The Hanged Man (8 page)

“I might,” he said. “Depends on the cupboard.”

Woodwake nearly bumped into another young man as he came in.

“Your pardon, miss,” he said politely, getting out of her way. He was also in evening clothes that looked slept in or—knowing James's habits and those of his friends—passed out in. “Fonteyn, some of us are trying to slee—” He gaped at the tableau of a half-conscious man bleeding on the parlor floor. “Good God, what the devil is this?”

“All yours,” said James magnanimously. “Freshly delivered by my cousin Alex. That's Alex tearing away his clothes, by the way. Who'd have thought it? Well, don't stand there, get your kit and see if you can save him.”

“What about you?” Alex snapped.

“I'm almost blind drunk and wholly useless. Hamish, however, is in somewhat better condition and just back from Nemley, where he learned how to be a first-rate army doctor. I'm sure they covered taking out bullets. Is that not so, old chap? Here, now, where's he gotten to?”

Hamish had vanished, but quickly returned with his bag and knelt opposite Alex. “I've never done a fresh bullet wound before. They only let us practice on pig carcasses.”

“Well, if you lose this patient you can't have him for dinner.” James slouched toward a liquor cabinet that was in disarray and a selected a bottle.
“Garde à l'eau,”
he sang out by way of warning, then drizzled gin liberally on the now exposed wound.

Alex squawked in irritation as she was splashed, Hamish crowed approval, and Lord Richard roared and bucked. Hamish was a big sturdy fellow, built for rugby, but had trouble holding him down.

“Keep still, sir, you'll make it worse,” he informed his patient.

Richard's reply was unfit for polite company. He tried to pull his clothes back on. Alex forgot herself and the dire situation for a moment, staring in shock at the exotic pattern of blue tattoos covering the pale flesh of his torso. They coiled up from his lower regions, flowing over belly, chest, arms, and shoulders and apparently down his back. She'd never seen the like. Hamish was busy, but behind her James made a low whistle of surprise.

“Well, well,” he said. “I never thought I'd ever s—”

Woodwake returned, bedding in one hand and a pitcher of water in another. “Bandages?” she asked James.

“No, thank you. Never bother with the things.”

She shot him a look that he was long used to collecting.

“I know,” said James with satisfaction. “I'm a great fool. Not a mere fool, but a great one.” He pulled out a penknife and offered it. “Here, cut that sheet up, I'm tired of it anyway.”

Using the knife, Woodwake efficiently sliced and tore the fabric into long strips, giving Alex the impression that she'd have preferred it was James. Alex lighted the room's one lamp, holding it close so Dr. Hamish could work. She smelled liquor on his breath, but he seemed up to the task. At least his hands were steady. Hers weren't. She fought to keep the light still.

He bathed the wound clean and probed with his fingers to locate the bullet. Richard grunted his discomfort the whole time, but managed not to yell.

“You're lucky, my man,” Hamish pronounced. “It went under the skin, but above the ribs and out again. Nasty furrowing, be quite a scar if it doesn't go septic.”

Woodwake left again, returning with a washbasin and soap, setting both on the floor next to Hamish, who thanked her. Alex moved out of the way so Woodwake could sponge the wound clean.

“Are you two nurses?” Hamish asked, wiping his bloody hands on a piece of sheet. “I must say, you're cool-headed. No fainting.”

James gave a short laugh. “My sweet cousin there has dealt with more corpses than you've ever seen, and no, she isn't a mortician.”

Hamish shot her a look and brought out a needle and silk thread from his bag. “Just a few stitches, sir. I'll be quick as I can.”

“You're finished,” Lord Richard announced decisively. His blue eyes regained their icy focus for a moment. “Apply pressure until the bleeding stops.”

“That won't do, sir. Now lie still. I can give you some laudanum or—”

“Mrs. Woodwake, discourage this fellow from proceeding.”

Alex did
not
expect Woodwake to stand and draw a gun from her coat pocket, but that's what happened. She had a revolver and a determined expression.

“Good God,” said Hamish. “No fainting
and
quite mad. I like your relatives, James.”

