“Bonesetters?” Marietta said.
“Hackney coaches,” Dobson explained.
“Oh.”
Dobson looked at the boy, his face grim. “You didn’t see nothing?”
“Not a thing,” the boy said quickly, meeting his eyes. “Just the gen’leman, lyin’ on the ground. I recognized him, from fetching him a bonesetter a couple o’ times before. Knew he’d come from the club.”
Dobson nodded. “You did a good deed. Good deeds are rewarded, remember that.” He glanced at the servant who still held the errand boy. “Take him to Madame and tell her I said he was to have a crown.”
The servant’s eyes popped. “A crown, Mr. Dobson!”
“Yes. He’s saved a life tonight. I reckon he deserves a crown.”
The boy crowed as he was led off.
“Any sign of the leech yet?” This to the servant with the cloths.
“Not yet, Mr. Dobson.”
“Right then, we’d better get the gen’leman upstairs and into a bed. No point in leaving him down here in the cold.”
“What can I do?” Marietta asked instantly.
Dobson turned to her with warm gray eyes. “What are you like at bandaging, Miss Marietta? I’ve done some of that on the battlefield in me time, but I don’t have a woman’s gentle touch, if you get my meaning.”
“I-I’m certain I can manage,” Marietta said, because he seemed to expect it of her.
“Goodo. Then follow me.”
With the help of a burly footman, Max was carried upstairs and into a bedroom at the far end of the gallery. The room was neat and clean and plainly decorated. There was nothing suggestive in the cream quilt or the pale chintz curtains or the white porcelain jug and bowl—not at all what Marietta had expected from a house of ill repute.
Was that another flutter of disappointment she felt? Had she really expected it to be so shocking?
While the servant lit a fire, Max’s boots were removed by Dobson and the footman, and Marietta was sent for warm water and more cloths. By the time she returned Max had been put to bed. She set about gently cleaning the wound on his head—beginning at his temple where the gash ran up into his hair and the thick curls were stiff and matted with dried blood. She hadn’t realized before how curly his hair was, or how long—it hung in dark twists over his brow and kissed his nape. It seemed a shame she had to cut some of it to get at the wound.
Someone had used a great deal of force to strike Max—maybe they had even hoped to kill him rather than just incapacitate him. When Marietta suggested this to Dobson, he replied that some men didn’t care who they hurt. His coolness about the matter made her think he had known many such men.
“I hope the doctor comes soon,” Marietta said. “The bleeding has stopped, and th
e wound is clean, but I don’t know what I should do next. It is quite deep, and I think it will need to be held together, to allow it to heal properly.”
“He needs sewing up,” Dobson replied, casting his expert eye over her efforts. “Best if we let the leech do that, miss.”
Relieved Marietta agreed. “Will it leave a scar, do you think?” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. “Lord Roseby is a handsome man and it would be a pity to spoil his looks.”
Dobson raised an eyebrow at her.
She felt her color rising and her voice took on a justifying note. “I’m thinking of Lord Roseby, of course.”
“Of course. I doubt it’ll scar if the job’s done proper. Besides, some women like a man with a scar or two. Shows he’s been out in the world a bit.”
Marietta tried to imagine Max with a scar, apart from the one he already had on his chin, which was barely noticeable. She touched his hair, gently brushing it away from the wound. He made no sound. Although his chest was rising and falling quite normally he was dreadfully pale; his lashes lay like dark crescents upon his cheeks. He didn’t look like the man in the balloon, or the Max who had made her quiver as he inspected her palm. He looked helpless and vulnerable and dangerously appealing.
Downstairs the doorknocker was violently manipulated, and voices and footsteps on the stairs followed soon after. The doctor appeared in the doorway, looking as if he had been dragged out of bed only moments before. He barely seemed to notice Dobson or herself, his gaze fastening at once upon Max as he moved forward to examine his patient.
“Hmm, nasty,” he commented, prodding the wound with a force that made Marietta wince. “Whoever did this wasn’t just trying to put him to sleep.”