London Calling (21 page)

“Not . . . ‌exactly . . . ‌Russell Square.” James spoke between breaths as he eased himself down onto the bed. “But with any luck, we should be safe here.”

Susanna knelt beside him. She helped him out of his coat, and for the first time got a good look at the wound, visible between the torn flaps of his shirt.

Susanna sucked in her breath. “James, this ought to be stitched.”

Mercifully, the knife cut was not deep so far as Susanna could see‌—‌but it was long and jagged, wrapping from his ribs and down around to his stomach. James opened his eyes and squinted down at the injury. “I do not—”

Susanna interrupted. “I know you said no surgeon. But I still think it ought to be stitched.” She swallowed. “I can do it for you.”

James had a makeshift surgeon’s kit amongst his things‌—‌needles and thread, lint and bandages. Sorting quickly through the supplies, Susanna reflected that this was not be the first‌—‌and would likely not be the last‌—‌wound that he was forced to tend to without a surgeon’s aid. He even had a small vial of syrup of poppy flowers, though he refused to take anything for the pain.

“No. If anyone finds us here, I cannot be drugged and insensible. There should be a bottle of brandy . . . ‌under the pillow.” James still spoke with labored effort. “Give me some of that, and I will be fine.”

Sewing up a knife wound was, in fact, nothing at all like sewing a rent in a gown. Susanna was sickeningly conscious all the time she worked of the pain she must be causing James. At his insistence, after he had taken a swig of the brandy, Susanna also used it to douse the wound‌—‌which wrung a muffled expletive from his lips. But that was the only sound he made. All the time she was stitching the cut, he sat absolutely still, the only sign of pain the whiteness of his knuckles as he steadied himself on the bedpost.

When at last Susanna knotted the final length of thread, her skin felt sticky with sweat underneath her gown, and her hands were shaking. She fixed a bandage over the wound, let out the breath that she felt as though she had been holding seen she had begun‌—‌and then looked up to find James watching her, an odd look on his face.

“James? What is it? What are you thinking of?”

“What?” James shook his head and seemed to come back to himself. “I was just thinking of the night we first met. You patched me up then, as well. Do you remember?”

“That was a bullet wound,” Susanna said automatically. “Not a knife cut.”

James’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Obviously an important distinction.”

He was still looking at her, though, with the same odd intensity to his dark gaze. Susanna straightened, pushing a loosened lock of hair back from her forehead. “James?”

James shook his head again. “I just . . . ‌I just keep expecting this . . . ‌all of this”‌—‌he sketched a gesture that encompassed himself, the bloodied rags on the floor, and the squalid little room‌—‌“to be too much. Too much to ask you to accept. I keep thinking that any sane woman would have run screaming from me by now.”

Susanna raised her brows. “You consider me insane?”

James exhaled a half laugh. “Perhaps that did not come out quite as I intended. What I meant to say—” James rubbed a hand across his face. His jaw was stubbled by a half-day’s growth of beard, and he looked utterly exhausted, as though he continued to hold himself upright and to speak through sheer force of will. But his fingers moved to brush her cheek, sliding along her jaw to tangle in her loosened hair. “What I meant to say was that . . . ‌that I am glad you were there tonight.”

Which was, Susanna thought, very nearly another miracle, if James could admit to having been actually glad of her aid. Would James have lived though this night had she not been there?

He might have; he was resourceful. And strong. And well able to take care of himself. He could likely‌—‌given time and necessity‌—‌have stitched his own wound.

Still, Susanna leaned forward, touching her mouth to his. The kiss tasted of the brandy James had drunk, and the whole room now smelled of blood as well as the cabbage and mildew. But Susanna still wrapped her arms around him‌—‌carefully, mindful of the newly bandaged wound‌—‌and whispered against his lips, “I am glad, too.”

Chapter 22

The sun had fully risen by the time Susanna at last returned to Admiral Tremain’s house; she heard a nearby church clock chime eight in the morning as she climbed from the cab that had driven her across the city from the East End.

