‘Would you care for some brandy before we go to Pierre, mademoiselle?’ François offered as he looked at her concernedly.
She smiled her gratitude for that concern. ‘Perhaps afterwards, thank you, François. It would perhaps be as well if I continue to have a steady hand until after I have seen to Pierre!’ she added ruefully.
François was the one to once again undress the man lying injured on the bed while they waited for one of the footmen to bring up fresh hot water and bandages. Allowing them to see that the groom’s wound was in the shoulder, as Christian had surmised it might be, but more complicated, in that the bullet was obviously still embedded in his flesh.
‘It will have to come out, mademoiselle,’ François said with a frown.
Lisette swayed slightly on her feet, both from the gory work of this past hour and the deep fatigue she felt after such a long and exhausting day.
It seemed far longer than the six, or possibly seven, hours since she had first met the Comte de Saint-Cloud at the Fleur de Lis. Six or seven hours when her life had been completely turned about, to the point that she now had no home, and no family to speak of.
Self-pity was not permissible now, Lisette told herself firmly, any more than it had been when the Duprées both perished. She might not have a home or a family, but the Comte had been shot because of his association with her, and the outcome of his wound was still questionable.
As was poor Pierre’s...
She straightened her shoulders determinedly. ‘I will need something with which to remove the bullet, François. And your assistance for a little longer, if you please.’
‘As long as it takes, mademoiselle,’ he assured her gravely.
Lisette gave him a grateful smile before she turned her attention to the now ashen-faced groom.
* * *
Christian awakened with a groan of pain, feeling as if he had been kicked by a horse and then his leg trampled upon by that same horse.
Every part of him seemed to hurt, but it pained him the most in his left thigh. He had no idea—
‘Do not attempt to move, Your Grace,’ a voice advised urgently in English.
Christian had no strength to struggle against the hand now pressing against his shoulder, and so instead he opened heavy lids to look up at a dishevelled François, the weak sunlight shining in through the window of his bedchamber showing him that the man’s coat was unfastened over a bloody shirt, his wig slightly askew on his bald head, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. A testament to lack of sleep?
‘I believe we must keep to Monsieur le Comte,’ Christian murmured weakly in French.
‘Of course.’ François nodded as he answered in the same language. ‘Do you remember being shot, monsieur?’ The butler looked down at him quizzically.
Christian frowned in concentration, trying to recall— Dear Lord, yes, he remembered now. His groom’s warning, followed by the sound of a shot being fired, the carriage coming to a halt and the door being thrown open, another two shots being fired, the arrival of the red-haired angel—
No, that last part was not right. It had not been an angel, but Lisette who had entered the carriage, before helping him outside so that they might both check on his groom, lying unconscious on the cobbled road.
‘Pierre?’ he prompted sharply.
François’s eyes avoided meeting his. ‘He is...not doing so well as you, monsieur, but Mademoiselle Lisette is doing all that she can for him.’
‘Lisette...?’
‘She is with Pierre now, Your Grace.’ François grimaced. ‘Once she had attended to you, she turned her attention to Pierre and has remained with him all night. In fact, she has refused to leave his bedside.’
Christian could hear the admiration for Lisette in the older man’s voice. Admiration fully deserved, if he was to understand the situation correctly; Lisette had not only doctored him last night but also Pierre. A task that would have sent most women of Christian’s acquaintance running in the other direction. With the exception of his sister and the wives of his closest friends, of course. But every other woman Christian knew in society would have shrunk away from being asked to perform such a gory task.
A task he realised he was responsible for asking of her, as he recalled that he had refused to allow a doctor to be called for to attend either him or Pierre.
He had his reasons for that, of course. But Lisette was not privy to those reasons and had simply acted as he requested without explanation.
There was also the matter of her revelation that she was Helene Rousseau’s daughter and not her niece to consider. Lisette’s earlier claim, of having lived on a farm with relatives until just weeks ago, would explain why no one had known of the existence of Helene Rousseau’s daughter before now.
A daughter Aubrey Maystone would have much interest in learning about.
‘Take me to her.’ Christian attempted to sit up.