The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(93)

“His chambers. Won’t let anyone in, not even a doctor. Most the staff’s already left. Figure we’ll all be out on the street in a day or two.”

Without another word, the woman turned and shuffled to the corridor. Must be his cook, Sophie thought, and followed. “Stairs,” the woman mumbled, handed Sophie her lamp, and continued on.

A few wrong turns, but Sophie finally found the master apartments. Inside, the air was cold and stale, the fire left untended. Moonlight trickled in from the windows, enough to allow her to see a large shape, motionless, under the coverlet. Quint. Please, God, let him be alive.

She rushed over, and then nearly gasped. Dear heavens. His condition was worse than she’d feared. His skin was flushed, his lips cracked and swollen. His eyes were closed, blue-black smudges underneath them. Unable to breathe for the fear, she reached out to feel the side of his throat not covered with a bandage. Though his skin burned to the touch, she exhaled in relief. A pulse. Weak, but there.

She set her light on the table beside him. “Oh, Damien,” she whispered, unable to resist gently smoothing the damp hair off his fevered brow. “This is what you get for eschewing a valet, you stupid man.”

A strangled, pained sound came out of his throat when she checked the wound. Now red and ugly, the hole oozed when she gently poked it. He made another noise and weakly tried to shift away. At least he’d shown signs of life. Striding to the bell pull, she began a mental list of all the items she required.

Had she arrived in time, or was it too late? Ignoring the worry in her gut, she vowed not to fail. He would not die.

“Hear that, Quint?” she said loudly. “You. Will. Not. Die.”

After ten minutes and many tugs on the bell, a weary, rumpled footman finally arrived. He’d clearly been asleep, but she felt absolutely no sympathy for the servants. They’d abandoned their master, which, whether he’d asked for it or not, was unacceptable as far as she was concerned. And Quint deserved better.

“Rouse every servant. Tell the cook to boil hot water. I need fresh bed linens and clean towels. Bring every medical supply in the house. And send for a physician.”

“But—”

“No arguments. Your master is near death and I mean to save him, so do what I say. Now, go!”





Chapter Two


April 1820


“You have a visitor, my lord.”

Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint, did not bother looking up at his new butler, his attention instead focused on the rows of letters in front of him. He had to get this idea down. Now—before it was too late. “Pass on the usual response, Turner.”

The butler cleared his throat. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but my name is Taylor.”

Quint grimaced. He could hardly be faulted for forgetting the lad’s name, could he? Taylor had only been on the job for a few days. Or was this further proof of Quint’s worst fear becoming a reality?

Nearly three months since the shooting. Three months and he was no better. Oh, the wound had closed, the fever abated, yet everything else that followed had only worsened.

He exhaled and dipped his pen in the ink pot. The invocation he’d adopted these past weeks went through his head: Remain occupied. Engage your mind while you can. Prepare for the worst. He looked back down at his cipher. “Apologies, Taylor. No visitors. Ever. Until further notice, I am not receiving callers.”

“She said your lordship might say no, and if so, I was to tell you her name—the Lady Sophia Barnes. I was also to mention she planned on coming in whether your lordship allowed it or not.”

Quint felt himself frown. Sophie, here? Why? Displeasure was quickly replaced by an uncomfortable weight on his chest. He could not face anyone, most especially her. “No. Definitely not. Tell her—”

Before he finished his sentence, Sophie charged into the room. Smothering a curse, Quint threw down his pen, came to his feet, and snatched his topcoat off the chair back. He pulled on the garment as he bowed. “Lady Sophia.”

He’d known her for years—five and three-quarters, to be precise—and each time he saw her he experienced a jolt of heady awareness. There’d never been a more remarkably remarkable woman. She had short, honey-brown hair that gleamed with hints of gold in the lamplight. Tall for a female, she had long, lean limbs that moved with purpose, with confidence. Her nose and upper cheeks were dusted with freckles that shifted when she laughed—which was often. People fell under the spell of that laugh, himself included.

“Lord Quint, thank you for seeing me.” Holding her bonnet, she bobbed a curtsy in an attempt to give the impression of a proper young lady. No one who knew this particular daughter of a marquess would ever believe it, however. She and Julia Seaton, the Duchess of Colton, were close friends, and the two of them had landed in one absurd scrape after another over the years. Last he’d heard, the two had required rescuing from a gaming hell after a brawl erupted.

“As if I’d had a choice,” he said dryly.

She laughed, not offended in the least, and Quint noticed Taylor, mouth agape, hovering near the threshold, eyes trained on Sophie. Good God. Not that Quint hadn’t experienced the same reaction in Sophie’s presence a time or two. “That’ll be all, Taylor. Leave the door ajar, will you?”

The butler nodded and retreated, cracking the heavy door for propriety. Ridiculous, really, when the entire visit was already deuced improper. “I hope you at least brought a maid, Sophie.”