The man was coming at him again, and Gray shifted to the right, light on his feet, as Gentleman Jackson himself had taught him, and looked at his opponent’s eyes. “Always in their eyes, milord,” the Gentleman always said.
The man’s eyes flicked with pain, then purpose, then direction. Gray was ready for him. He kicked upward, striking the man’s wrist, spinning as his leg came down, to the right, out of harm’s way. The knife went flying toward the street. He heard Jack running to get that knife. What should he have expected, anyway? For her to stand there cowering? Perhaps whimpering? Not Jack. Not his wife. He smiled even as he sent his fist beneath the man’s chin. It lifted him off the ground. The man howled, cursed, then fell hard onto his knees, his palms out flat in front of him on the ground to keep himself up. “Ye bastid,” he said, wheezing, choking, shaking his head, trying to get himself together. “Ye bastid. He told me, he did, that ye’d be a treat to butcher, the bloody lying bugger, making me think ye’d be easy, so I wouldn’t back out. Ye ain’t no treat attal.”
“No, I’m not a treat,” Gray said, standing now over the man. He came down beside him, jerking his right arm up behind him, high and higher still. “Tell me who this bloody lying bugger is. Who hired you to kill me?”
The man moaned softly, then keeled over.
“Gray!” She was at his side in a moment, the knife in her hand. “He hurt you. Oh, God, he stabbed your shoulder.”
“It’s all right, Jack. Don’t fret. The damned bastard passed out before he told me who’d hired him. I hope he’s carrying some papers.” He leaned down and searched through the man’s pockets. In his breeches pocket he found a folded piece of paper.
He couldn’t make it out in the darkness. “Well, there’s no hope for it.” Between them, Gray and Jack dragged the man across the square to his own town house.
Quincy had the door open but a moment after Jack’s yell. “My lord! Oh, my goodness, what has befallen the poor gentleman?”
“This is no gentleman, Quincy,” Gray said. He and Jack heaved the man onto the marble entrance hall. He grabbed his shoulder, swayed a moment, then straightened.
“Quincy,” Jack said, trying to keep her fear from bubbling out, “send one of the footmen for his lordship’s doctor. This man stabbed him.” Her voice shook, she couldn’t help it. “Quickly now!”
Gray was gone. She saw him walking into the library. “Gray!” She ran after him. He was standing by his desk, unfolding the bit of paper. She watched him read it in the glow of the candles.
He swore softly beneath his breath, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d only thought the curses, Jack heard him. “No, it’s all right. Curse if you want to. Gray, what does it say? Who is this man?”
“This fellow is simply a hired assassin, Jack, sent to me by a villain whose wife I saved three months ago. Before the aunts and you arrived, I got a letter from him, telling me that he would make me suffer as I had made him suffer. He sent me another letter some two weeks ago, the bastard.”
Jack was fair to bursting with questions, but she saw his hand pressed against his shoulder, the blood seeping through his fingers, and said very calmly, “Come to the kitchen, Gray, and let me see how bad the wound is.”
He called over his shoulder as he followed Jack to the nether regions of the house, “Quincy, get Remie in here to sit on this fellow if he awakens.”
“Aye, my lord, Remie is on his way. We’ll not let the bastard breathe too loudly.”
Jack seated Gray at the kitchen table and helped him off with his coat. Her hands were trembling. When she got his shirt off, she looked at the two-inch wound that slashed along the top of his shoulder. “I don’t think you’ll need stitching, Gray. Let me wash you. It’s not bleeding very much anymore.”
“No, my lady, I’ll do it.” Mrs. Post took very purposeful steps toward the baron, her eyes glittering. “How did this happen to ye, milord? Some little thief, I’ll wager. Bring him here to me. I’ll put a fish ’ook in the little bugger’s mouth and throw him in the sea. It’s nasty, it is, but not all that bad. Now, if yer ladyship will jest step out of me way, I’ll fix up my poor master all right ’n tight.”
Gray never made a sound. When the wound was clean, Mrs. Post had Tildy, her scullery maid, tear a clean muslin towel into strips. “Be careful, Tildy. No, ye brainless twit, don’t tear it with yer teeth.”
Gray was walking back to the entrance hall when Dr. Cranford arrived. “See to the fellow there, sir. I’m just fine.”
Dr. Cranford insisted on examining Gray’s shoulder before he left. “Nasty, but clean now and not deep,” he said. “Excellent, my lady. Do I see your fine hand at work here?”
“I tried, sir, but Mrs. Post, our cook, shoved me out of the way. His lordship is hers to see to, she said. You swear he’ll be all right?”
Dr. Cranford, tall and lanky, blessed with thick black curly hair, grinned at her. “I’ve known Lord Cliffe since he was a wild young lad up to London from Oxford. I do believe this is the worst shape I’ve seen him in. Well, there was that one time when you were so foxed you fell off your horse and your friends didn’t realize you’d fallen because they were all in their cups as well. No, no, don’t be alarmed, my lady. That’s a tale best forgotten. Now, his lordship will mend just fine.
“As to the ruffian in the entrance hall, he’s just a bit dizzy from the beating you gave him, my lord. You didn’t break his jaw, and that surprises me. He’s tough. He’ll survive, but maybe that’s a pity. The magistrates will be delighted to toss him into gaol.”
“I have a feeling he won’t be unknown to the magistrates,” Gray said. “I do know who sent him and that’s far more important.”
There was deep, calm rage in the baron’s voice, and Dr. Cranford tilted his head in question. “I know it’s probably none of my affair, but I strongly advise you not to take on this man tonight. You’ve lost a goodly amount of blood. I don’t want you to hurt this shoulder perhaps more. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes,” Gray said, looking into the rustling coals in the fireplace. “I fancy he’ll believe his henchman has suc
ceeded. Even if he finds out that I’m still breathing, I doubt he’ll be worried. How was he to know that the stupid sod he sent to kill me kept his instruction?”
Dr. Cranford, not wanting to know any more, took his leave.
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