She had left James still weakened and slightly groggy with pain‌—‌but better than he had been last night. He had slept several hours while she was with him the night before. Susanna had slept, too, lying down beside him on the narrow, sagging bed. James had not known she was there; he had been already deeply asleep when she at last succumbed to her own exhaustion and lay down. But in his sleep, he had rolled towards her, gathering her against him. Susanna had fallen asleep with his arm about her waist and her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, her last conscious thought that when she next fell asleep in James’s arms, she would be his wife.

She had hated to leave him. Every part of her had wanted to stay there with James, to make sure that he ate and drank today and that he did not take a fever from the knife wound. But she could not leave Aunt Ruth wondering where she had vanished to. And even apart from that, James needed her to return to the Admiral’s house.

Just before she left him, he had sat up, wincing as the movement stretched his stitches, and said, “Susanna, do you think you could get me into Admiral Tremain’s house?”

“Of course, but why? Surely you can call on the Admiral yourself any time you like?”

James shook his head. “I can’t risk it. There’s always the chance that Philippe may find a way to warn the traitor‌—‌or at the very least inform Major Haliday‌—‌that M. de Castres is not to be trusted.” He shifted positions, grimacing again. “I’m afraid London has seen the last of Jacques de Castres. And besides, I meant that I’d like to get inside the Admiral’s private offices and have a look around.”

Susanna looked up quickly. “You think the traitor may be the Admiral himself?”

James lifted one shoulder. “It is a possibility we must explore. But even if he is not the traitor, there may be some other proof‌—‌something that could point us in the direction of the guilty party.” He looked up at her, abruptly sober. “I know I am asking you to take a risk, but can you let me into the house tonight? Sometime after the servants and the rest of the household are all in bed?”

Looking down at him, his face still grayish pale in the early-morning light, his eyes smudged with fatigue, Susanna thought that James did not look fit for anything but staying in bed. She closed her mouth tightly before she could say it, though. She only nodded and said, “There is no risk. I can let you in at about midnight? The Admiral keeps early hours. The whole household should be long since abed by then. Meet me at the windows in the Admiral’s library.”

Only at the last, as she bent to kiss James goodbye, had Susanna felt worry catch in her throat. She had not been able to stop herself from saying, “James? Will you stay here today? Not go out?”

James looked up at her. “Worried?”

Susanna made herself smile. “Only that you will tear out your stitches if you attempt any exertions. I went to a great deal of trouble putting them in.”

James grinned. But then he had sobered and taken her hand, tangling his fingers with hers. “I think I have already cost you worry enough this night. I give you my word that barring Philippe or one of his men knocking on this door, I will not go out‌—‌nor attempt any other dangers today.”

And now Susanna was back at the Admiral’s house. With all the long hours of an entire day to be put in before she could see James again. Before she could be certain that Philippe’s gang had
not
somehow discovered the address of James’s boarding house.

They had, after all, given the cab driver the address the night before. If Philippe’s men found the cab driver, questioned him about the fare he had taken from the public house in Broadmead Lane—

Susanna wouldn’t let herself finish that thought. She paid the waiting cab driver, and‌—‌since at this hour of the morning she was as likely to be seen climbing in through a window as walking through the front door‌—‌mounted the front steps.

She wondered, as she knocked on the door, exactly what excuse she was going to give for having been out at this hour. She did have her cloak, at least, to cover the bloodstains on her gown‌—‌and she supposed that there was a chance she might get away with saying that she had woken very early and decided to go out for a walk before breakfast.

As it turned out, though, she did not need to give any explanation at all.

Her knock at the door was answered by Polly, looking flustered and out of breath. “Oh, miss‌—‌it’s you. I thought you might be the surgeon come at last.”

“Surgeon?” Susanna repeated. “Why? What has happened? Is someone hurt?”

“Oh, yes, miss‌—‌it’s dreadful. Begging your pardon, miss,” Polly added quickly, stepping back into the entrance hall so that Susanna might come inside. “I didn’t mean to keep you standing on the doorstep. We’re just all at sixes and sevens here, ever since poor Major Haliday was brought in.”

“Major Haliday?” Susanna asked sharply. “What has happened to him?”

“Oh, miss, it’s terrible.” Polly smoothed a hand distractedly over her disheveled hair. “He were attacked in the street, on his way back here last night. Mrs. Porter‌—‌she’s the cook here‌—‌found him this morning when she went to bring in the milk. Lying on the back steps, the poor Major was, in a pool of his own blood. Looked like he had been shot.”

