Lady Sophia's Lover

CHAPTER 5

Early in the evening, when Sophia was certain that Sir Ross was away on an investigation, she solicited Lucie to help her turn the mattress on his bed and change the linens.

"Yes, miss," Lucie said, her cheeks bunching with an apologetic smile. "But it's like this, y'see. I can't stop me mitts from bleedin' ever since I scrubbed the coppers this afternoon."

"Your what? Your hands? Let me see them." Sophia inhaled sharply as she saw the poor maid's hands, so chapped from the sand-and-acid paste used to scrub pots that they were scabbed and bleeding. "Oh, Lucie, why didn't you tell me before now?" Scolding affectionately, she sat the girl at the kitchen table and went to the larder. Bringing out an assortment of bottles, she poured glycerine, elder-flower water, and oil into a bowl, then whisked the mixture briskly with a fork. "You must soak your hands in this for the next half hour, and tonight you must sleep with gloves on."

"I got none, miss."

"No gloves?" Sophia thought of her own gloves, the only pair she possessed, and she winced at the thought of sacrificing them. Immediately she felt a touch of shame as she glanced once more at the housemaid's raw hands. "Go to my room, then," she said, "and get mine from the basket beneath the night table."

Lucie stared at her in concern. "But I can't ruin yer gloves, miss."

"Oh, your hands are far more important than a silly pair of gloves."

"What about Sir Ross's mattress?"

"Never you mind about that. I'll take care of it by myself."

"But it's 'ard to turn without 'elp--" "You sit and soak your hands," Sophia said, trying to sound stern. "Take care of them, or you'll be of no use to anyone tomorrow."

Lucie smiled at her gratefully. "No disrespect, Miss Sydney, but...ye're a love. A real love."

Sophia waved the words away and hurried to clean Sir Ross's bedroom before he returned. She set an armful of fresh bed linens on a chair and surveyed the room appraisingly. It had been dusted and swept, but the mattress needed turning, and Sir Ross's clothes from the previous day had still not been gathered for laundering.

The room suited Sir Ross quite well. Rich mahogany furniture was enhanced with dark green brocade upholstery and window draperies. One wall was adorned with an ancient, faded tapestry panel. A series of three framed engravings were hung on another wall, caricatures portraying Sir Ross as a massive Olympian figure, dandling politicians and government officials on his knee as if they were children. One hand clutched the strings for a few Bow Street runner puppets, their pockets bulging with money. It was apparent that the caricatures were meant to criticize the tremendous power that Sir Ross and his runners had amassed.

Sophia well understood the source of the artist's grievance. Most Englishmen abhorred the notion of having a strong, organized police force, declaring such an arrangement to be unconstitutional and dangerous. They felt far more comfortable with the ancient parish-constable system, which called for average but untrained citizens to serve as constables, each for the period of a year. However, the parish constables had been unable to deal with the proliferation of robbery, rape, murder, and fraud that plagued the populous city of London. Parliament had refused to authorize a true police force, so the Bow Street runners had become a law unto themselves, their powers mostly self-assumed. The only man they answered to was Sir Ross, who had made his own position far more powerful than had ever been intended.

Upon first seeing the censorious caricatures, Sophia had wondered why Sir Ross chose to hang them in his room. Now she realized that this was his way of reminding himself that his every decision and action would come under the public scrutiny, and therefore his behavior must be above reproach.

Pushing these thoughts from her mind, Sophia stripped the linens from the huge bed. It was difficult work to turn the heavy mattress by herself, but after a great deal of huffing and puffing, she managed to settle it into place. She took pride in her ability to make a bed, stretching the sheets so tautly that one could bounce a coin off them. After smoothing the counterpane and fluffing the pillows, Sophia turned her attention to the pile of clothes on the chair. She draped the black silk cravat over one arm and picked up the discarded white linen shirt.

