While Stratford took her place and propped Duncan up, Emmeline had gone to the desk and was rummaging through it. “Ah ha!” She lifted a pen knife and started toward them.
Duncan turned his head to look at Stratford. “Don’t let the lass stab me. It’s bad enough being shot.”
“I won’t stab you. Now hold still. Miss Beatriz, hold the cloth away from his body while I cut.”
Stratford watched her, only half a mind on what she was doing. She seemed capable enough, and he only need concentrate on holding up the big ox of a Scot. Stratford adjusted his grip as Beatriz stripped the shredded coat off Duncan’s back. Then Emmeline started on the shirt.
“Christ and all the saints, woman!” Duncan yelled. “Are ye trying tae murder me?”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Emmeline told him as she removed the shirt. It had been stuck to the wound by the dried blood, and Stratford winced, imagining how much tearing it away had hurt.
“Oh, dear.” Beatriz ripped another section of her petticoat and began to staunch the blood that was flowing again. Stratford slowly let Duncan down then straightened.
“Let me take a look at it,” he told the women. He put his hand over the petticoat, which was quickly turning scarlet, and when the women had stepped back, he lifted it and examined the wound. A moment later he replaced the bandage and Ines moved back into place.
“Well?” Duncan asked.
“It went in cleanly,” Stratford said. “The problem is it didn’t come out.”
“So it’s still in there? Can ye get it oot?”
“I can’t see the ball, so no. You’ll need a surgeon.”
Duncan started to rise, but Ines put a hand on his chest and pushed him back down.
“I dinnae want a sawbones poking at me with his knives.”
“Well you don’t have a choice,” Emmeline told him in her no-nonsense tone. “You can’t leave the ball inside. You’ll get an infection.”
“I’ll probably get an infection anyway.”
No one argued because it was true. Men had died from lesser wounds. Everyone knew it often wasn’t the pistol ball that killed but the fever and infection afterward.
“The sooner I fetch a surgeon, the better,” Emmeline said. “Do you think your Mr. Pope will tell me where to go or will I have to guess?”
“You go?” Stratford shook his head. “We’ll send the coachman to Milcroft.”
“There is no coachman,” Emmeline told him. “He drove off once the shooting began.”
Stratford cursed.
“That was my thought as well,” Emmeline said.
Stratford gave her a rueful smile. He had to admire the way she had stayed calm and not panicked. Beatriz looked pale as a sheet and shaky. Her hand on Duncan’s chest was trembling, but Emmeline had probably forbidden her from falling apart. “I suppose I will have to go,” Stratford said. “If I can’t find a horse, I’ll walk.”
“You can’t go,” Emmeline argued. “What if your friend decides to start shooting again? You have to stay here and keep them safe.” She nodded at Duncan and Beatriz.
“You can’t go. I’m responsible for you, and I won’t have you walking all over the countryside alone.” He pointed at Beatriz. “You either.”
Beatriz held out a hand. “Then give me the pistol and both of you go. If Mr. Pope so much as steps foot in this room, I will shoot him. I know how to protect myself. “
“How do you know that?” Stratford asked.
“I worked in a shop for many years. One learns to fend off thieves and unscrupulous men.” She wiggled her fingers. “Give me the pistol.”
Stratford handed it to her. “Just in case,” he said. “But you won’t need it. Nash is done for today.”
She nodded and set the pistol on the floor beside her knees.
“Well, then, shall we see if Nash can tell us if Milcroft houses a surgeon, or shall we choose a direction and start walking?” Emmeline asked.
“I’ll go in and ask him,” Stratford said, escorting her to the doorway. “You wait in the entry hall.” He looked over his shoulder and found Duncan watching him.
“Don’t put your dancing shoes on just yet, Lunatic. I’ll be back soon.”
Duncan smiled. “The devil isnae strong enough tae take me. Nae today.”
“Good.”
Emmeline gave him a bewildered look as they walked down the hall. “What was that about?”
“It’s something we always said during the war, right before we went on a dangerous mission. Put on your dancing shoes, lads. Time to dance with the devil.”
“That’s macabre.”
“That’s war. Now go stand over there.” Stratford waited until she had moved away then opened the dining room door again. Nash was still sprawled in the chair where Stratford had left him. He did not look up when Stratford entered. Stratford approached and nudged Nash’s foot with his boot.
“Wha?” Nash grumbled, eyes still closed.
“Your idiotic behavior necessitates the services of a surgeon. I don’t suppose you can direct me to one nearby. Apparently, all the shouting and shooting scared the coachman away, and now I must go on foot.”
Nash snored. Stratford kicked him again, harder this time. When Nash looked up at him, blue eye bloodshot, Stratford said, loudly, “Surgeon. Where can I find one?”
“A surgeon? Why do you need a surgeon?”
“Because you shot Duncan, you idiot. Now tell me which direction to walk.”
“I shot Duncan?”
“Psst!”
Stratford looked about for the source of the sound.
“Psst!” The servants’ door to the dining room was cracked, and he could just make out the sliver of a woman’s face peeking through. She waved to him then closed the door. Stratford stood for a moment, wondering if he should follow, then shrugged and went through the door, leaving Nash still mumbling about shooting Duncan.
This was partly Emmeline’s fault. She had insisted upon coming with Duncan, against Stratford’s advice. Stratford had known it was a bad idea, but would Duncan listen? Of course not. Duncan never listened to reason. He always rushed into everything without thinking of the consequences. He was too impatient to wait for anyone to make a plan. He was hellbent on taking action. Now see where it had gotten him. And, as usual, it was up to Stratford to figure out how to save everyone.
Once through the door, he saw the woman was dressed as a cook, with a white cap on her graying hair and a clean apron over her plain dark blue dress. She bobbed a curtsy. “I’m sorry to call you back here, sir. I didn’t want Mr. Pope to hear.”
“That was a wise decision, Mrs.—?”
“Brown, sir. Mrs. Brown. I’m the cook here. At least I used to be. I haven’t been paid in several months, but I come a few times a week and try to see that Mr. Pope eats.”
“That’s very good of you, Mrs. Brown. Have you written to the earl to ask for payment?”
She shook her head. “The last time he was here, Lord Beaufort told Mr. Pope he never wanted to see him again.”
That was a hard thing for a son to hear from a father. Not that Nash hadn’t probably deserved harsh language, but for the father to give up on a son altogether did not speak well of the man.