When John woke up, his right side burned liked the devil. He stifled a groan and raised his left hand to rub his eyes, only to find his movement curbed.

“Steady on, lad. Just a bit more,” a strange voice said.

He opened sticky eyelids.

Wickson stood at the foot of his bed, shifting from one foot to the other. On John’s left, a small man garbed almost entirely in black sat on the edge of a wooden chair. His starched, white neckcloth and white cuffs were the only relief to his somber garb, and he immediately brought to mind a crow, ready to peck at some interesting tidbit. He had a sharp beak of a nose above a thin mouth and jutting chin, and pale brown hair puffed around his narrow head. He stared at John with sharp, brown eyes as he held John’s arm steady above a chipped white basin.

John’s blood dripped steadily from a small slit in his forearm.

“Nearly done,” the crow repeated, shaking out a length of white cotton.

The room spun briefly around John. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath to steady himself. His limbs felt weighted down with lead. When he tried to move, his side shrieked. He gritted his teeth.

“Well, sir. You might survive if you refrain from engaging in any more duels.” The crow cawed a harsh laugh. “Or you might not.” He took the bowl away and bound up John’s arm with the cotton, far too tightly for anyone’s comfort except perhaps his own.

Now, John’s forearm ached, along with his side. He opened his eyes again to stare wrathfully at his supposed friend, Toby Wickson.

“Excellent! Excellent!” Wickson said, rubbing his hands. “You’ll be right as a top in no time, Archer.”

John continued to glare at him.

“No solid food, of course,” the crow said as he picked up a large, black leather case and dropped it on the edge of the bed.

The jiggle awakened a symphony of agony, running from John’s armpit to his groin. He grunted and gripped the edge of the sheet covering him.

The physician—if that’s what he was and not actually a torturer borrowed from the Tower of London—dropped his infernal instruments inside the case and snapped it shut.

He grinned at John. “A bit of broth, perhaps, for the next few days. Send for me if there are any signs of inflammation. Or if you wish to be bled again. Best thing, you know, to avoid a putrid wound—to be bled. Cannot do it too often.”

“Thank you, Doctor Moreton,” Wickson said, his eyes focusing first on the physician and then on John. “Er…”

“Yes, well. There you are.” Doctor Moreton picked up his case and stood next to the bed. “So.”

“For the love of all that’s holy, pay the bloody butcher, Wickson!” John said through gritted teeth.

“Well, yes.” Wickson stuck a finger under his neckcloth and yanked, twisting his head. “Um, yes. That is. Well. A bill, perhaps? Send it around anytime. No hurry, you know.”

The physician smiled. “I should think not. No, not a bill. For fine gentlemen such as yourselves? No.” He had clearly dealt with the gentry before and knew their habit of delaying payment for months, if not years.

“Certainly. Understandable. Certainly,” Wickson agreed hastily, his blue eyes protruding further as he eyed John. “Er. A bit short, you know. End of the month. Almost May, you see.”

Cursing under his breath, John twisted, trying to find a comfortable spot. A lump in the mattress under his right hip proved relentless in its efforts to prod him into agony.

“Pay him from my wallet—then leave!” John ground out, picking at the bandage on his left arm. His hand was throbbing so much it seemed preferable to bleed to death than keep the physician’s tight wrapping in place.

“Right.” Wickson straightened and gazed around the room blankly. “Um, that is … where?”

“In my coat! It’s in my coat!” John yelled, half rising. He immediately regretted the movement and sank back, sweating, against the pillows. The lump in the bed, with impish mischievousness, prodded the hollow of his back. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face.

“Yes. Right. Of course. Don’t trouble yourself. No need to get up.” Wickson kept muttering as he fumbled with the black jacket John had worn that morning.

Finally, he pulled out a leather purse from the pocket and handed it to the physician. Wickson beamed with relief.

“Not the entire bloody purse!” John exclaimed. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Of course not!” Wickson grabbed the wallet, shook out a few coins, and offered them to the physician.

Doctor Moreton studied the coins with his bright eyes, flicked a glance at John, and shrugged. “Very well. There you are, then. Good day, gentlemen.”

When the physician finally abandoned them, Wickson grinned at John. “There you are, then. Be right as a trivet in no time.”

“If I don’t die from that charlatan’s gentle ministrations,” John grumbled.

“Charlatan? No, no. Checked with several chaps at the club—came highly recommended. Excellent physicker—no one better.”

“For laying you out,” John replied dryly.

“Right, right. He’s done for the best of them. Why, just last year he attended Lord Gordon after his duel with that Irish fellow.” Wickson frowned and pulled his lower lip. “Can’t for the life of me remember his name.”

