‘Miss Jane, tell the postilion to stop, this horrid creature is bleeding all over our skirts.’ Billing made as though to drop her own window to lean out.
‘Stop that,’ Jane said sharply. ‘Do you want those bully boys to catch up to us? Help me turn him over. Oh, do not be so foolish, Billing—have you never seen blood before? Put your feet on the seat then; at least it will give him more room on the floor.’
Billing huddled up in the far corner, managing in the process to kick the man who was prone at their feet. There was a groan. At least he was still alive.
Jane bent down and touched his shoulder and found good-quality broadcloth under her hand. ‘Can you turn over, sir?’
He grunted, began to lever himself up on his elbows in the restricted space and swore under his breath as the chaise hit a rut. ‘No.’
‘Very well, stay there. We will come to a turnpike gate soon, surely.’
* * *
It must have been about two miles before the chaise slowed, then stopped. ‘Help me, Billing. Billing.’
Somehow they hauled the man up on to the seat between them and it became clear that he was suffering from a knife wound in the shoulder, at the very least. There was blood, rather more than Jane felt comfortable with, and his left arm hung limp.
Jane stuffed her handkerchief and her fichu under his coat and pressed on the wounded area, ignoring the gasp of pain and the subsequent bad language. ‘Hold that.’ After a moment he obeyed, although his eyes were closed and his head lolled to the side.
She could sympathise with the gasp and she doubted if he was conscious enough of his surroundings to realise that he was swearing at two women. More of an immediate problem was Billing, who had recoiled further into the corner and was hectoring Jane on danger, impropriety, unladylike behaviour... ‘And what your sainted mother will say, I shudder to imagine. No respectable lady would consider for a moment—’
Jane stopped listening.
The postilion, having sorted out the toll, appeared to realise for the first time that he had an extra passenger. He handed the reins to the gatekeeper and came around to Jane’s window. ‘Here, what’s going on, miss? This vehicle was hired for two people.’
‘I know it was. I want you to stop at the next decent inn that serves stagecoaches and, I promise, you will be back to two passengers.’
He gave her a decidedly sceptical look. ‘It’ll be extra to pay at the end if there’s blood on the upholstery.’ But he remounted and sent the pair off at a canter and, as Billing finally ran out of breath, drew up at the Bell and Anchor.
‘Billing, please go inside and fetch a bowl of water,’ Jane said.
‘I’ll go in, that is for sure, but to try and get the blood off my skirts, Miss Jane! And I will send out some men to haul that vagabond out of our chaise,’ she added, scrambling down and marching into the inn. ‘I should be calling the constable, that’s what your mother would say...’ floated back to the chaise.
‘Quickly, unstrap her luggage,’ Jane told the postilion. ‘That wicker hamper and the small brown valise there.’ The stranger would have to look after himself for the moment because she needed to find her purse.
Just as Jane unrolled two banknotes Billing came marching out again without, of course, any water, but flanked by two anxious-looking waiters.
‘What’s about, Miss Jane? Those are my bags there.’
‘Billing, you are going home to Dorset. There is your luggage, here is more than enough money for the stage—you can pay for decent rooms and food on your way and a girl to accompany you. This seems a most respectable inn so I am sure they will advise you and let you hire one of the maids for the journey.’ She thrust the notes into the spluttering woman’s hands and closed the door. ‘Drive on!’
The postilion obeyed, ignoring Billing’s indignant cries as they rattled off down the road again. Jane flopped back against the seat. All things considered, a silent, if battered, man was a far more pleasant travelling companion than Billing with her sour face and nagging voice. Jane shifted on the seat to look at him more closely. He was also considerably better to look at than Billing although, even accounting for bruises, dirt and blood, he was no Adonis. On the other hand, she was now responsible for him, she had no experience of nursing wounded men and goodness knew what he would prove to be like when he regained consciousness. The quality of the coat did promise a certain gentility, at least, although, gravedigger or gentry, she would still have rescued anyone from a beating if she could.
Melissa would be deeply envious. This was the kind of adventure she was always writing about and which, Jane was certain, she yearned to experience for herself. She would just have to make do with letters, which were bound to be less enthralling than Melissa would have hoped. On the other hand, Jane could draw as vividly as her friend could write, which should make up for a lack of dramatic description. With a quick check to make certain the wounded man was still unconscious and the bleeding was under control, Jane took her sketch pad and a pencil from the door pocket and flipped back the cover.
* * *
Where the devil am I?
Ivo thought about opening his eyes, then decided against it. Everything hurt, but no one was thumping him at the moment, which was a decided improvement, and there was no point in jeopardising that to satisfy his curiosity. On the other hand, he appeared to be in a moving vehicle and the only thing that he could smell was leather and a decidedly piquant floral perfume.
From the motion of the vehicle he deduced that he was in a post chaise and, from the perfume, that he had been rescued by a lady. That was embarrassing, but preferable to remaining with the brutes that Daphne had set on him. The reality of the transformation in the woman who had once told him that she adored him and would wait for him was not something that he had the strength to consider now. What he would feel when he allowed himself to think of it was beside the point, he told himself. All that really mattered was that he could not honour his promise to his friend, her brother, as he lay dying. That failure was a damned sight more painful than whatever was wrong with his left shoulder.
Distantly he could hear the hoofbeats of the horses, the postilion’s occasional shouted order to them as the chaise creaked and the wheels rumbled. Under those sounds there was a strange scratch-scritch noise, almost a whisper, right on the edge of his consciousness.... It was rather soothing.
The chaise was slowing, turning, stopping. There was noise from outside. Ivo dragged open his lids and found himself staring into a pair of long-lashed hazel eyes.
‘Oh, good, you are awake. I was wondering how we were ever going to get you out of the carriage if you were not. You are rather large,’ the owner of the eyes added critically. ‘And bloody. And dirty.’