“Send for a doctor,” he told the gaping butler. “And I’ll need hot water and cloths in Miss Corning’s room at once.”
He started up the stairs but was blocked by St. Aubyn coming down.
“Beatrice!” The older man’s naturally red face paled. “What have you done to my niece?”
“She was stabbed,” Reynaud replied curtly. Only the concern in the other man’s voice kept him from knocking him aside. “Not by me.”
“Dear God!”
“Let me pass.”
St. Aubyn fell back, and Reynaud surged past him, mounting the steps as quickly as possible. Beatrice’s bedroom was two floors above. He could hear her uncle panting behind him. By the time he reached her room, the door was open and her maid was turning back the bed.
“Lord have mercy,” the woman murmured. She was a capable-looking sort, short, red-haired, and sturdy.
“Your mistress has been stabbed,” Reynaud said to her. “Help me get her gown off.”
“Now, see here!” St. Aubyn sputtered from the door. “You can’t do that!”
“She’s bleeding,” Reynaud said, low and intense. “I can hold the bandage as the maid works. Or would you rather preserve your niece’s modesty and let her bleed to death?”
St. Aubyn gulped but said nothing, his eyes fixed on Beatrice’s face.
Reynaud nodded at the maid, and St. Aubyn turned away with a mutter and closed the door as she began pulling Beatrice’s gown off. A gentleman would’ve averted his eyes, but Reynaud hadn’t been a gentleman for some time now. He watched as the maid undressed Beatrice. Her breasts were high and round, the nipples a pretty pink. The maid pulled the gown from her legs, and he stared with possession at her feminine triangle, so vulnerable, so sweet, scattered with dark gold hair. This was his woman, and he’d failed to protect her. The maid pulled the covers up over Beatrice’s breasts and one arm, leaving her right side bare so he could press the now-sodden cloth against the wound.
“Where’s the damned doctor?” he growled.
No sound had come from Beatrice’s lips as the maid had moved her. She slept deeply.
“Build the fire in the fireplace,” he ordered the maid.
“Yes, my lord.” She hurried to the fireplace and heaped coals on the embers there.
“What’s your name?” he asked her when she returned to the bed, as much to distract himself as anything else.
“Quick, my lord,” she said.
“How long have you been with your mistress?” His mind was running in circles, like a mouse trapped in a glass jar. Where was the doctor? How much blood had she lost? Was the bleeding stopped?
“Eight years, my lord,” Quick replied. “I’ve been with Miss Corning since she came out.”
“A long time, then,” he said absently. He laid the back of his hand against Beatrice’s cheek. Still warm. Still alive.
“Yes, my lord,” the maid whispered. “She’s such a gentle mistress.”
The door opened and several footmen came in with cloths and hot water. One of them was Henry, looking grave at the sight of his unconscious mistress.
“Has the doctor been sent for?” Reynaud asked him.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied. “Right away ’e was sent for, and Lord Blanchard has gone down to wait for ’im.”
Reynaud nodded. “Bring a new cloth here.”
“Will she be all right, m’lord?” Henry asked as he gave him the cloth.
“God, I hope so,” Reynaud replied.
He replaced the torn piece of underskirt with the clean cloth. The wound was merely oozing now. That at least was good. He closed his eyes. If he still believed in praying, he’d be on his knees right now.