“Gordon died, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Of course, of course. Terrible wound, they say. Why, it was nearly identical to that gash in your side. But that Moreton did a fine job, they say. Stitched him up as neatly as any seamstress. Excellent work.”

“I wonder if Gordon would agree with that assessment?”

A damp flush heated Wickson’s cheeks, and he pulled out his huge handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “Warm in here. A bit warm—best thing for you, though, of course. Must stay cozy.”

A grunt was the most polite response John could make. The room was stifling, with the single window firmly shut and the sunlight streaming through the panes of glass. He felt rather like an ant in the sun, wriggling under a magnifying glass.

“Is it too much to ask to close the drapes?”

“Draft, is there?” Wickson asked sympathetically as he rushed to the window to yank the heavy curtains closed. “There you are.” He wrinkled his nose as he glanced around. “Bit dark, ain’t it?”

John almost bit his tongue through in his effort to moderate his response. After all, Wickson, despite his faults, was a good friend; a childhood friend, in fact. He’d do anything he could to help an acquaintance—few were as loyal or kind—John reminded himself. Wickson would give you his last coin, if he had one.

John took a deep breath. “Would you be so kind as to remove this bandage?”

“Bandage? Can’t—Moreton wouldn’t like it.”

“Then don’t tell him,” John advised. “Just the one on my arm. Before my hand turns entirely blue.”

“Oh, well, yes.” Wickson pulled out a pocketknife and managed to get the tight wrappings off John’s arm with only a few shallow mishaps that were hardly noticeable when John pulled his sleeve down and tucked his arm under the sheet.

“There you are.” Wickson yanked the quilt up to cover a blossoming stain on the sheet covering John’s left arm.

“Is there anything to eat? Drink?” John asked at last as he struggled briefly with Wickson to push the quilt back down. Drops of sweat itched as they slipped along his side.

Wickson finally relinquished control of the cover and stepped away from the bed, shaking his head.

Letting out a long breath, John firmly folded the quilt back and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. A soft draft slowly dried the dampness clinging to his skin, leaving behind a lovely, restful coolness.

“Eat? Shouldn’t think so. Never is anything. I’m off to Boodle’s, you know,” Wickson said as he stepped toward the door.

John studied him and in a silky voice asked, “I’ll go with you, shall I?”

“Excellent, excellent! Then we might stagger off to Tattersalls to see what sort of crowbait they’re trying to push off onto the green lads new to London.” Wickson grinned as he rubbed his hands together. It took a full minute before his smile faltered. He dropped his arms and frowned at John. “Oh. Well. Can’t do it, old chap. Moreton would never allow it. Don’t want to disappoint you, but you just can’t do it.”

If it wasn’t utterly improper for a young lady to visit the quarters of a bachelor gentleman, or any man’s for that matter, he would have sent word to Lady Victoria. One word. Or perhaps three. Your help required. He closed his eyes, bringing her patrician, intelligent face to mind. He could almost feel her cool hand upon his brow and see the glow of her beautiful gray eyes as she held a spoonful of soothing beef broth to his lips.

“Archer! I say, Archer!”

He opened his eyes to find Wickson leaning over the footrail of his bed, his pudgy fingers an inch away from grabbing John’s toe and jiggling it.

“I’ll send something back for you, shall I?” Wickson picked up John’s jacket and patted it to locate the purse again.

Much as John knew his friend meant well, and would leave their apartment in the firm belief that he would send a basket of food to him, John knew perfectly well that Wickson was just as likely to get distracted by an impromptu horse race or other sporting event and lose the entire contents of the purse.

Once again, his thoughts turned wistfully to Lady Victoria. If only… “That Dibble woman—she has a daughter, does she not? Find out if she’s willing to do a few small errands for me.”

“Mrs. Dibble?” Wickson’s brows wrinkled. His bulbous nose twitched and sniffed as John’s coat fell back onto a chair, heavy purse forgotten.

“Yes. Mrs. Dibble.”

“Drat it all—I was going to Boodle’s. Absolutely famished.”

“Then send a boy to fetch Mrs. Dibble, and you’re free to go to Boodle’s and stay as long as you like.”

Wickson’s grin returned. He straightened the set of his jacket. “There you are, then. Knew I’d think of something. Very well, I’m off.”

“Send a boy to fetch Mrs. Dibble!” John yelled at Wickson’s retreating back.

Sweating, dry-mouthed, and feeling beset upon by the very devil himself, John lay back and closed his eyes. The quilt, sheet, and pillows were searing hot and sopping wet. He raised an arm to wrench his pillow off the bed, but the movement caused such an agonizing jolt of pain on his right side that he gave up.