A pleasant, faintly earthy scent floated to her nostrils, the smell of Sir Ross's skin permeating the thin fabric. Curious, Sophia held the shirt up to her face, breathing in the fragrance of sweat and shaving soap along with the essence of a virile, healthy male. She had never found a man's scent so alluring. Despite her supposed love for Anthony, she had never really noticed such details about him. Disgusted with herself, Sophia decided that it must have been theidea of Anthony, the fantasy of him, that she had fallen in love with, rather than the actual man. She had wanted a fairy-tale prince to sweep her off her feet, and Anthony had obligingly played the role until it no longer suited him.

The door opened.

Startled, Sophia dropped the shirt and blanched guiltily. She was appalled to see Sir Ross enter the room, his large body clad in a black coat and trousers. Humiliation flooded her. Oh, that he should have caught her sniffing and fondling his shirt!

But Sir Ross's usual alertness seemed to have deserted him. In fact, his gaze was slightly unfocused, and Sophia realized that he hadn't noticed what she was doing. Confounded, she wondered if he had been drinking. That was not like him at all, but it was the only possible reason for the unsteadiness of his gait.

"You are back early from your investigation in Long Acre," she said. "I--I was just straightening your room."

He shook his head as if to clear it and approached her.

Sophia backed up against the dresser, staring at him in growing concern. "Are you ill, sir?"

Sir Ross reached her and clutched the dresser on either side of her. His face was bone-white, throwing the blackness of his hair and brows and lashes into startling relief. "We found the man we sought, hiding in a house on Rose Street," he said. A thick forelock fell over his pale, sweating forehead. "He climbed onto the roof...and jumped to the next house before Sayer could catch him. I joined in the chase...couldn't let him get away."

"You were chasing a man on the rooftops?" Sophia was horrified. "But that is dangerous! You could have been hurt."

"Actually..." Sir Ross looked sheepish, his balance wavering. "When I reached him, he pulled a pistol from his coat."

"You were shot at?" Sophia scanned his black coat frantically. "Did he hit you? Dear God--" She ran her hands down the front of the tailored wool panels of the coat and found that the left side was cool and slippery. A stifled cry burst from her lips as her palm came away smeared with blood.

"It's just a scratch."

"Did you tell anyone?" Sophia demanded, frantically pulling him toward the bed. "Have you sent for a doctor?"

"I can tend it myself," he said testily. "A mere scratch, as I said--" He grunted with pain when Sophia tugged the coat from his shoulders and down his arms.

"Lie down!" She was horrified by the amount of blood that had stained his shirt, leaving his entire left side soaked in scarlet. Unbuttoning the garment, she lifted the fabric from his shoulder and gasped at the sight of an oozing bullet wound. "It is not a scratch, it is ahole . Don't you dare move. Why in God's name didn't you tell someone?"

"It is only a minor injury," he said grumpily.

Sophia snatched up the shirt from the previous day and pressed it firmly against the welling blood. Sir Ross's breath hissed between his clenched teeth.

"You obstinate man," Sophia said, stroking back the lock of hair that had adhered to his damp forehead. "You are not invulnerable, despite what you and everyone else at Bow Street seem to think! Hold this in place while I send for a doctor." "Get Jacob Linley," he muttered. "At this time of evening he is usually across the street at Tom's."

"Tom's coffeehouse?"

Sir Ross nodded, his eyes closing. "Ernest will find him."

Sophia dashed outside the room, shouting for help. The servants appeared in less than a minute, all of them appearing thunderstruck by the information that Sir Ross had been wounded.

As the servants at Bow Street No. 4 were accustomed to emergencies of one kind or another, they were quick to respond. Ernest scampered away to locate the doctor, Eliza went in search of clean rags and linens, and Lucie ran next door to inform Sir Grant of the situation.

Sophia returned to Sir Ross, her heart pounding in fear when she saw him lying so still on the bed. Gently she took his hand away from the wad of bloodstained cloth and applied more pressure to the wound. He made a rough sound, his eyes slitting open.

