The Courtesan

Even as sweat began dripping from his face and soaking his gloves, he wondered what had happened. Between one instant and the next, this match had ceased to be a test of skill. He’d fought in enough battles to recognize in the ferocity of Lady Belle’s attack the blood lust of an adversary bent not on simple victory—but on murder.

As he parried one furious slash, the momentum of her lunge carried the deflected blade to the floor, embedding the tip into the wood. With a growl, Belle yanked the blade free—leaving behind the cork protector.

He should call the match to a halt, he thought as she drove him into a corner and tried to pin him. But before he could bring himself to end this curious, exhilarating contest, he gazed down into her eyes.

And encountered a look of such complete, blind hatred that it shocked him to the soul. Unable to imagine what he could possibly have done to have inspired so venomous an expression, for an instant he stood motionless.

In the next instant, he saw light dancing off a flash of blade, felt a blow to the chest followed by a searing, white-hot pain. As he looked down in bemusement, blood began seeping from a hole beneath his left shoulder.

For a long moment, he watched the pulsating flow while the voices from the gallery faded to a hum. His head grew light, his limbs clumsy. Dimly he noted the sword falling from his nerveless fingers.

As the room flickered and dissolved into black, he realized that he wasn’t going to win that kiss after all.

CHAPTER SIX

DEAR LORD in heaven, she’d just killed her soldier.

Her fury washed away with the flow of blood trickling down Jack Carrington’s chest, Belle dropped her foil and tried to brace him as he swayed. Then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed, taking her to the floor with him.

She scrambled out from under him to rip open his shirt. “Someone get a physician,” she cried, dimly aware of a chaos of shouts, overturned chairs and running feet.

Hands shaking with dread, she ripped the cuffs off her shirt and clamped them over the neat hole she had punched into Jack Carrington’s chest. Willing away the nausea brought on by fatigue and the scent of blood, she leaned her full weight against him.

Sweat dripped down her forehead and marred her view of Carrington’s face, now drained of all color. “Hold on, Captain!” she urged. “You didn’t survive Waterloo to die on a fencing-room floor.”

A hand closed over hers and she glanced up, startled.

“Edmund Darnley, Lady Belle—a friend of Jack’s. If you will allow me to hold the pads in place? I’ve several stone more than you to bear against them.”

“But I must do something,” she cried, needing some distraction from the horror that had just transpired.

Darnley’s lips curved into a grim smile. “I’d say you’ve done quite enough. But if you can find something to put under his head, ’twill ease his breathing, I think.”

Reluctantly Belle ceded him her place and scurried to grab a cushion from one of the overturned chairs. Dropping on her knees beside Darnley, she wedged the pillow under the captain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Darnley.

The captain’s friend gave her a short nod.

Then another gentleman—blond, exquisitely dressed, a bit stout, whom Belle recognized as one of the crowd that usually attended her lessons—knelt beside them.

“Aubrey Ludlowe, ma’am. How does he, Edmund?”

“Jack’s a tough old trooper. Is a doctor on the way?” Despite the calm words, Darnley looked grim and his gaze remained riveted on the still, white-faced figure whose chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly under his palms.

“Armaldi dispatched his assistant to fetch him,” Ludlowe said. “Damned if I want to see my best friend stick his spoon in the wall right in front of me when he’s scarce returned from battle!” Ludlowe inhaled abruptly, his eyes widening. “Besides, should he…not recover, Lady Belle might be forced to flee to the continent!”

“Unless she had the protection of someone very well connected,” Darnley agreed and then frowned. “Is Rupert still here?”

“The whole crowd is milling about.”

“If you wish to be useful, ma’am,” Darnley said to Belle, “escort Lord Rupert out. I fear he’d snuff Jack in a heartbeat if he thought it would give him an advantage.”

The truth of Darnley’s words made her shudder, but the last person she wished to entice was the persistent baron. “They should all go,” she countered. “The captain needs air and the doctor will need space to work. Armaldi!” she called. “Clear the room, please!”

The wiry Italian nodded. “Subito, Bella. Signore!” Clapping his hands to draw their attention, he waved the crowd toward the door. “You also, my lord Rupert,” he added when that gentleman looked as if he meant to linger.

“I will await the lady, who should be escorted from this distressing scene as soon as possible,” Rupert said.

“I’m not leaving until the captain has been treated,” Belle replied.

“Ah, he arrives, il dottore!” Armaldi cried.

“The doctor had a colleague visiting, a military physician, Major Thompson,” the fencing master’s assistant called to them as he entered. “Thought it might be best to bring him.”

“Oh, yes, Dr. Thompson, we’ll be glad of your experience!” Ludlowe said, relief in his voice.

After having to push his way past several groups of bystanders, the doctor ordered, “Out with you all, now!” Setting down his bag, he knelt beside the captain while Darnley described the injury and Armaldi shepherded out the remaining lingerers. Even Rupert, with a disdainful glance at the physician, walked toward the door. “I shall wait outside to escort you home, Lady Belle.”

“I may be here some time,” Belle warned.

“Nonetheless, I shall wait,” he said, and to her vast relief, finally exited. When she returned her attention to the captain, the doctor had begun examining the wound.

“Why don’t you go change, ma’am?” Darnley asked, glancing at her. “I’m sure you’ll want to…freshen up.”

Only then, following his gaze, did Belle notice the blood spattering her breeches and shirtfront, soaking the ragged edges of her torn sleeves.

Carrington’s blood. Blood, welling still around the doctor’s probing fingers, from a wound her carelessness had caused. A wound that might yet cost Carrington his life.

Despite a sudden dizziness that made her faint, she shook her head. “I can’t leave. Not until we know…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Remain if you wish, ma’am,” the doctor said, “but no attack of the vapors, if you please! There’s a frightful lot of blood, but his pulse is steady. If he’d severed an artery, he’d have bled to death already. Much will depend on how seriously the lung is affected.”

With that not-so-comforting assessment, the doctor continued probing. And so Belle remained in her gore-spattered garments, gaze fixed on the captain’s too-pale face, trying to form a prayer for his recovery out of the tumult of anxious thoughts tumbling about in her head.

She had almost killed a man. Whatever had possessed her to attack him so? The protector must have become dislodged from her blade. She should have noticed it, would have noticed, had she not been in such a rage.

Remembering the ferocity of that anger chilled her. For years she’d felt herself the victim of another’s unfeeling, heedless action. It dismayed her to find within herself a similar strain of thoughtless single-mindedness.

Her mind recoiled from the possibility that Carrington might die. The captain would recover. He must.

His probing apparently complete, the doctor sprinkled a powder over the wound, drew a roll of cotton from his bag and began binding up the wound.

Though she knew the doctor could make no promises, Belle couldn’t prevent herself asking, “Will he recover?”

“Though the lungs appear intact, he will have some difficulty breathing, and I can’t tell yet whether the blade touched anything vital. Of course, there’s always the danger from fever, but he will do for the present.”

The captain wasn’t going to die—yet. Belle almost sagged in relief. “Thanks be to God,” she murmured.

“I’ve bound up the shoulder to keep it immobile. I trust you have lodgings nearby? You’ll need to move him carefully to avoid disturbing the wound. Don’t worry if he takes a while coming to himself. I’ll leave you some laudanum, but on no account administer any until you are sure he is clearheaded. Watch for fever, and if the lungs were damaged, a pleurisy might settle in.”