Stacie’s eyes locked on the knife in the man’s hand.
She screamed and flung herself at Frederick, shoving him back against the carriage.
A paving stone tipped, and she stumbled.
Into the path of the oncoming knife.
She felt the cold steel slide into her side, into her flesh.
She gasped. Her knees turned to water, and she started to crumple.
The last thing she knew was Frederick’s arms closing around her.
Then chill darkness swallowed her whole.
Frederick swore as Stacie slumped, lifeless, in his arms. Rage erupted; narrow-eyed, he looked up, searching for the attacker, but pandemonium had broken out, and the man had vanished into the melee.
The crowd surged, driven by avid curiosity, yet ready to flee if there was more danger about.
Some helpful woman stepped in. “The lady’s fainted—give her room to breathe.” She waved her arms and succeeded in forcing the crowd to back away, clearing a small area around where Frederick crouched in the lee of the carriage, cradling Stacie’s limp form.
Ignoring everyone and everything else, he looked into Stacie’s pale face, noted that her breathing, although shallow, was still steady. He’d seen it happen—seen the knife meant for him slide into her instead. Taken by surprise, the villain had already been pulling back, but the knife had been there, thrust out, and she’d fallen onto it.
The damn coward had wrenched the knife free and fled.
With desperation building, Frederick held on to every ounce of control and searched Stacie’s midsection. He found the seeping red stain low on her left side. Supporting her with one arm, he hunted with his other hand, found and hauled out his handkerchief, wadded it, and pressed it to the spot, but the wound itself lay hidden beneath gown, stays, and chemise.
Jenkins appeared beside him. “I saw the blackguard what did it, my lord, but he’s away in the crowd, and there’s no chance of catching up with him.” Jenkins paused, then asked, “Is the mistress all right?”
I don’t know. “She’s alive.” That was the critical fact. “We need to stop the bleeding and tend the wound, but we can’t do that here—or in the carriage.”
Frederick slid his arms beneath Stacie and lifted her.
Jenkins leapt to open the carriage door.
Frederick paused with his foot on the step and caught Jenkins’s eyes. “Use your whip. I don’t care how you do it, but get us back to Albury House as fast as humanly possible. Then, once we’re inside, fetch Dr. Sanderson. Regardless of where he is or what he’s doing, tell him Lady Albury has been stabbed and needs urgent attention.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Frederick climbed in, and Jenkins shut the door.
Frederick sat and drew Stacie protectively close.
Jenkins took him at his word; the whip cracked and the carriage lurched into motion, plunging and weaving back around the square.
Frederick looked down at a face more pallid than he’d ever seen it. And prayed.
Stacie’s senses returned in fits and starts.
She felt as if she was surfacing from a very long sleep, her wits rising through a fog of dreams. She had no idea what time it was—not even what day it was; when she tried to remember, she discovered her recollections of what had happened last, before she’d fallen asleep, were too vague and cloudy to make any sense of them.
It took too much effort to raise her lids, much less shift her limbs. Gradually, she realized there was a tight band wound about her ribs; it prevented her from drawing in a deeper breath.
But she was breathing steadily. Now she thought of it, there was a dull pain radiating from her left side, just above her waist, beneath where the band—a bandage?—was so tightly wrapped.
Eventually, it dawned on her that she was lying in a soft bed—it might even be hers. Hers and Frederick’s.
Then her hearing sharpened, and she heard voices. Two voices, talking in hushed tones. She made out the comforting rumble of Frederick’s voice. The other was lighter, a woman’s…Ernestine’s.