Polly lowered her voice to a near whisper on the final word.

Susanna tried to force her mind to work through the mingled fog of weariness and shocked disbelief. “Has the Major spoken? Has he been able to tell who shot him?”

Polly shook her head. “No. He’s been unconscious ever since he were brought in, poor man. We’ve sent for the surgeon‌—‌I thought you might be him when I heard you knocking‌—‌but he’s not here yet.”

Susanna nodded. “Then I will not keep you, Polly. I am sure you are needed elsewhere. I will just”‌—‌Polly had not even glanced at her crumpled and bloodied gown, but Susanna drew the folds of her cloak more tightly about her all the same‌—‌“I will just go upstairs and see if there is anything I can do to help.”

The door to the Halidays’ room was partway open, and Susanna caught the murmur of voices inside‌—‌a lower one she thought was Admiral Tremain’s, and a higher one, quavery and thick with tears that must have been Helen Haliday’s.

Susanna ducked into her own room and quickly slipped out of her stained clothes, washing her face and arms in water from the basin. All the time, she was thinking furiously. Major Haliday had been shot‌—‌but by whom? And why? Had one of the French agents‌—‌Philippe or another‌—‌discovered that the Major had been interrogated by James and made to talk? And had they tried to murder him as they had tried to murder James?

Susanna dressed again in a pale blue muslin gown sprigged with red flowers. And when she came out of her room again, the Halidays’ door was open wider, and Miss Fanny stood in the doorway.

“The poor, poor Major.” Her long face was quivering with agitation. “Is there anything I can do to help? I could sit with him until the surgeon arrives. I’m sure poor Mrs. Haliday—”

From inside the room, Susanna heard Helen Haliday’s voice, sounding still thick with tears but firm. “No. I will stay with him.”

Moving closer, Susanna could see into the room‌—‌and at the sight of the still figure on the bed, she stopped, shocked by the Major’s appearance.

His hair was matted with blood and dirt, and his face, beneath a layer of mingled blood and grime, looked so gray and slack that Susanna would have thought him already dead had it not been for the harsh rattle of his breathing.

Beside the bed, Mrs. Haliday sat staring at her husband. And Ruth was beside her, one arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. Ruth smiled and looked relieved at the sight of Susanna, though she had no chance to say anything.

Miss Fanny had gone on: “Would you care for some tea, Mrs. Haliday? Though I am sure you ought not to distress yourself by being here at all—”

“I will stay.” Helen Haliday’s face looked taut and strained, and her hands were locked so tightly together in her lap that the knuckles stood out beneath the skin.

Ruth, beside her, said with calm practicality, “Much the best plan, my dear. If he wakes, it is your face he will want to see. I do not think you ought to wait alone, though.” She smiled up at Miss Fanny. “Thank you for your kind offer of tea. I think that would be very welcome.”

Miss Fanny fluttered off, still murmuring distractedly under her breath. And a few moments later, the surgeon, Mr. Parker, arrived.

Mr. Parker was a round, bald man, with a fringe of white hair and an air of brisk competence. “Now, then.” He rubbed his hands together as he entered the room. “What have we here?”

His face turned grave as he approached the bed and examined Major Haliday, though. “Looks as though whoever shot him was aiming for the heart. Luckily, they missed. The ball when straight through the muscle of his shoulder. But the damage is bad enough. He was found outside in the street, you say? That explains all the dirt in the room?”

“But can he live?” That was Miss Fanny, returned with two steaming cups of tea. “I am sure I never saw a man look quite so near to death before. And who can have done such a wicked thing? Almost on our own doorstep, too. Why, we might all have been murdered in our beds!”

Helen Haliday’s face turned a shade whiter, and Ruth shot Susanna a look of appeal.

Susanna nodded. “Come, Miss Fanny. I think we ought to leave Mr. Parker to his examination. And the servants are all so upset. I am sure they will need you to put their minds at ease.”

Susanna was actually sure that the servants would all be silently cursing her if they knew she was turning Miss Fanny’s attention towards them. But the distraction did serve its purpose in getting Fanny out of the room and downstairs.