Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(61)

“It was Lord Trenear’s decision. It’s a private matter, he told me.”

Garrett didn’t move. “What are the names of the family dogs?”

The footman looked slightly affronted. “Napoleon and Josephine. Little black spaniels.”

“Tell me one of Lady Pandora’s words.”

Pandora, one of the twins, often used made-up words such as frustraging or flopulous, when the ordinary ones didn’t suit her. Despite her attempts to curb the habit, they still slipped out from time to time.

The footman thought for a moment. “Lambnesia?” he ventured, as if hoping that would satisfy her. “She said it when Lady Trenear misplaced her basket of wool knitting yarn.”

That sounded like Pandora. Garrett gave him a decisive nod. “Let’s proceed.”

The drive from King’s Cross to Ravenel House, on South Audley, was approximately three and a half miles, but it felt like three hundred. Garrett simmered with impatience as she held her doctor’s bag on her lap and kept a hand on the basket of rattling, sloshing bottles beside her. She was eager to do whatever she could for the Ravenels, who had always been gracious and kind, and had never put on airs despite their elevated social status.

The current earl, Devon, Lord Trenear, was a distant Ravenel cousin who had inherited the title unexpectedly after the last two earls had died in quick succession. Although Devon was a young man with no experience at running a large estate and managing its attendant financial obligations, he had shouldered the burden admirably. He had also taken responsibility for the three Ravenel sisters, Helen, Pandora, and Cassandra, all unmarried at the time, when he could have easily thrown them to the wolves.

At last the stately Jacobean house came into view, its squared-off shape ornamented with lavish scrolls, pilasters, arches, and parapets. For all its great size, the residence was welcoming and warm, comfortably mellowed with age. As soon as the carriage stopped, one footman was there to open the door while another reached in to assist Garrett.

“Take this,” Garrett said without preamble, handing the basket of supplies to him. “Be careful—most of these chemicals are caustic and highly flammable.”

The footman shot her a glance of suppressed alarm and gripped the basket carefully.

Garrett alighted from the carriage by herself and strode across the flagstone tiles to the front steps of the house, almost running in her haste.

Two women waited for her at the threshold: the plump silver-haired housekeeper, Mrs. Abbot, and Lady Cassandra, a fair-haired young woman with blue eyes and the kind of face that belonged on a cameo. Behind them, the grand entrance hall bustled with a sense of controlled panic, housemaids and footmen running back and forth with cans of water, and what appeared to be dirty toweling and linens.

Garrett’s nose twitched as she caught an ambient scent in the air, a taint of some kind of organic matter mixed with caustic chemicals . . . whatever its source, the smell was rank and rotten.

The housekeeper helped Garrett remove her hat and coat.

“Dr. Gibson,” Cassandra said, her pretty features drawn and anxious. “Thank goodness you arrived so quickly.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I’m not altogether sure. A man was brought here earlier by the river police, only they asked us not to tell anyone about it. He was thrown into the river, and they said when they pulled him out, they thought he was dead, but then he started coughing and groaning. They brought him here because he was carrying one of Cousin West’s calling cards in his wallet, and they didn’t know where else to take him.”

“Poor fellow,” Garrett said quietly. Even a healthy man who’d been exposed to the toxic waters of the Thames would become seriously ill from it. “Where is he now?”

“They carried him into the double library,” Mrs. Abbot said, gesturing toward a nearby hallway. “It’s a dreadful mess in there. Lord and Lady Trenear have been trying to wash the filth from him and make him more comfortable.” She shook her head and fretted, “The carpets . . . the furniture . . . no doubt all ruined.”

“Why would an earl and countess personally tend to a stranger?” Garrett asked, puzzled.

A new voice joined the conversation as a man approached them from the hallway. “He’s not a stranger.” His voice was deep and easy, the accent refined.

As Garrett turned to face him, a shock of excitement and confusion stopped her breath. Ethan. Blue, blue eyes . . . the dark hair . . . the big, athletic frame . . . but it was not him. A leaden weight of disappointment settled over her, followed by a chill of premonition.

“I’m West Ravenel.” The man glanced beyond her to Cassandra. “Darling,” he murmured, “let me have a few moments with the doctor.” The girl left at once, accompanied by the housekeeper. Turning back to Garrett, Ravenel said quietly, “The wounded man is an acquaintance of yours. You’re here because he asked for you.”

Cold barbs of fear lodged in Garrett’s chest. The few bites of mincemeat she’d had earlier seemed to rise in her esophagus. Swallowing against the nausea, she forced herself to ask, “Is it Mr. Ransom?”

“Yes.”

More sharp spikes were driven into her chest, pinning her pounding heart in place. She felt her face contorting, spasming.

Ravenel spoke with measured slowness, trying to give her time to absorb the information. “There’s a bullet in his chest. He’s lost a great deal of blood. The wound doesn’t seem to be bleeding now, but his condition is very bad. He goes in and out of consciousness. We sent for you not out of any hope that you could heal him, but because he wanted to see you one last time.”