Cutler climbed into the conveyance. While he was not as broad or as tall as Mr Trent, it was impossible not to feel cramped. Thankfully, Mr Cavanagh took a hackney to the doctor’s house to ferry him to Bruton Street.
While Alcock took the reins and directed them through town, Cutler removed scissors from a leather bag in the cupboard underneath the seat. He cut the sleeve of Wycliff’s coat and that of the black linen shirt that made him look like Satan’s servant.
Feeling somewhat useless, Scarlett brushed the errant lock of ebony hair from Wycliff’s brow. His skin was as cold and as damp as the night she had rescued him in the alley. As he slept, he looked just as handsome, just as peaceful. She remembered the hours spent sitting at his bedside, enthralled by the rise and fall of his chest, by the long dark lashes fanning his cheeks.
Cutler’s mumbled groan drew her out of her reverie.
The coachman handed her a brown bottle to hold while he opened a wooden box of implements and then set about cleaning the wound with alcohol and a swab.
Mr Trent placed his hat on the seat and shrugged out of his coat. “From the way Wycliff held his arm, I assume the ball missed the bone, and there is no fracture.”
“Aye, there’s no permanent damage. Hand me the small knife and tweezers.”
Scarlett glanced at the surgical set in the box, relieved the coachman hadn’t asked for the saw. To calm her fears, she cupped Wycliff’s cheek and said a silent prayer until Cutler instructed her to pour the liquid out of the bottle onto the implements and then over the wound in Wycliff’s upper arm.
Wycliff jerked awake as soon as the liquid touched the damaged skin and torn tissue. He writhed and cursed the devil.
“Hold him still, milady. Talk to him,” Cutler cried as he prodded and poked Wycliff’s arm with his ghastly tools. “Help her out, sir.”
Mr Trent knelt on the carriage floor and held his friend’s legs still with his large hands.
Wycliff groaned.
Pain distorted his features as Cutler dug into his flesh.
Scarlett cupped his cheek firmly and forced him to look at her. “Do you remember when I helped you into the lodging-house and had to rip open your breeches?”
He did not answer though his breathing settled a little.
“I shall never forget the look on your face when I jabbed you with the needle.” She would never forget the wild thump of her heart against her ribs. “When you swooned, I thought you’d died.”
Beneath heavy lids, his dark eyes focused on her face. “You … you’ll not get rid of me … so easily.”
“No,” she said, forcing a smile. “I cared for you then, and I shall care for you now. At least until you have made a full recovery.”
“No broth,” Wycliff said with a weak snort.
“No, I wouldn’t dream of punishing you with the foul concoction again.”
Wycliff closed his eyes, and she continued stroking his face, running her fingers through his hair. All the time, she was aware of Cutler dropping the ball into the surgical box, of him pulling the thread through skin, of Mr Trent’s intense gaze as he watched her comfort his friend.
“Reckon the ball’s from a muff pistol,” Cutler said as he packed away the implements while Mr Trent returned to the opposite seat. “From the size of the wound, I’d say the shot came from a distance of more than twenty feet, and from an inexperienced hand.”
“A muff pistol?” Scarlett had considered purchasing one herself. “You mean the shooter was a woman?” And to think she presumed Jemima lacked the courage to commit a crime.
“Now I didn’t say that. In a place like Vauxhall, a man would find it easier to hide a smaller weapon.”
Guilt flared.
“This is all my fault.” Scarlett sucked in a breath as tears burned her eyes. “No doubt I was the intended victim.”
“You don’t know that.” Mr Trent’s tone lacked the powerful punch usually delivered. He paused, arched a brow at Cutler, who had finished ban
daging Wycliff’s arm and had stored the leather bag beneath the seat.
Understanding the silent message Cutler rapped on the roof, and the carriage rumbled to a stop. “If we plan on making it to Bruton Street tonight, I’d best rescue the reins from that woman.” He exited the carriage and closed the door.
Mr Trent remained silent until both drivers finished exchanging quips and the carriage wheels were rolling again.