“Very good, sir.”
Margo dropped the buffing brush, abandoning her astonished client. She darted after the hansom cab, terrified of what she might find. It took her half a block to catch up and she only did so then because the cab was caught in a jam of carriages trying to turn into Waterloo Place. Margo flung herself onto the step and lunged up, ignoring the driver’s startled demand to get out of his cab.
“Malcolm!”
He lay slumped against the side of the carriage, cheeks ashen in the gaslights from nearby club windows. “Margo,” he whispered in a terrible, weak voice. “Sorry, love, took me by surprise . . .” He had fumbled one hand beneath his coat, was holding himself awkwardly. Blood had spread across his shirt, was dripping down his arm and spreading across the back of his hand. “Get back to . . . Carlton Club . . . warn the others.” He sipped air. “I’m not hit bad. Managed to fling myself aside . . . when he told the driver to go to the docks . . . would’ve had me through the heart, otherwise.”
Even as Malcolm was explaining, Margo was ripping his coat and shirt off, using her dagger to cut the shirt into bandage strips. She wound them around Malcolm’s chest, folding a couple of thick pieces to act as compresses over the wound. Her hands shook violently, but she managed to tie them off snugly.
“Go, Margo,” Malcolm wheezed. “I’ll take the cab to Spaldergate. Go!”
She swore aloud, recognizing the necessity. “Driver! Your passenger’s been shot! Take him to a surgeon! Battersea Park, Octavia Street! And hurry those horses!”