That didn’t seem right. If she’d not been at the scene, he might not have sustained such a horrific injury. What am I supposed to do?
The wounded man shivered uncontrollably. She bent near his ear. Jonathon? No response, other than his irregular breathing.
Jonathon?
A low moan. He abruptly shifted form, and she started at the change—four decades older in a fraction of a second, a glimpse of what he might resemble at sixty.
Handsome.
He shifted again, this time into a young boy. It was as if he were experiencing every moment of his life, even those he might not live to see.
Fury welled inside her. Damn you, Morrisey, what are the rules? What am I supposed to mend? She couldn’t reach the interface to ask him; Jonathon’s full weight covered her legs. It was up to her. If she chose wrong…
Then it’s my call, she said, digging under her bodice for the medical kit. Removing the top of the Dinky Doc, as the Rovers called them, she fiddled with the settings in the near darkness.
Leaning over, she whispered encouragement in the injured man’s ear and kissed his cool cheek as she applied the business end of the kit to the back of his neck. He didn’t react. Reading the results of the scan made her heart skip a beat. Profound shock. Traumatic head injury. Fractured rib. She turned the kit on auto and let it choose the therapy, returning it to his neck so that it might administer whatever medications were warranted. It beeped.
Clasping the kit tightly in her hand, she scrutinized Jonathon’s face for any sign of improvement.
A minute went by, then two. He remained himself. Maybe that was a good sign. Her hand shaking, she checked his pulse and sighed in relief. It was stronger now. Cynda recapped the unit and hid it away. It couldn’t fix the broken ribs or suture the head wound, but it would keep Keats stable until Alastair arrived at the Wescombs.
Brushing back a stray lock of the injured man’s hair, she said, You’ll feel better soon.
To her surprise, he gave a slow nod. I do. Less cold, and my head doesn’t hurt as much. Thank you for the blanket.
No problem.
He peered at her, frowned and then reached upward. You have some dirt on your face, he said, brushing it off. There, now you’re perfect.
He can see me. Tears erupted. She made no attempt to stop them.
Emotionally drained by the time they arrived in Marylebone, Cynda was grateful when Lord and Lady Wescomb took charge. In a short time, Jonathon was ferried to a room on the second floor where clean linens, hot water and bandages were in abundance. A warm, crackling fire and a fresh pot of tea awaited them. It was obvious the Wescombs held Sergeant Keats in high regard.
As Cynda began to remove the patient’s blood-soaked clothes, he protested, citing the impropriety of her and Lady Sephora’s presence.
She bent down to speak into his ear. Weren’t you the one who said you were experienced, as you put it? she chided quietly. If so, then you should be used to having your clothes removed by a woman…or two.
He glared. There is a difference.
Well, I suppose I could seduce you first, but we don’t have time. Stop fighting me, or I’ll leave.
His eyes widened. Then have your way with me, madam. I’m hardly in any condition to fight you off. That sounded like classic Keats. Any uncertainty Cynda felt about using twenty-firstcentury medicine evaporated.
A chortle came from their hostess. Best to listen to this lady, Sergeant. She’s not one to allow much quarter.
A groan from the patient. So I’ve noticed. He stared upward at Cynda. Where have you been?
Here and there. We’ll talk about that later.
Another groan. With Lady Sephora’s assistance, they settled Keats into bed, a cold compress on his rapidly bruising ribcage.
Alastair strode into the room, ignoring pleasantries. How is he?
Better, Cynda said.
That earned a quick frown. After washing his hands in the basin, he began his own examination, ignoring Keats’ many questions. Within a short period of time, the scalp laceration was tightly stitched and a proper bandage applied, leaving only the broken rib.
Cynda wavered on her feet. Lady Sephora guided her to a chair.
You rest. I’ll assist Alastair, the lady said.
Cynda acquiesced, her mind tumbling with the events of the evening. As Alastair finished his treatment, Keats’ frustration mounted with each passing moment.
Tell me how it fell out! he demanded.
Not yet. How’s your pain? Alastair asked.
Less than I thought it would be.
How many of me do you see?
One. Am I supposed to see more? was the snappish reply.
Ah, yes, you are better.
What did Fisher say? Keats asked.
That it was a shame that Flaherty escaped.
A low sigh. Blast. I so wanted that bastard. His eyes immediately tracked toward the women in the room as his face turned brilliant red. I apologize, ladies, that was quite—
He is a bastard, Cynda said without thinking. To her surprise, Lady Sephora nodded instantly.
I find no reason to quibble with your opinion of the fellow, she said. In fact, I think you’re being quite generous, Keats.
The moment their hostess left the room, Alastair beckoned Cynda to the washbasin.
Have you been practicing medicine again? he whispered, pouring water over his hands and soaping them vigorously.
Maybe, she whispered back.
Another look at Keats and then a nod. Thank you. There was little I could have done for him. He would have been devastated if he could not continue his work as a cop. His voice returned to a normal pitch. Lord Wescomb has offered us rooms for the night.
Cynda shook her head. No, I need to go back to my hotel.
He eyed her. Where are you staying?
Charing Cross Hotel, at the station.
A raised eyebrow. Then I suppose you’ll want your money back.
No, it’s yours. I have enough to keep me going.
He dried his hands with methodical precision. When did you return?
A day or so ago.
Then it wasn’t you at Bishopsgate, he murmured.
That didn’t make any sense. She pressed on. The man at Colney Hatch was the one I was hunting for, after all.
Really? But how—
She waved him off. Doesn’t matter. He’s home now.
Then you will be leaving soon? he asked, laying the towel aside and rolling down his cuffs.
Not yet, she said. Not until I find Mimes. In unison, they studied the patient. Keats was asleep, his color pink and his breathing even. Thank God, she murmured.