Reynaud waved an impatient hand. “Miss Corning. She got in the way of an assassination attempt on me.”
“Good God,” Vale said softly. “Is she all right?”
“She fainted and bled quite profusely,” Reynaud muttered, the image of Beatrice’s soft skin violated still fresh in his mind. “But she woke just an hour ago and seemed in her right mind.”
“Thank God.” Vale splashed some brandy into a glass and took a gulp. “And how closely related to you is Cousin Beatrice?”
Reynaud gave him a look. “Not that close.”
“Glad to hear it.” Vale dropped into a cushioned chair. “I hope she recovers fully so that you can then propose to her. Because I tell you now, matrimony truly is a blessed state, enjoyed by all men of good sense and halfway adequate bedroom skills.”
“Thank you for that edifying thought,” Reynaud growled.
Vale waved his glass. “Think nothing of it. I say, you haven’t forgotten how to treat a lady in the bedroom, have you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“You’ve been out of refined society for years and years now. I could give you some pointers, should you need them.”
Reynaud’s eyes narrowed. “This from the man I had to save from an irate whore when we were seventeen?”
o;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.
A commotion on the stairs made him raise his head. A tall thin man in a gray bob wig strode into the room, closely followed by St. Aubyn. The doctor took one all-encompassing look at Beatrice and then turned to Reynaud.
“How is she?”
“She hasn’t woken from her faint,” Reynaud said. “But the bleeding is slowing.”
“Good. Good. A stab wound, I was told?” The doctor stepped close. “May I?”
Reynaud relinquished the bandage, and the doctor raised it, making approving murmurs. “Yes. Yes, I see. Only a few inches and not deep, I think. Good. We’ll close it while she still sleeps. Bring me the water.”
This last was said to Henry, who brought a basin over.
Reynaud stood to give the doctor room, feeling uncommonly useless.
The doctor splashed water on the wound and wiped at the blood. “Need to see to sew.” He took an already-threaded needle from his bag. “Can you hold the edges together?” he asked the maid.
She paled.
“I’ll do it,” Reynaud muttered. He gently pinched the wound closed.
“Ah. Good.” The doctor inserted the needle into Beatrice’s flesh.
Reynaud winced as the blood welled fresh around the needle prick. Beatrice moaned.
“Hurry,” he whispered to the doctor. To see her in pain would undo him now.
“Haste makes waste,” murmured the doctor, carefully pulling the bloody thread through. He placed the second stitch, moving deliberately.
“Christ,” St. Aubyn muttered.
Reynaud glanced up. The usurper’s face was pasty, and for once he felt pity for the man—St. Aubyn looked sick with worry for his niece.
Reynaud looked down again to where the doctor’s needle was poking into tender flesh. “There is no need for so many in here. All of you go, except for the earl and Quick.”