Cold-Hearted Rake

Kathleen nodded automatically. But the words gave her no comfort. Yes, Devon was a big, strapping man, but a railway accident was different from any other kind of disaster. Injuries from collisions and derailments were rarely trifling. It didn’t matter how strong or brave or clever someone was, when he was hurtling along at sixty miles per hour. It all came down to luck… which had always been in short supply for the Ravenel family.

To Kathleen’s relief, the footman who had been dispatched to find Dr. Weeks returned with him promptly. Weeks was a competent, skillful physician who had trained in London. He had come to the estate on the morning of Theo’s accident, and he had been the one to break the news to the Ravenel girls about their brother’s death. Whenever a member of the household was ill, Weeks always arrived promptly, treating the servants with the same consideration and respect that he showed to the Ravenel family. Kathleen had quickly come to like and trust him.

“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Lord Trenear,” Weeks said as he opened his medical cases in one of the bedrooms that had been readied for the soon-to-arrive patients. “I regret that the first time will be on such an occasion.”

“So do I,” Kathleen said, staring fixedly at the contents of the large black cases: plaster bandages, needles and thread, shining metal implements, glass tubes filled with powders, and small bottles of chemicals. A sense of unreality kept sweeping over her as she wondered when Devon would arrive, and what kind of injuries he had sustained.

Dear Lord, this was hideously similar to the morning that Theo had died.

She folded her arms and gripped her elbows, trying to quell the tremors that ran through her frame. The last time Devon had left Eversby Priory, she thought, she had been too cross with him to say good-bye.

“Lady Trenear,” the doctor said gently, “I’m sure this unfortunate situation, and my presence here, must remind you of your husband’s accident. Would it help if I mixed a mild sedative?”

“No, thank you. I want to keep my wits about me. It’s only… I can’t believe… another Ravenel…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Weeks frowned and stroked his close-trimmed beard as he commented, “The men of this family don’t seem to be gifted with longevity. However, let’s not assume the worst just yet. We’ll learn about Lord Trenear’s condition soon enough.”

As the doctor arranged various items on a table, Kathleen could hear Sims in some distant room, telling a footman to run to the stables and fetch a bundle of training poles for makeshift stretchers. There were sounds of rapid feet on the stairs, and the clanks of hot water cans and pails of coal. Mrs. Church was in the middle of scolding a housemaid who had brought her a dull pair of scissors, but she broke off in mid-sentence.

Kathleen tensed at the abrupt silence. After a moment, the housekeeper’s urgent voice came from the hallway.

“My lady, the family coach is coming along the drive!”

Leaping forward as if scalded, Kathleen bolted from the room. She passed Mrs. Church on the way to the grand staircase.

“Lady Trenear,” the housekeeper exclaimed, following her, “you’ll have a tumble!”

Kathleen ignored the warning, racing headlong down the stairs and out to the portico, where Sims and a group of housemaids and footmen were gathering. Every gaze was on the approaching vehicle.

Even before the wheels had stopped moving, the footman riding on the back had leaped to the ground, and the carriage door had flung open from the inside.

Exclamations rippled through the air as West emerged. He was in appalling condition, his clothing filthy and wet. Everyone tried to gather around him at once.

West raised a hand to hold them off, bracing himself against the side of the carriage. Continuous tremors ran through him, his teeth chattering audibly. “No… s-see to the earl first. Wh-where’s the damned doctor?”

Dr. Weeks was already beside him. “Here, Mr. Ravenel. Are you injured?”

West shook his head. “Only c-cold. H-had to pull my brother fr-fr-from the river.”

Having pushed her way through the group, Kathleen took West’s arm to steady him. He was shuddering and swaying, his complexion gray. A fetid river smell clung to him, his clothes reeking of mud and polluted water.

“How is Devon?” she asked urgently.

West leaned hard against her. “Barely c-conscious. Not m-making much sense. In the w-water too long.”

“Mrs. Church,” Weeks said to the housekeeper, “Mr. Ravenel must be carried straight to bed. Stoke the hearth and cover him with blankets. No one is to administer spirits of any kind. That is very important, do you understand? You may give him warm sweet tea, not hot.”

“I don’t need to be c-carried,” West protested. “Look, I’m st-standing right here before you!” But even as he spoke, he had begun to sink to the ground. Kathleen braced her legs against his weight, trying to keep him from falling. Hastily a pair of footmen grabbed him and lowered him onto a stretcher.

As West struggled, the doctor spoke sternly. “Be still, Mr. Ravenel. Until you’ve been warmed through and through, any exertion could be the death of you. If the chilled blood in your extremities reaches your heart too fast —” He broke off impatiently and said to the footmen, “Take him inside.”

Kathleen had begun to climb the folding step of the carriage. The dark interior was ominously silent. “My lord? Devon, can you —”

“Allow me to see them first,” the doctor said from behind her, pulling her firmly away from the vehicle.