Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3)(92)

The resolutely unsentimental words almost made him smile. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

“You’re quite welcome, my lord.”

“May I see her now?”

“Soon. She’s still recovering from the anesthesia. With your permission, I will keep her here in a private room for at least two or three days. I’ll stay around the clock, of course. In the event that a hemorrhage occurs, I’ll be able to operate right away. Now, I must assist Dr. Havelock with some postoperative . . .” The doctor’s voice faded as she noticed two men entering the front door and walking through the lobby. “Who are they?”

“One of them is my footman,” Gabriel said, recognizing Dragon’s towering form. The other man was a stranger.

As they approached, Dragon’s gaze fastened on Gabriel with dark intensity, trying to read his expression.

“The operation was successful,” Gabriel told him.

A look of relief came over the footman’s face, and his shoulders relaxed.

“Did you find Mrs. O’Cairre?” Gabriel asked.

“Yes, milord. She’s being held at Scotland Yard.”

Realizing he hadn’t yet made introductions, Gabriel murmured, “Dr. Gibson, this is my footman, Dragon. That is . . . Drago.”

“It’s Dragon now,” the footman told him in a matter-of-fact tone. “As her ladyship prefers.” He gestured to the man beside him. “Here is the acquaintance I told you about, milord. Mr. Ethan Ransom, of Scotland Yard.”

Ransom was improbably young for a man of his profession. Usually by the time a man was promoted to detective, he had served on the force for a number of years, and had been worn down by the physical hardships of the police beat. He was lean and big-boned, well over the height of five feet and eight inches required by the Metropolitan force. His coloring was Black Irish, with dark hair and dark eyes, and fair skin warmed with a hint of ruddiness.

Gabriel stared at the detective closely, thinking there was something familiar about him.

“Have we met before?” Dr. Gibson demanded of the detective, evidently thinking the same thing.

“We have, doctor,” Ransom replied. “A year and a half ago, Mr. Winterborne asked me to watch over you and Lady Helen, as you went on an errand in a dangerous part of town.”

“Oh, yes.” Dr. Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the man who stalked after us and skulked in the shadows, and interfered needlessly as we went to hire a hansom cab.”

“You were being attacked by a pair of dockyard navvies,” Ransom pointed out gently.

“I had the situation well in hand,” came her brisk reply. “I had already dispatched one man, and was about to put away the other, when you jumped into the fray without even asking.”

“I beg your pardon,” Ransom said gravely. “I thought you might need assistance. Obviously my assumption was incorrect.”

Mollified, Dr. Gibson said in a grudging tone, “I suppose you could hardly be expected to stand by and let a woman do all the fighting. The masculine sense of pride is fragile, after all.”

A smile flashed in Ransom’s eyes, but disappeared quickly. “Doctor, could you briefly describe Lady St. Vincent’s wound for me?”

After receiving a nod of consent from Gabriel, Dr. Gibson replied. “It was a single acute puncture just to the right of the neck, entering an inch above the clavicle and extending three inches deep. It pierced the anterior scalene muscle and lacerated the subclavian artery. Had the artery been severed completely, it would have caused unconsciousness in ten seconds and death in approximately two minutes.”

Gabriel’s stomach dropped at the thought. “The only reason that didn’t happen,” he said, “is because Dragon blocked the forward tug of the knife with his arm.” He glanced at the footman quizzically. “How did you know what she was going to do?”

Dragon spoke while tucking in the loose edge of the makeshift bandage over his arm. “As soon as I saw Mrs. O’Cairre aim for the top of the shoulder, I thought she would jerk the knife down like a pump handle. I once saw a man killed that way in an alley near the club, when I was a boy. Never forgot it. An odd way to stab someone. It made him drop to the ground, and there was no blood.”

“The blood would have drained into the chest cavity and collapsed the lung,” Dr. Gibson said. “Quite an efficient way to murder someone.”

“It’s not the method of a street thug,” Ransom commented. “It’s . . . professional. The technique requires some knowledge of physiology.” He sighed shortly. “I’d like to find out who instructed Mrs. O’Cairre how to do it.”

“Can you not question her?” Dr. Gibson asked.

“Unfortunately the detectives with the seniority are managing the interrogation, and they’re fouling it up so badly, it almost seems deliberate. The only real information we’ll end up with is what Mrs. O’Cairre told Dragon when he caught her.”

“Which is?” Gabriel asked.

“Mrs. O’Cairre and her late husband were part of a group of Irish anarchists who aspire to overthrow the government. Caipíní an Bháis, they call themselves. A splinter group of the Fenians.”

“The man Lady St. Vincent saw in the warehouse is a collaborator,” Dragon added. “Mrs. O’Cairre said he’s a man of position. When he feared his anonymity had been compromised, he told Mrs. O’Cairre to take a knife to Lady St. Vincent. Mrs. O’Cairre says she’s sorry it had to be done, but she couldn’t refuse.”