Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(26)

Pushing these thoughts from her mind, Sophia stripped the linens from the huge bed. It was difficult work to turn the heavy mattress by herself, but after a great deal of huffing and puffing, she managed to settle it into place. She took pride in her ability to make a bed, stretching the sheets so tautly that one could bounce a coin off them. After smoothing the counterpane and fluffing the pillows, Sophia turned her attention to the pile of clothes on the chair. She draped the black silk cravat over one arm and picked up the discarded white linen shirt.

A pleasant, faintly earthy scent floated to her nostrils, the smell of Sir Ross’s skin permeating the thin fabric. Curious, Sophia held the shirt up to her face, breathing in the fragrance of sweat and shaving soap along with the essence of a virile, healthy male. She had never found a man’s scent so alluring. Despite her supposed love for Anthony, she had never really noticed such details about him. Disgusted with herself, Sophia decided that it must have been the idea of Anthony, the fantasy of him, that she had fallen in love with, rather than the actual man. She had wanted a fairy-tale prince to sweep her off her feet, and Anthony had obligingly played the role until it no longer suited him.

The door opened.

Startled, Sophia dropped the shirt and blanched guiltily. She was appalled to see Sir Ross enter the room, his large body clad in a black coat and trousers. Humiliation flooded her. Oh, that he should have caught her sniffing and fondling his shirt!

But Sir Ross’s usual alertness seemed to have deserted him. In fact, his gaze was slightly unfocused, and Sophia realized that he hadn’t noticed what she was doing. Confounded, she wondered if he had been drinking. That was not like him at all, but it was the only possible reason for the unsteadiness of his gait.

“You are back early from your investigation in Long Acre,” she said. “I—I was just straightening your room.”

He shook his head as if to clear it and approached her.

Sophia backed up against the dresser, staring at him in growing concern. “Are you ill, sir?”

Sir Ross reached her and clutched the dresser on either side of her. His face was bone-white, throwing the blackness of his hair and brows and lashes into startling relief. “We found the man we sought, hiding in a house on Rose Street,” he said. A thick forelock fell over his pale, sweating forehead. “He climbed onto the roof… and jumped to the next house before Sayer could catch him. I joined in the chase… couldn’t let him get away.”

“You were chasing a man on the rooftops?” Sophia was horrified. “But that is dangerous! You could have been hurt.”

“Actually…” Sir Ross looked sheepish, his balance wavering. “When I reached him, he pulled a pistol from his coat.”

“You were shot at?” Sophia scanned his black coat frantically. “Did he hit you? Dear God—” She ran her hands down the front of the tailored wool panels of the coat and found that the left side was cool and slippery. A stifled cry burst from her lips as her palm came away smeared with blood.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Did you tell anyone?” Sophia demanded, frantically pulling him toward the bed. “Have you sent for a doctor?”

“I can tend it myself,” he said testily. “A mere scratch, as I said—” He grunted with pain when Sophia tugged the coat from his shoulders and down his arms.

“Lie down!” She was horrified by the amount of blood that had stained his shirt, leaving his entire left side soaked in scarlet. Unbuttoning the garment, she lifted the fabric from his shoulder and gasped at the sight of an oozing bullet wound. “It is not a scratch, it is a hole. Don’t you dare move. Why in God’s name didn’t you tell someone?”

“It is only a minor injury,” he said grumpily.

Sophia snatched up the shirt from the previous day and pressed it firmly against the welling blood. Sir Ross’s breath hissed between his clenched teeth.

“You obstinate man,” Sophia said, stroking back the lock of hair that had adhered to his damp forehead. “You are not invulnerable, despite what you and everyone else at Bow Street seem to think! Hold this in place while I send for a doctor.”

“Get Jacob Linley,” he muttered. “At this time of evening he is usually across the street at Tom’s.”

“Tom’s coffeehouse?”

Sir Ross nodded, his eyes closing. “Ernest will find him.”

Sophia dashed outside the room, shouting for help. The servants appeared in less than a minute, all of them appearing thunderstruck by the information that Sir Ross had been wounded.

As the servants at Bow Street No. 4 were accustomed to emergencies of one kind or another, they were quick to respond. Ernest scampered away to locate the doctor, Eliza went in search of clean rags and linens, and Lucie ran next door to inform Sir Grant of the situation.

Sophia returned to Sir Ross, her heart pounding in fear when she saw him lying so still on the bed. Gently she took his hand away from the wad of bloodstained cloth and applied more pressure to the wound. He made a rough sound, his eyes slitting open.

“It’s been years since the last time I was shot,” he muttered. “Forgot how damn much it hurts.”

Sophia was overwhelmed with worry. “I hope it hurts,” she said vehemently. “Perhaps that will teach you not to be running about on rooftops! What possessed you to do such a thing?”