“Just one of them is a relation. I've no idea who the other two are. Alex does consort with some shady customers.”

Alex was horrified. “Lord Richard, stop this! We're trying to help you!”

James snorted. “There's gratitude for you. Madam, I'll ask you to put away your pistol. I don't want holes in Hamish. He is my guest, after all. Hamish, put away your darning needle. You're outclassed for this bout.”

Young Dr. Hamish was reluctant to give up, and addressed Richard in a reasonable tone. “Sir, a wounded man is like a child. You may not like the nasty medicine, but it
is
for your own good.”

“Taught you that at Nemley?” Richard asked.

“Actually, my mother's responsible—”

Alex put her hand on Hamish's shoulder. “Doctor, if the patient is so reluctant then let him have his way. If he should pass out, you may reassess the situation.”

“You put forth a charming argument. Very well.”

Woodwake, at a nod from Richard, shoved her revolver into her coat pocket. Alex began breathing again.

Dr. Hamish checked Lord Richard's wound. “Not wise, sir. Not wise. You're still bleeding too much.” He gathered sheeting strips and made a pad, pressing it to the damage. “You should have something for the pain.”

Richard closed his eyes. “I've work to do. Miss Pendlebury, are the horses and coach in a condition to return us to our starting point?”

“Sir,
you
are in no condition to—”

“Yes or no?”

She couldn't believe his folly, but answered in the affirmative. “It is bound to be too dangerous, sir.”

“I expect those who fired on us are gone by now, and my place is there sorting out the mess. We may require medical help if others were shot. Dr. Hamish, are you sober enough to come along?”

Hamish's face went red.

“Yes or no?”

“Who the devil are you, sir, to ask such things?”

James chuckled. “Hamish keeps a bull pup and bad manners brings it out. You're both well matched. Alex didn't introduce us, but I like you two. Refreshingly direct. Mrs. Woodwake? I'm James Fonteyn, how do you do? Welcome to my home, at least until I'm thrown out of it. When the landlord sees the parlor floor he'll bounce me quick enough. Alex, you'll have to do the honors for the big fellow.”

Alex felt her face going as red as Hamish's. Coming here no longer seemed such a good idea. Even the more stable Fonteyns—and James was in that number—were subject to raving lunacy when the mood was on them. She resorted to chill formality for her employer's sake, well aware that it would only amuse her cousin. “Lord Richard Desmond, may I present my cousin on my mother's side, James Fonteyn, and his friend, Dr. Hamish.”

“How do, your lordship?” James was unfazed, but then he never opened a newspaper unless it was a sporting journal.

Hamish's eyes went wide. He clearly recognized the name. “You're
that
Lord Richard? I do beg your pardon, sir.”

“Oh, Hamish, don't be a bore. He's just a peer. Haven't you heard they're going out of fashion? But this fellow seems to be going out, period. Best see to him.”

True. Lord Richard's already stark white face turned gray as blood continued to flow onto the floor. Hamish cursed, a trace of fear in his voice, and boosted the man over, pulling away the rest of his clothing. There was another bullet hole in the lower left part of his back.

James fell quiet, staring down, his expression now grim. Hamish probed the wound, got the bullet out, and stitched the damage with admirable speed.

Alex, intentionally distracting herself, noticed the blue tattoos covered Lord Richard's back as well, or as much of them as she could see under the gore. They tricked the eye, seeming to writhe under the skin as though barely trapped in place by its fragile barrier. There was something repulsive yet fascinating about them.

The lamplight dimmed, then Alex snapped alert, gasping in pain. James had her by the arm, pinching hard. “Not the time for fainting, my girl. That's past.” He took the lamp from her, and one-handed lifted her up and dropped her into a chair.

She tried to move, but there was no strength in her legs.

He put the gin bottle in her hands. “Find something to do with that,” he said, and turned to hold the lamp over the grim tableau. Lord Richard made some murmured objection; Woodwake told him to be still. Her voice was thin and strained.

Alex hated gin. She disliked the taste and effect of all spirits, but given the circumstances, a sip wouldn't hurt. It was disgusting, but the heat slithering down her throat braced her up. God, how she wanted fresh cold air. The room reeked of blood. It couldn't be helped now, so she blocked things out, raising that leaden armor again in her mind's eye. Her concentration was imperfect, but sufficient to carry her a few moments so she could rally.