"It's been years since the last time I was shot," he muttered. "Forgot how damn much it hurts."

Sophia was overwhelmed with worry. "I hope it hurts," she said vehemently. "Perhaps that will teach you not to be running about on rooftops! What possessed you to do such a thing?"

Sir Ross gave her a narrow-eyed glance. "For some reason the suspect didn't want to come down to the ground so that I could catch him more easily."

"It was my impression that therunners are supposed to give chase," she replied tartly. "Whereasyou are supposed to stay safe and tell them what to do."

"It doesn't always work that way."

Sophia bit back another sharp reply and leaned over to unfasten his cuffs. "I'm going to remove your shirt. Do you think you can manage to pull your arm from the sleeve, or shall I fetch the scissors?"

Sir Ross extended his arm in answer, and Sophia drew carefully on the cuff. She tugged the shirt away from his good side, revealing his thickly furred chest. He was more muscular than she had expected, his shoulders and chest well developed, his midriff furrowed with rows of tightly knit flesh. Sophia had never seen such an imposing masculine body. She felt her cheeks prickling with a flush as she leaned over him. Gently she slid her arm behind his neck. "I'll lift you up enough to pull the shirt away from your back," she said.

"I can do it myself." His pain-hazed silver eyes stared into hers, while his neck tightened against her arm.

"Let me do the work," she insisted, "or you will make the bleeding worse."

Slowly she lifted the weight of his head and tugged the shirt out from under him. Sir Ross's breath puffed against her chin. "When I pictured being in bed with you," he muttered, "this was not how I had envisioned it."

A surprised laugh caught in her throat. "I will overlook that remark, as you are no doubt delirious from loss of blood." Sophia was grateful for the appearance of Eliza, who came bearing a ewer of hot water and a pile of clean, folded cloths. Sir Ross grumbled but did not move as the two women washed the bloodstains from his chest and throat.

"It appears the bullet is still in his shoulder," Eliza said pragmatically, easing away the wadded-up pad and replacing it with a fresh one. "A pity, as Dr. Linley will have to remove it. But the wound is not close to the heart."

Sophia leaned over Sir Ross and adjusted the pillow behind his head. The bullet could easily have pierced his heart, had the suspect's aim been any better. She was amazed by her reaction to the thought, the mixture of fear and anguish that engulfed her.

"I am fine," Sir Ross said gruffly, somehow reading her unspoken thoughts. "I will be up and about in a day or two."

"Oh, no, you will not," she replied. "You will stay in this bed until you are completely well again--no matter what I must do to keep you here."

Sophia was not aware that any sexual connotation could be attached to her promise until she saw the sudden glint of mockery in Sir Ross's eyes. She glared at him in silent warning, and he kept obligingly quiet, though his lips twitched in amusement. Nearby, Eliza developed a sudden interest in folding all the clean rags and cloths into tidy squares.

The tension in the room was broken by the welcome appearance of the doctor, Jacob Linley. He was lean and handsome, with gleaming blond hair and a ready smile. Sophia had heard of him before, since he was often summoned to Bow Street when medical attentions or opinions were required. However, this was the first time she had actually seen Dr. Linley.

"Cannon," he said easily, hefting a weighty brown leather bag and setting it on the bedside chair. "It seems that you had a bit of an adventure this evening." He went immediately to Sir Ross, his attention focused on the wound. "Hmm. A percussion cap shot at fairly close range, judging from the peppering around the wound. How did it happen?"

Sir Ross frowned slightly. "I joined in the pursuit of a murder suspect."

"He chased him across a rooftop," Sophia added, unable to hold her silence.

The doctor turned toward her. His hazel eyes contained a friendly twinkle. "A rooftop, you say? Well, I think that Sir Ross had better stay on the ground from now on, don't you?"

Sophia responded with a vigorous nod.

Still smiling, Dr. Linley made a brief but elegant bow. "I presume you are Miss Sydney, the assistant I have heard so much of? I admit that I thought the runners' rapturous descriptions of you were exaggerated. Now I see that they were in fact understating the case."

