“Wycliff.” Scarlett nudged him, but his knees buckled, and he
dropped to the ground. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. “Wake up. We’re nearly there. I see the carriage.” It was a lie. In the dark field the vehicles were packed as tightly as fish in a monger’s cart. “Alcock!” She had no choice but to cry out. “Alcock!”
Oh, where was the woman when she needed her?
Footsteps pounded the ground.
“Alcock!” she shouted again, but it was Mr Cavanagh and Mr Trent who happened upon them.
“What the devil’s wrong with him?” Mr Trent barked, his voice carrying an accusatory tone.
Scarlett gulped for breath. “He’s been shot, shot in the arm.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. It had been some time since she had licked her lips and tasted the salty dew of her pain. “The fiend crept up on us, fired through the trees.”
Mr Cavanagh dropped to his knees. He touched Wycliff’s sleeve, cursed at the sight of blood on his fingers. “I’ll race ahead and find Cutler. Can you carry him, Trent?”
Mr Trent raised a brow. Without a word, he scooped Wycliff up as if he were as light as a child and hauled him over his broad shoulder.
Mr Cavanagh cast her a look filled with pity. “Fear not. Wycliff has nine lives and has used but six. Cutler knows what to do.”
Scarlett forced a smile. “Please hurry.”
Together, they raced through the field. Cutler—clearly aware that his master was prone to reckless behaviour and knew to be on his guard—bounded towards them with Alcock in tow.
“What is it this time?” Cutler did not look the least bit panicked, yet Scarlett felt sick to her stomach. “Knife wound? Mass brawl? It would take more than one man to put him on his arse.”
“Shot to the arm,” Mr Cavanagh said, unperturbed. “Based on the amount of blood, I imagine you’ll need to remove the ball and stitch the wound.”
Cutler nodded and ushered them all towards the carriage.
“He’ll not die, milady,” Alcock said as she walked at Scarlett’s side. “Death takes the good ones. The devil protects his own.”
Had they been alone, Scarlett would have chastised her servant, corrected her misconception. For all his bitterness and bravado, Wycliff was ironically dependable. In his company, she felt safe—something she had not experienced since before her mother’s death.
“Alcock, you more than anyone should know that outer appearances bear no true reflection on a person’s character.” Try as she might, Scarlett could not hold her tongue.
Upon hearing her comment, Mr Cavanagh glanced back over his shoulder and grinned. His angelic good looks masked a sinful devil. Of that, she was in no doubt.
Upon witnessing their approach, the groom scampered from his perch and opened the carriage door.
“Climb inside, Lady Steele,” Mr Trent demanded in his usual assertive manner.
Scarlett did as he asked and settled into the seat.
“Wake up, Wycliff.” Mr Trent slapped his injured friend on the back, and Mr Cavanagh hurried around to the opposite door. With one man at Wycliff’s head and the other at his feet, they managed to lie him down on the seat occupied by Scarlett.
“Your lap will act as a cushion,” Mr Trent said, though showed no sign of amusement. “I’m sure Wycliff would rather gaze upon your face when Cutler is sewing his wound.”
Cutler barked orders to Alcock, instructed her to take the reins—much to his chagrin—to keep the vehicle steady and drive them to Bruton Street.
“Bruton Street?” Scarlett said, almost to herself. Numerous attempts to discover Mr Wycliff’s address had come to naught. “How is it no one knows he has a house in such a prominent place in town?”
“Wycliff owns several prestigious houses though he prefers not to live in any of them.” Mr Trent climbed inside the carriage and dropped into the seat opposite. “He rents the house in Bruton Street. A short-term tenancy.”
How odd.
“Is that because he prefers to spend time abroad?”
Mr Trent eyed her suspiciously. “You will have to ask him.”