughtn’t be here.”
“Just until Winifred arrives,” she promised. She nodded at the valet’s bandaged wrist. “You probably need a stiff drink and some rest. Does that door over there lead to a dressing room?”
Lowell peered in. “With a cot. Why don’t you wait there?”
“I’m not injured. You are. I smell whisky in that teapot. It’s cold. Does that matter?”
Lowell looked longingly at the tray, then back to his employer.
“Take it. That’s an order.” Looking less like a countess than she ever had, but commanding as if she’d been in authority all her life, Iona pulled a chair up to the bedside. She felt half naked in