Before Sophia could reply, Sir Ross's sour voice came from the bed. "Are you going to prattle all evening, Linley, or are you going to remove this bullet?"

The doctor winked at Sophia and then turned businesslike. "I'll need a large ewer of scalding-hot water, some good, strong soap, a pot of honey, and a glass of brandy. And I will require more light in here."

Sophia hurried to fetch the required articles, and Eliza brought lanterns and candles.

By the time Sophia had returned from the kitchen, the room was ablaze as if it were midday. She arranged the ewer, soap, honey, and brandy neatly on the washstand. Going to the bedside, she saw the doctor carefully wiping a few silver instruments with a felt cloth.

Linley smiled at her obvious interest. "A wound is not as likely to turn putrid and malodorous if it is kept clean, although no one can explain why this is so. Therefore I keep my instruments and my hands as immaculate as possible."

"What is the honey for?"

"It makes an excellent wound dressing and seems to promote healing. It also keeps the tissue from sticking to the cloth when the dressing is changed."

"And the brandy?"

"I asked for that because I'm thirsty," Linley replied cheerfully, and took an appreciative swallow of the vintage. "Now, Miss Sydney, after I wash my hands, I am going to probe for the bullet--an unpleasant procedure which will make Sir Ross swear like a sailor. I advise that you wait in another room if you possess a weak stomach."

"I do not," Sophia said at once. "I wish to stay."

"Very well." Linley picked up a long, slender probe and sat at the bedside. "Try to hold still," he warned Sir Ross quietly. "If it becomes too uncomfortable, I can send for Sir Grant to help hold you down--"

"I won't move," Ross assured him testily.

At the doctor's bidding, Sophia held a lamp over his shoulder. She kept her gaze on Sir Ross's taut face rather than on Dr. Linley's diligent handiwork. The only sign of the pain he must have felt was an occasional twitch of a muscle in his cheek, or a slight catch of his breath as the probe dug deeper. Finally the implement clicked against the bullet, which had lodged against a bone.

"There it is," Linley said calmly, a mist of perspiration causing his face to gleam. "It's a pity you have such a strong constitution, Cannon. You'd have done better to faint before I extract this thing."

"I never faint," Ross muttered. His gaze hunted for Sophia's face, and she smiled reassuringly into his pain-darkened eyes.

"Miss Sydney," Linley murmured, "hold this probe exactly as it is positioned, and do not alter the angle."

"Yes, sir." She complied instantly, and he reached for a delicate two-pronged instrument that looked like a pair of pincers.

"Steady hands," he remarked admiringly, resuming possession of the probe. Deftly he began to extract the bullet. "And a pretty countenance to boot. If you ever tire of working at Bow Street, Miss Sydney, I am going to hire you asmy assistant." Before Sophia could reply, Sir Ross interceded. "No," he growled. "She's mine." And with that he promptly fainted, the inky sweep of his lashes fanning his pale cheeks.

With the removal of the lead slug from Sir Ross's shoulder, an alarming gush of bright red blood came forth. Sophia bit her lip as she watched Dr. Linley press a clean pad to the wound. The low growl of Sir Ross's wordsShe's mine seemed to hang in the air. Lamely Sophia sought to explain away the phrase. "H-how kind of Sir Ross to express his appreciation of my work."

"That was not what he meant, Miss Sydney," Dr. Linley replied dryly, still focusing on his work. "Believe me, I understood quite well what he was expressing."

When the doctor finished applying a dressing to Sir Ross's shoulder, he glanced first at Sophia, then at Eliza, who was gathering a pile of soiled rags to be washed. "Who will be looking after Sir Ross?"

The question was greeted with silence as the two women glanced at each other. Sophia bit her lip, desperately wanting to take care of him. At the same time, she was alarmed by the awful tenderness that welled inside her. The revulsion she had once felt toward Sir