Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(38)

“Good.” Temperance turned to the footmen. “Fetch some water, as hot as possible, and clean cloths, please. Also, a bottle of strong spirits.”

The footmen left hurriedly.

“Just let me be, man!” Lord Caire’s irritable voice rose from the bed.

Temperance turned to see the valet backing away from his master. Lord Caire sat on the side of the bed, his head hanging, his body listing against the green and brown embroidered bed curtains.

“But, my lord… , ” the poor valet protested.

She sighed. What a very exasperating gentleman Lord Caire was!

She advanced on the bed with determination. “Your wound has grown foul, my lord. You must let Small and me help you.”

Lord Caire swung his head sideways and glared at her out of the corner of his eye like a wild thing. “I’ll let you take care of me, but Small must leave the room. Unless you enjoy an audience?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” she said, far too gently, as she raised his uninjured arm and drew the coat sleeve off him. She frowned at the stain on his right shoulder. “This will be painful, I’m afraid.”

Lord Caire had closed his eyes but he smiled crookedly. “All touch gives me pain. And besides, I have no doubt that any pain you cause me will at least bring you vast amusement.”

“What a terrible thing to say.” Temperance was unaccountably wounded. “Your pain brings me no joy.”

She gently eased the coat sleeve from his shoulder, but despite her efforts, he hissed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as Small deftly unbuttoned Lord Caire’s waistcoat. Caire seemed to have forgotten that he’d ordered the manservant to leave, and she was relieved—undressing him would be hard enough with just the two of them.

“Don’t be,” Lord Caire murmured. “Pain has always been my friend. It reminds me when I venture too near the edge of reason.”

He sounded delirious. Temperance frowned as she examined his shoulder. His wound was seeping and the poisonous fluids had glued his shirt to his body. She looked up to meet the gaze of the valet. From the manservant’s anxious expression, he’d seen the problem as well.

The footmen returned with the hot water and cloths at that moment, trailed by the short, stout butler.

“Set it there,” Temperance directed, pointing to a table by the bed. “Has the doctor been sent for?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the butler said in a sonorous voice.

Small cleared his throat, and when Temperance looked at him, he whispered, “We’d best not wait for the doctor, ma’am. He’s unreliable after seven of the clock.”

Temperance glanced at the elegant gold clock on the bedside table. It was nearing eight at night. “Why not?”

“He drinks,” Lord Caire slurred from the bed. “And his hands shake. Don’t know if I’d let the blighter near me in that state in any case.”

“Well, isn’t there another doctor we can send for?” Temperance asked. For goodness’ sake! Lord Caire was wealthy. He should have plenty of people to look after him.

“I’ll make inquiries, ma’am,” the butler said, and left.

Temperance took up one of the clean linens, soaked it in the near-boiling water, and gently placed it on Lord Caire’s shoulder.

He jerked as if she’d laid a white-hot poker against his bare skin. “God’s blood, madam, do you mean to parboil the flesh from my bones?”

“Not at all,” Temperance replied. “We need to loosen your shirt from the wound so we don’t tear open the stitches when we remove it.”

He swore rather foully.

Temperance chose to ignore that. “Is it true what you said before?”

“What?”

“That all touch pains you?” Terrible of her to take advantage of his condition to quiz him, but she was curious.

He closed his eyes. “Oh, yes.”

For a moment, Temperance stared at him, this wealthy, titled aristocrat. How could the touch of another human being possibly hurt him? But perhaps the pain he spoke of wasn’t purely physical.

She shook her head and looked at the valet. “Is there anyone we should send for? A relative or a friend of Lord Caire’s?”

The valet hummed under his breath and his eyes slid from hers. “Ah… I’m not sure…”

“Tell her, Small,” Lord Caire rumbled. His eyes were closed, but his hearing apparently was quite acute.

Small gulped. “No, ma’am.”

Temperance frowned, rinsing out the linen and applying it afresh. “I know you’re estranged from your mother—”

“No.”

She sighed. “Surely there’s someone, Caire?”

Both men were silent. Oddly the valet seemed more embarrassed than Lord Caire. Caire merely looked bored.

“What about, er”—Temperance kept her eyes on the hot linen she was holding to his shoulder, the heat rising in her cheeks—“a… a female you might be close to?”

Lord Caire chuckled softly and opened his eyes. They were far too bright. “Small, when was the last time you saw a female other than a maidservant step foot in this house?”

“Never.” The valet’s eyes were fixed on his shoes.

“You’re the first lady to cross my threshold in ten years, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire drawled. “The last one was my mother, the day I ushered her from my home. On the whole, I think you ought to be flattered, don’t you?”