Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

Oh God, Lord Harry Monteith was a girl.

“Jason, how badly is he wounded?”

In that instant, the marquess made a decision and acted on it. He jerked the shirt back over the girl’s side. “It’s bad, Julien. Quickly, give me your handkerchief. Harry, your neck cloth. We must stop the bleeding.”

“Mis Lord Harry. Dear God, Lord Harry.” The marquess glanced up at the valet’s frantic face. God, the man had nearly given all away. He looked Pottson straight in the eye and said firmly, “Lord Harry will be all right. Don’t say anything now. He will survive, I swear it to you.”

“Aye, your grace,” Pottson said, looking from his mistress’s bloody-soaked shirt to the silent warning in the marquess’s dark eyes. It seemed the marquess had taken the matter out of his hands. Why? Pottson didn’t know, but now there was nothing he could do. He stared down at his mistress. He felt helpless and paralyzed.

The marquess used his body as a shield as he pressed the wadded handkerchief against the wound. “Now your neck cloth, Harry, so I can bind Julien’s handkerchief.” Gently, he slipped the wide band of material under her back and knotted it over the pad.

He rose, lifting her in his arms. “Julien, I require your carriage. I very nearly killed the boy and now I intend to take care of him.” He turned to the valet. “You will accompany me to Thurston Hall.”

“Now, see here, your grace.” Sir Harry stepped forward, uncertain of what he should do, but knowing that somehow he was the only one left to do anything. He was Lord Harry’s second. Lord Harry was surely his responsibility. But the world had taken a faulty turn. Lord Harry had disarmed the marquess. He could have killed him but he’d not done it, and that made no sense. Lord Harry’s foil was still gently swaying back and forth in the early morning breeze. And now the marquess was insisting upon taking care of Lord Harry, who hated his guts. None of it made any sense.

“No, Harry,” the earl said quietly. He looked searchingly into his friend’s eyes, then said evenly, “Lord Oberlon will do what is best, Harry. You may depend upon his word. I would trust him with my life. Surely you can trust your friend’s life to him.”

As Pottson threw the heavy greatcoat over Hetty, the earl asked, “Thurston Hall, Jason? It will take you an hour and a half to reach. Shouldn’t you come back to London instead?”

“I know how long it takes,” the marquess said, meeting the earl’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Once the bleeding is stopped, it makes no difference whether Monteith is abed in London or at Thurston Hall. It is better for the lad to be out of London.”

“You will keep us informed of his progress, Jason?”

“You both may depend upon it. Now, we must be off. I would cover as many miles as possible before the lad regains consciousness.”

“But a doctor,” Sir Harry said. “Lord Harry needs a doctor. The best doctors are in London.” No one paid Sir Harry any mind as he trailed after the marquess who was carrying his friend as gently as he would a babe in his arms.

Jason Cavander turned as he stepped into the carriage. “Don’t worry, Harry. I suffered a like wound several years back and I assure you that I will provide Monteith the best care.” He mounted the carriage steps, and said over his shoulder, “Julien, you will see to Monteith’s horse, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” the earl said. He took Harry’s arm and drew him away.

“Now you,” Jason Cavander said to Pottson. “What is your name?”

“Pottson, your grace,” he said, moving quickly to the carriage door. Lord Oberlon lowered his voice, for he had no wish that even Silken hear his words. “Now, Pottson, what is the young lady’s name, if you please?”

Pottson stared vacantly at his unconscious mistress pressed close to the marquess’s chest. His promise to her rang clear in his mind, yet, he knew at the same time that all had changed. What the devil was he to do?

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