A Spy's Devotion (The Regency Spies of London #1)(75)

People were exclaiming all around them, and those on the street stood back to let them pass, staring very pointedly at her.

She lifted her hand. It was indeed quite bloody. But at least all her fingers were present.

“I do not think I am injured very badly. I think I can walk.”

He only glanced at her, his brows drawn together, and kept up his fast pace.

Soon they reached the Bartholdys’ tiny house. “Knock,” he ordered.

Julia knocked on the door with her uninjured hand. Nicholas Langdon tried to open the door, but it was locked.

A servant opened to them. She stepped back when she saw Mr. Langdon holding Julia.

Everything around her became a bit hazy. He laid her on a settee and knelt beside her.

“Bring something to staunch the bleeding,” he ordered. Was he angry? He sounded angry. Madame Bartholdy was running around in such a distracted way, calling out instructions to their servant. Julia was hardly aware of anything but Nicholas Langdon hovering over her, his face contorted with obvious anguish.

Nicholas stared down at Julia’s side, pressing his hands against it.

“You are spoiling your gloves.” It was the only thing she could think to say as the bright-red stains spread over his fingers.

“Send the servant to fetch a physician.” He glanced up at Madame Bartholdy.

“Yes, of course,” she said in her thick accent. Then she turned to give instructions to the poor servant, who looked as if she might faint.

“Are you in much pain?” He was staring down at her in that intense way of his, his brown eyes quite close to hers as he continued to press his hands into her side—until Madame Bartholdy brought a bundle of cloth bandages. He took them and pressed them against the wound.

“Not if you wouldn’t press so hard.”

“I am sorry, but I don’t want you to lose too much blood.”

Everything seemed like a dream and not entirely real.

He leaned quite close again and said, “How can I ever forgive myself? Oh, Julia, why did you do it?”

The pain—and his calling her by her given name, Julia, instead of Miss Grey—seemed to wake her out of her dreamlike state. She had been shot. Oh dear. And she had screamed his Christian name just before the first shot came.

She gazed up into his tense face. “I thank God you were not hurt, that I reached you in time.”

Madame Bartholdy suddenly knelt beside him. “Let me do that. You comfort Miss Grey.”

Nicholas Langdon moved closer to where Julia’s head lay on the settee. The pain was suddenly so sharp she was having trouble catching her breath.

Mr. Langdon snatched off his soiled gloves and threw them on the floor. He picked up her injured hand, took up one of the cloth bandages, and wiped at the blood.

“It looks as if he only nicked the side of your finger, here.” He showed her and then he ripped the cloth into a long strip and wrapped it around the wound, tying it in place.

“Whatever you were holding, it must have stopped the bullet from hitting my chest.”

“My parents’ cross.”

“What? A cross?”

“The surgeon is coming,” the servant announced, running back into the room. “I found him walking this way. He was on his way home from another call.”

“There are no physicians nearby, but a surgeon may do almost as well,” Madame Bartholdy said apologetically.

An older man came in the door and made his way toward them, finding a table to set down his bag.

“The second bullet must have struck your side,” Nicholas Langdon said. “Do you know who did it?”

“I don’t know his name. He had pockmarks on his face and brown hair. My uncle told him to shoot you. He sent you the note. It was not from Mr. Wilson at all. I was so afraid I wouldn’t get there in time.” Her last few words came out as a whisper.

Nicholas Langdon bent and kissed her wrist and then stood as the surgeon drew near and began asking questions.

Monsieur Bartholdy said, “Mr. Langdon? Come. We men are not needed for this next phase of the operation.”

Where was Monsieur Bartholdy taking him? But when the surgeon cut a hole in the side of her muslin gown, Julia was glad he was gone.

The surgeon washed away the blood. “Glory be. This is but a flesh wound. The bullet merely scraped you, child, and kept going. You shall require no more than a bandage.” He shook his head, smiling. “You are a very fortunate young lady.”

Only a flesh wound. That was good. She waited impatiently as he applied some kind of salve to the wound and then bandaged it with Madame Bartholdy’s help.

“Madame Bartholdy,” Julia said, reaching for that lady’s hand, “please tell Mr. Langdon that he must get away from here. He could still be in danger.”

“You can tell him so yourself,” she said cheerfully, laying a thin shawl over Julia to ensure her modesty. “I’ll go get him.”

“Now, miss, I think you will be well.” The surgeon was packing up his things. “Change your bandage once or twice a day and do not do anything strenuous for several days.”

“Oh, I must pay you.” She could not allow the Bartholdys to bear the expense.

“I will take care of it,” Nicholas Langdon said as he strode toward her. He and the surgeon spoke quietly with each other in the corner of the room for a few moments before he came toward her.