Hamish and Woodwake tore another sheet up to fashion a bandage.

“He's staying here, not traveling to a hospital,” he said. “Fonteyn, send one of those fellows upstairs to bring down a bed. I won't risk jostling him—” He froze in place, his mouth open in shock as he stared past Alex.

Four extraordinary apparitions stood in the entry.

By their general size and form they were men wearing identical black hooded cloaks and masks that covered all but their eyes; each held an exotic-looking firearm.

Air guns?

These were a type that she'd never before seen, heavy enough to require both hands. The stocks were bulky and wide, the barrels thinner than normal.

The men were lined up, facing her and the others in eerie silence.

They look like a firing squad,
she thought, then understood with a sickening swoop of pure horror that that was, indeed, their purpose.

As one, they aimed their strange rifles at Lord Richard.

Anticipating the shots by a split second, Alex threw the bottle of gin at the closest. It struck his head with force. At the same time, her cousin James flung his lamp at another. Glass shattered, oil splashed, and by a miracle the flame went out.

In the sudden dimness she heard two soft
chuff
s, but further sounds were blotted out by the sharp barks of Mrs. Woodwake's revolver. Its muzzle flashes marked her shift sideways as she dodged the rifle fire that followed.

Only the damned things didn't really
fire
. They gave a kind of cough and spat bullets at a rate far quicker than anything else short of a Gatling gun. The slugs striking the walls and shattering the front windows made all the noise.

Alex dropped and rolled, hitched against the settee, encountering the man who had been asleep on it. He was awake now and apparently throwing things at the invaders, too. There wasn't much to hand; the last was a vase, to judge by the crash. He grabbed something else. It required a heaving effort followed by another, much bigger crash and a cry of pain. That must have been a table.

A bullet sheered over her head. She went flat and tried to get under the settee, but it wasn't high enough off the floor.

Where the devil had she left her coat and her own revolver?

Woodwake shot again, and Lord Richard bellowed something that sounded vaguely French. He was, impossibly, on his feet, grappling with two of the shooters. Even more impossibly, he won the contest, flinging the men to one side and seizing another two.

There were more than four invaders now. Alex couldn't be sure of their numbers—the only light was from the open entry—but hooded men crowded into the confined space as though rushing to board a train. They got in the way of one another; it might have been comical but for their air guns. Two began shooting randomly, others shouted, overcome by excitement. The mounting chaos was interrupted by a fearsome blast from the upper part of the stairs.

One hooded man screamed and fell away, and his fellows caught him and withdrew toward the door.

While they had the advantage of numbers and superior weapons, the roar of a shotgun fired in a confined space had a deleterious effect on their collective courage.

A second blast inspired a full rout.

Woodwake fired again, clipping a man, but he was yet able to run. Another kept his head and shot toward the upper landing, then into the parlor to cover the retreat. At his orders, the remaining men grabbed the fallen and their air guns and withdrew. Whoever was on the stairs either reloaded or had another shotgun ready; he sent two more blasts after them.

A short man in rumpled evening clothes clattered downstairs. He had a shotgun broken open, reloading on the run. He snapped it to and rushed out the door, but made no shot. He returned a moment later.

“Scattered like rats before a terrier,” he reported. “They've no belly for a bit of rock salt, ha! I say, Fonteyn, who were they?”

“Damned if I know, they're—oh. Oh, God.” James had found and lit a candle.

The room was wrecked, bullet holes everywhere, along with broken glass and furniture. A slick of oil from the shattered lamp mingled with Lord Richard's blood. He lay where he'd fallen in the melee, gasping for breath, more blood frothing at his lips. He'd been shot repeatedly; several more wounds marred his torso.

Woodwake and Hamish went to him, calling for light.

Other guests in the house cautiously came downstairs. The short man with the shotgun gave quiet instructions, wresting order and action from their bewilderment. Some were dispatched on errands within the house, others were sent outside to keep watch in case the attackers returned.