“Halllooo!” The cry echoed up the stairs with a faint Irish lilt. “I’ve come from Daniel Steinberg’s. I’m the doctor.”

“I’ve brought them, Mrs. Manderley. It’s Sophie Witherspoon. Are you upstairs?”

“Where’s Mary?” Simon recognized that voice. Essie had returned.

“I’m up here, Es,” Mary called down.

In moments, the room was twice as crowded. Two strange men had entered with Sophie. “Oh, Simon. Are you all right?” Sophie rushed to his side and gave him a hug. “We’ve been so worried about you.”

So worried he hadn’t seen them since the first night he’d been back, apparently.

“I’m fine, Sophie,” he lied, because he knew that’s what she wanted to hear. That’s what they all wanted to hear. Except Robert and Christy. They’d confronted him on that lie.

Sophie made the introductions. “This is Dr. Alec McCain and his friend Lord Hawthorne.”

Christy stared at the doctor. “Alec McCain? Harry’s Alec McCain?”

The big, blond, bearded Irishman laughed. “The one and only. It’s nice to finally meet you Mrs. Ash—I mean, Mrs. Manderley.” He smiled to show there was no ill will meant by the mistake. “I showed up to visit Harry and found everything in a mess.” He shook his head. “I’ve only just fished a bullet out of Daniel. So let’s see your man.” He looked at Simon standing behind Christy with his hands on her shoulders, and frowned. “He doesn’t look shot.”

“This is my husband,” Christy said, taking Robert’s hand where he lay on the bed. “Robert Manderley.”

Simon self-consciously removed his hands. Christy wouldn’t let him get away with that. She grabbed his hand. “And this is Simon Gantry.”

“Are you sure you’re a doctor?” Simon asked. He was a little worried. After all, Robert was lying there with bloody bandages on his side and his arm. It should have been obvious who had been shot. And with his full beard and long hair, McCain looked more like the rough American trapper he was than a doctor.

“That I am,” Alec McCain said. “Before my trapping days. But I must admit, I’m a wee bit confused about these London marriages.” He laughed again. “We should have visited sooner, eh, Hawthorne?” His friend just smiled.

“Not sure if you remember me, Hawthorne,” Simon said, holding out his hand. “We met briefly in Portugal.”

Simon was curious as to whether Hawthorne would speak. He’d gone mute in Portugal, after Salamanca, Simon thought, or perhaps it was Busaco. They all ran together in Simon’s mind now. He was rarely on the battlefields. His fights had been in the dark of night, in the woods, where he had stealthily crept and killed.

He shook off the memories and met Hawthorne’s gaze. He could see the same memories there.

“I remember,” Hawthorne said, taking Simon’s outstretched hand, and the words carried more weight than just acknowledging an old acquaintance. He said no more, just let go of his hand and looked away. So he was speaking now. And he’d grown. He wasn’t as rough as McCain, but there was more American about him now than Englishman.

“You got shot twice?” McCain asked in disbelief. “A word of advice, son: after the first one, run.”

Robert laughed, but it must have hurt because he grabbed his side. “No, knife,” he said, pointing to the cut on his side. “Bullet.” He pointed to his arm.

“And you’re wet because…?” McCain asked, gently removing the bloody makeshift bandage from the knife wound.

“Fell off the boat when I got shot,” Robert told him.

“You London lads lead very exciting lives,” McCain said, glancing at Christy and Sophie. He pointed at Essie, who had her arm around Mary. “Not sure what to make of that one.” Essie just made a rude gesture.

“Never you mind,” Christy scolded him. “Just fix him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” McCain said with another laugh. “I like a woman with spirit.”

“She’s taken,” Robert said. His voice was a little breathless as McCain poked at his wound.

“Yes, I noticed that.” The doctor reached behind him. “Alcohol,” he said. Hawthorne reached into the bag he carried and passed McCain a jug. He popped the cork.

“You’re going to drink now?” Christy asked shrilly.

“Now never you mind,” McCain said. “I know what I’m doing. I fixed Harry after that Pawnee took his eye, didn’t I? And I fixed Daniel. Didn’t I, ma’am?” he asked Sophie.

“Yes, actually, he did,” Sophie said. “He’s not going to drink the alcohol. Apparently it’s some homemade brew he concocted in America, and it cleans wounds or something. Although he said you can also drink it.” She shuddered. “I tried it. I think it peeled a layer off my innards.”

McCain laughed again. His laugh was starting to get on Simon’s nerves. He got the impression he’d laugh a patient right into the grave.

“It’s not for the faint of heart, that’s true,” he said. “I need a fine needle, missus, if you’ve got one, please. I’ve got to sew him up.” Christy stepped out and called for the maid, Nell. He dug around in his bag and produced some type of thread. He held it up. “Catgut,” he said. He looked at the ladies, and Essie. “Not sure you want to see this, ladies,” he said.

“Don’t be silly,” Sophie said. “I’ve seen many stitches before.”

“I’ve stitched myself up,” Essie said. The whole room turned to stare at her. “What?” she asked innocently.

McCain dipped the catgut in the alcohol, and then he poured a small amount of the stuff on Robert’s cut.

“Damn it all,” Robert swore. “That hurts.” His face was pale and he was sweating.

Simon felt sick to his stomach. Robert’s injuries were his fault. If he wasn’t operating at half capacity because of his physical condition after Africa, he would have been the one to take down all the Russians and to find Van de Berg.

“Stop it,” Robert ground out between clenched teeth. Simon looked at him and saw that he was watching him. “This is not your fault and I’m not going to die.”

“From little scratches like this?” McCain scoffed. “I should hope not. And you brought in a decent doctor, unlike that fool Daniel. Could have lost his leg letting it fester like that.”

“What?” Simon and Robert both asked in disbelief.

“It was that bad?” Simon asked.

“Simon,” Robert said, a warning in his voice. “That was not your fault, either.”

“Really? Well, whose fault was it? He was shot rescuing me in Africa. Christ! How many people do I have to kill before I figure out that I’m cursed?”

“Simon, I’ve known you for over ten years,” Sophie said. “You have not caused any unfortunate ills to befall anyone. On the contrary, you have saved many of us, me included. I will never forget the debt I owe you.”

Simon couldn’t look at her. It was that favor, done for Sophie, that had started him and Daniel on their path in St. Giles as vigilantes. They’d killed Sophie’s brother, who had raped and abused her in her childhood and tried to do the same after she’d married their good friend Ian Witherspoon. Ian and her other lover Derek Knightley couldn’t do it; they’d have been suspected right away. And so Daniel and Simon had done it. They had bided their time, and then they’d found the blackguard and slit his throat. It was what they were good at, what they’d been trained to do.

He looked over at Essie. How could he say he was any better than her or her cronies? He was an assassin, just like them. He could argue that his targets deserved to die, but then so could she, from her perspective. He and Robert hadn’t even gone into that aspect of his past. As a constable Robert had a duty to uphold the law, and Simon had broken it, many times. And he didn’t regret it.

“Here it is.” Christy rushed into the room and immediately noticed the tension in the room. “What? What happened?”

“Simon is blaming himself for everything again,” Robert said.

“Oh, Simon, darling, I’m sorry.” She handed the doctor the needle and looked down at Robert’s side. She turned a little gray and swayed a bit. “I really am sorry. I don’t faint, you know. Daniel steals the whiskey.” Her voice had gotten very weak.

“Catch her,” McCain barked.

Simon dove for her and caught her as she collapsed.