“Good.” Reynaud let him go and glanced at the sergeant. “Look out the door—quickly—and check that Miss Corning and the others are still by the carriage.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Reynaud knelt by the wounded man. The boy’s face was greasy with sweat, his eyes narrowed in pain. The wound was on his left hip. Reynaud took off his coat and found the small thin knife he kept in a pocket. Then he bundled the coat and placed it beneath the boy’s head.
“Am I dying, my lord?” the lad whispered.
“No, not at all.” Reynaud sliced open the boy’s breeches from waist to knee and spread the bloody fabric. “What’s your name?”
“Henry, my lord.” The lad swallowed. “Henry Carter.”
“I don’t like my men dying, Henry,” Reynaud said. There was no exit wound. The bullet would need to be dug out of the boy’s hip—a tricky operation, as sometimes the hip bled badly. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” The boy’s eyebrows rose questioningly.
“So you’re not to die,” Reynaud stated with finality.
The boy nodded, his face smoothing. “Yes, my lord.”
“The pistols, sir.” The older soldier was back, panting, with a flat box in his hands.
Reynaud rose. “Good man.”
The women had returned as well with the linens, and one immediately knelt and began bandaging Henry. “I had Cook send for a doctor, my lord. I hope that was right.”
Cook? That feeling that something wasn’t right made his head spin again, but Reynaud kept his face calm. An officer never showed fear in battle.
“Very smart.” Reynaud nodded at the woman, and a flush of pleasure spread over her plain face. He turned to the sergeant. “What’s happening outside?”
The sergeant straightened from the door crack. “Miss Corning is still by the carriage, my lord, along with the coachman and two footmen. A small crowd has gathered across the street, but other than that, it seems just as usual.”
“Good. And your name?”
The sergeant threw back his shoulders. “Hurley, my lord.”
Reynaud nodded. He placed the dueling-pistols box on a side table and opened it. The pistols within looked like they might be from his grandfather’s time, but they had been properly oiled and maintained. Reynaud took them out, checked to see if they were loaded, and stepped to the door.
“Keep away from the doorway,” he instructed the sergeant. “The Indians might still be out there.”
“Dear God, he’s insane,” St. Aubyn muttered.
Reynaud ignored him and ducked out the door.
The street was strangely quiet—or perhaps it just seemed so after the chaos of the shooting. Reynaud didn’t pause but ran swiftly down the steps and dropped to the ground by Miss Corning, who was nearly underneath the carriage.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes. Quite.” She frowned and touched a finger to his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He took her hand and licked his blood from her fingertip, making her gray eyes widen. “You still have my knife?”
“Yes.” She showed him his knife, hidden among her skirts.
“Good girl.” He looked at the soldiers… except now they were a coachman and two footmen. Reynaud blinked fiercely. Concentrate. “Did you see where the shots were coming from?”
The coachman shook his head, but one of the footmen, a tall fellow with a missing front tooth, said, “A black carriage pulled away very fast just after you dragged Henry into the house, my lord. I think the shots may’ve come from inside the carriage.”
Reynaud nodded. “That makes sense. But we’ll take Miss Corning in with all precaution just in case. Mr. Coachman, please go first. I’ll follow with Miss Corning while the footmen come behind.” He handed one of the pistols to the footman who had spoken. “Don’t shoot, but make sure anyone watching can see that you’re armed.”