“Was he hurt?”
“No. I think his knuckles may have been skinned, but that was all.”
“Where is he now?”
“I left him sleeping.” She drew in a deep, ragged breath. “I’ve made such a mess of things. What am I to do?”
Reaching out, Sebastian laid his hand over hers where it rested on the counterpane. “Right now, all you need to do is rest and get better.”
“No?l—”
“Is petting our cranky black cat in the drawing room. He’ll be fine.”
“I should see him—”
“I’ll have him come in after you’ve had some sleep.”
Her hand trembled beneath his, then lay still. And it occurred to him as he watched her eyes close and her breathing deepen with sleep that whoever had killed Damion Pelletan hadn’t only robbed a caring young physician of his life.
They’d also deprived a little boy of his father and a lonely young woman of the chance to reach again for the gentle love and happiness that had been snatched from her so long ago.
Chapter 52
Before he rang the bell of Lord Peter Radcliff’s town house in Half Moon Street, Sebastian loosened his cravat, tousled his hair, and splashed his face with some of the contents of the brandy bottle he held. Then he leaned one elbow against the doorframe, affected a slightly befuddled smile, and waited.
Radcliff’s butler was a small, slim man with a mouthful of large, crooked teeth and a long, sharp nose. He gazed at Sebastian with watery gray eyes and sniffed.
“Ah, there you are,” said Sebastian, staggering slightly as he straightened. “I’m here for Radcliff.”
The butler sniffed again. “I’m afraid Lord Peter is not presently at home to visitors.”
“Still abed, is he?” Smiling cheerfully, Sebastian pushed past the startled butler and crossed the entrance hall toward the stairs. “That’s quite all right. He won’t mind me waking him.”
“But— My lord! You can’t do that!”
Sebastian took the steps two at a time. “Not to worry. I can guarantee he’ll be delighted to see me.” Pausing halfway up the stairs, Sebastian swung around to hold the bottle aloft as if it were a rare prize. “What you see here is some of the best brandy never to pay a penny of tax into the coffers of good ole King George.” He pressed one finger to his pursed lips and winked. “But shhh; mum’s the word, eh?”
“My lord, please!”
“That will be all,” called Sebastian gaily, running up the rest of the stairs.
At the top of the second flight, he threw open the doors of two rooms before finding the right one. The chamber lay in darkness, the heavy drapes at the windows closed tight to exclude all light. The space was large and square, furnished with a high tester and delicate Adams chests, its pastel-hued walls accented with beribboned moldings picked out in cream. The air reeked of stale sweat and despair and the alcohol-tinged exhalations of the man who snored loudly from the depths of the bed.
Sebastian closed the door behind him and locked it, then crossed the room to do the same to the door leading to the dressing room.
The man in the bed did not stir.
Radcliff’s clothes lay scattered across the floor where he had obviously discarded them on his wobbly path to the bed. First the cravat, then a meticulously tailored coat dropped on the floor with its sleeves inside out. Sebastian saw a waistcoat, its crumpled, white silk front splattered with dried blood, and he felt a surge of rage that was like a hum in his ears.
It was Julia’s blood.
The bottle still gripped in one fist, he went to stand beside Lord Peter.
Sprawled on his back in a tangle of sheets, he had one bare leg dangling off the edge of the bed, his nightshirt rucked up around his hips. He lay with his face turned to one side, his golden hair plastered to his forehead with dried sweat, his lips pursed so that his breath whistled softly on its way out.
Sebastian stared down at him for a moment, then crossed to the window and yanked open the drapes.
The cold light of midmorning flooded the room. Lord Peter gave a strangled half snore, then resumed his previous cadence.
Setting aside the bottle, Sebastian fisted both hands in the frilled front of the man’s nightshirt. “Come on; up with you, then,” he said as he hauled the drunken man’s limp body out of the bed and swung him around to slam his back against the carved wooden post of the bed with enough force to rattle the frame.
“Wha—?” Radcliff wavered, his eyes fluttering open, his mouth foolishly agape as his legs crumpled and he slid down against the side of the bed.
Closing one hand around the brandy bottle’s neck, Sebastian smashed it against the carved bedpost, raining down brandy and broken glass on the drunken man’s head and shoulders.