He must have lost consciousness for a while because when he opened his eyes again, Mrs. Dibble was bustling into the room.

“Ah, Mr. Archer. Awake, are we?” she asked, wiping her rough, reddened hands on her dingy gray apron. “Our lovely Mr. Wickson said you wasn’t up to snuff, and I suppose he didn’t lie for here you lay, like one of them knights carved on the top of a tomb. Don’t suppose Heaven has long to wait before St. Peter himself is making the introductions all around, but I’ll make you as comfortable as I can ‘til then.”

“Thank you so much,” John murmured through dry lips. “You are certainly a comfort, Mrs. Dibble.”

“Well, Lord knows I do my poor best. Always have.”

“No matter how poor your best might be,” he muttered. He grinned. “I’m sure you are too busy, Mrs. Dibble, to bother, and I wouldn’t want to trouble you. I understand, however, that you have a daughter who might be interested in some work.”

“Work? My Nancy?” Her shaggy brows rose toward the cap she wore over the thick twist of salt-and-pepper hair crowning her round head.

“I had understood that she was, er, unemployed at the moment.”

Mrs. Dibble nodded. “You might say that. Yes, you just might.”

“Would she be willing to run a few errands for me? Just for a day or two, until I am not so, um, tired.”

“Why, is that all, sir? A few days?”

“I should think so.”

A crafty look sparkled in Mrs. Dibble’s dark eyes. “You know, doing for two gentlemen is hard work, and I’m not as young as I used to be. Well-to-do gentlemen like Mr. Wickson and yourself might be expected to have a maid-of-all-work, as well as a regular woman.”

“Some might harbor such expectations.”

“And I don’t know that I could ask my Nancy to dedicate herself to nursing a bachelor gentleman such as yourself for only a day or two of work. Puts her at a disadvantage, don’t it? Seeing as how it’s only a day. Interrupts her finding a more permanent position, don’t it?”

John sighed. “Hand me that jacket, please.”

“Jacket?” Mrs. Dibble frowned and clasped her hands together at her waist as if to physically restrain herself from responding in any way to John’s request.

“The black jacket. Please.” He waited, his gaze fixed on the garment draped over the seat of a ladder-backed chair.

After casting a suspicious glance at him, Mrs. Dibble sniffed and picked up the jacket. She shook it out and then walked over to the bed, stopping a good yard away. “Here you are, sir.” She leaned over to lay the jacket on the edge of the bed next to him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dibble.” His left hand patted the jacket until he found the pocket with his purse inside. Sweating and white-lipped, he fumbled with the recalcitrant leather pouch until he removed it from the garment’s pocket. He spilled a few coins into Mrs. Dibble’s hand. “Give your daughter these. She is to purchase some food and drink and bring them to me. Is that understood?”

Mrs. Dibble eyed the coins in her palm and prodded them with one knobby finger. “Very well, sir.” She studied him with a marginally softer gleam in her dark eyes. “We’ll take care of you, the two of us. I expect you could use a decent cup of tea while you wait. That crafty devil, Moreton, most likely left you dry as a bone—he does like his blood, don’t he? He’d take every drop you had, smiling all the time. Never you mind. My Nancy will fetch you a nice can of small ale. That, and a bowl of hot broth will do, I should think.”

“There’s enough there for a loaf of bread and a decent roasted fowl,” John said. He was not going to survive if everyone insisted on treating him like an elderly invalid with no teeth. His stomach rumbled.

“That Moreton won’t have it—”

“Then don’t give it to him.” He was repeating himself, something John disliked doing.

Mrs. Dibble slipped the coins into her own purse and grinned at him as she moved toward the door. “What? And have that old leech claim we murdered you with our own hands? No, you’ll do as we say is best for you—”

“And I’ll be dead by nightfall.”

“If St. Peter wants you, he shall have you, sir, and there’s no gainsaying that. But we’ll do the best we can to ease you on your way.” She granted him a gap-toothed smile and shut the door softly.

“I have no doubt about that,” John muttered, plucking at the edge of the sheet.

He glanced at the thin line of brightness filtering past the edge of his curtains. The quality of the light suggested that it was barely midday. He contemplated the relative merits of sleeping versus getting out of bed to stumble down to the kitchens in the basement to see what could possibly be retrieved in the way of drink and food. Surely, a loaf of stale bread would not be too much to ask. Even the prisoners on London’s hulks got that much.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was so parched he couldn’t even manage that. His lips burned.

Eyelids fluttering, he finally gave in again and sank into welcomed oblivion.