Darling Beast (Maiden Lane 7)

He did: death. Or worse, Bedlam.

Apollo nodded stiffly in return.

He watched Trevillion make his way slowly down the path toward the Thames and then picked up his satchel, stowed his notebook, and turned in the opposite direction.

He was feeling light-headed now with an unpleasant tinge of nausea, no doubt the result of his head wound, but he simply couldn’t wait to discover if Miss Stump was all right.

Apollo picked up his pace, breaking into a jog along the path, trying to ignore how his movements worsened his headache. She’d looked at him with such wonder before, as if he might be something special, almost lovely. No one had ever looked at him in such a way, especially no woman.

When he burst into the theater at last, the first thing he saw was Miss Stump and the maid, Maude, bent over Indio. The boy was eating a biscuit smeared liberally with jam and seemed quite all right.

The second thing he saw was Miss Stump’s look as she straightened and turned to him.

Stark fear.

CALIBAN CAME CRASHING through the theater door and Lily thought, Thank God—for he was at least alive—followed very quickly by Dear God, for his face was streaked with gore and his head was wrapped in a bloody rag. Also, and this was of course not nearly as important as the fact that he was hurt, he’d somehow lost his shirt again, and his bare, muscled chest was rather distracting.

“Remember Kitty,” Maude hissed like some dolorous chorus at her shoulder, and Lily felt a very strong urge to slap her beloved nurse.

“Heat some water,” she snapped instead to the older woman.

Maude muttered to herself, but turned to the hearth.

“What’s wrong?” Indio said at the same time. “Why is Caliban all over blood? Did he kill that other man?”

He sounded elated rather than frightened, and Lily could only stare in horror at her son.

Caliban came closer, bloodied head and distracting chest and all, and knelt at Indio’s feet. He shook his head and took out his notebook from a battered cloth bag. It was a misunderstanding between friends.

Lily read the notebook aloud and stared at him incredulously. Not even Daffodil was naïve enough to believe that explanation.

The mute swayed where he was squatting and she rushed forward to take his upper arm—his very hard upper arm—and help him into a chair. If he fainted on the floor, he’d have to lie there, for there was no way she and Maude could lift him.

“Is he gone?” she asked urgently. “That other man?”

Caliban nodded wearily.

She leaned closer and whispered, “Is he dead?”

His mouth twisted wryly at that, but he shook his head slowly. His eyes were beginning to droop and his skin, usually a lovely golden color, was going gray.

She hurried to the mantel and snatched down their one bottle of awful wine. In the state he was in, he was unlikely to notice the quality—and in any case it was for medicinal purposes at the moment.

She poured him a glassful and pressed it into his hands. “Drink this.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Maude, the water?”

“ ’Tis only God can make water boil faster,” the maid muttered sourly.

“He’s hurt, Maude,” Lily chided and got to her feet. “Don’t move,” she said sternly to Caliban, for she wouldn’t put it past him to try to stand.

She crossed swiftly to her room. She had an old chemise tucked away and she scooped it up and brought it back into the main room.

Indio was now off his chair and peering into Caliban’s face while Daffodil licked the boy’s sticky fingers.

“Indio, don’t crowd him,” she said gently, and unwrapped the rag from Caliban’s head.

She had to lean close to do so and she could feel the heat radiating off him, smell his male musk. Her arm accidentally brushed his shoulder and that little contact made her shiver.

He sat docilely, letting her do as she would. The rag turned out to be the remains of his shirt, now entirely ruined, and she wondered if he had another. Maybe he’d have to go naked from the waist up, except for his waistcoat, as he labored about the garden. That would be a distracting sight: his huge arms flexing as he wielded a shovel or his savage hooked knife. She fancied she could charge ladies a shilling to come sit by the theater and sip tea as they watched him work—and wasn’t that a silly idea?