Page 14 of Lady Sophia’s Lover (Bow Street #2)
E arly in the evening, when Sophia was certain that Sir Ross was away on an investigation, she solicited Lucie to help her turn the mattress on his bed and change the linens.
“Yes, miss,” Lucie said, her cheeks bunching with an apologetic smile. “But it’s like this, y’see. I can’t stop me mitts from bleedin’ ever since I scrubbed the coppers this afternoon.”
“Your what? Your hands? Let me see them.” Sophia inhaled sharply as she saw the poor maid’s hands, so chapped from the sand-and-acid paste used to scrub pots that they were scabbed and bleeding.
“Oh, Lucie, why didn’t you tell me before now?
” Scolding affectionately, she sat the girl at the kitchen table and went to the larder.
Bringing out an assortment of bottles, she poured glycerine, elder-flower water, and oil into a bowl, then whisked the mixture briskly with a fork.
“You must soak your hands in this for the next half hour, and tonight you must sleep with gloves on.”
“I got none, miss.”
“No gloves?” Sophia thought of her own gloves, the only pair she possessed, and she winced at the thought of sacrificing them.
Immediately she felt a touch of shame as she glanced once more at the housemaid’s raw hands.
“Go to my room, then,” she said, “and get mine from the basket beneath the night table.”
Lucie stared at her in concern. “But I can’t ruin yer gloves, miss.”
“Oh, your hands are far more important than a silly pair of gloves.”
“What about Sir Ross’s mattress?”
“Never you mind about that. I’ll take care of it by myself.”
“But it’s ’ard to turn without ’elp—”
“You sit and soak your hands,” Sophia said, trying to sound stern. “Take care of them, or you’ll be of no use to anyone tomorrow.”
Lucie smiled at her gratefully. “No disrespect, Miss Sydney, but…ye’re a love. A real love.”
Sophia waved the words away and hurried to clean Sir Ross’s bedroom before he returned.
She set an armful of fresh bed linens on a chair and surveyed the room appraisingly.
It had been dusted and swept, but the mattress needed turning, and Sir Ross’s clothes from the previous day had still not been gathered for laundering.
The room suited Sir Ross quite well. Rich mahogany furniture was enhanced with dark green brocade upholstery and window draperies.
One wall was adorned with an ancient, faded tapestry panel.
A series of three framed engravings were hung on another wall, caricatures portraying Sir Ross as a massive Olympian figure, dandling politicians and government officials on his knee as if they were children.
One hand clutched the strings for a few Bow Street runner puppets, their pockets bulging with money.
It was apparent that the caricatures were meant to criticize the tremendous power that Sir Ross and his runners had amassed.
Sophia well understood the source of the artist’s grievance.
Most Englishmen abhorred the notion of having a strong, organized police force, declaring such an arrangement to be unconstitutional and dangerous.
They felt far more comfortable with the ancient parish-constable system, which called for average but untrained citizens to serve as constables, each for the period of a year.
However, the parish constables had been unable to deal with the proliferation of robbery, rape, murder, and fraud that plagued the populous city of London.
Parliament had refused to authorize a true police force, so the Bow Street runners had become a law unto themselves, their powers mostly self-assumed.
The only man they answered to was Sir Ross, who had made his own position far more powerful than had ever been intended.
Upon first seeing the censorious caricatures, Sophia had wondered why Sir Ross chose to hang them in his room. Now she realized that this was his way of reminding himself that his every decision and action would come under the public scrutiny, and therefore his behavior must be above reproach.
Pushing these thoughts from her mind, Sophia stripped the linens from the huge bed.
It was difficult work to turn the heavy mattress by herself, but after a great deal of huffing and puffing, she managed to settle it into place.
She took pride in her ability to make a bed, stretching the sheets so tautly that one could bounce a coin off them.
After smoothing the counterpane and fluffing the pillows, Sophia turned her attention to the pile of clothes on the chair.
She draped the black silk cravat over one arm and picked up the discarded white linen shirt.
A pleasant, faintly earthy scent floated to her nostrils, the smell of Sir Ross’s skin permeating the thin fabric.
Curious, Sophia held the shirt up to her face, breathing in the fragrance of sweat and shaving soap along with the essence of a virile, healthy male.
She had never found a man’s scent so alluring.
Despite her supposed love for Anthony, she had never really noticed such details about him.
Disgusted with herself, Sophia decided that it must have been the idea of Anthony, the fantasy of him, that she had fallen in love with, rather than the actual man.
She had wanted a fairy-tale prince to sweep her off her feet, and Anthony had obligingly played the role until it no longer suited him.
The door opened.
Startled, Sophia dropped the shirt and blanched guiltily. She was appalled to see Sir Ross enter the room, his large body clad in a black coat and trousers. Humiliation flooded her. Oh, that he should have caught her sniffing and fondling his shirt!
But Sir Ross’s usual alertness seemed to have deserted him.
In fact, his gaze was slightly unfocused, and Sophia realized that he hadn’t noticed what she was doing.
Confounded, she wondered if he had been drinking.
That was not like him at all, but it was the only possible reason for the unsteadiness of his gait.
“You are back early from your investigation in Long Acre,” she said. “I—I was just straightening your room.”
He shook his head as if to clear it and approached her.
Sophia backed up against the dresser, staring at him in growing concern. “Are you ill, sir?”
Sir Ross reached her and clutched the dresser on either side of her.
His face was bone-white, throwing the blackness of his hair and brows and lashes into startling relief.
“We found the man we sought, hiding in a house on Rose Street,” he said.
A thick forelock fell over his pale, sweating forehead.
“He climbed onto the roof…and jumped to the next house before Sayer could catch him. I joined in the chase…couldn’t let him get away. ”
“You were chasing a man on the rooftops?” Sophia was horrified. “But that is dangerous! You could have been hurt.”
“Actually…” Sir Ross looked sheepish, his balance wavering. “When I reached him, he pulled a pistol from his coat.”
“You were shot at?” Sophia scanned his black coat frantically. “Did he hit you? Dear God—” She ran her hands down the front of the tailored wool panels of the coat and found that the left side was cool and slippery. A stifled cry burst from her lips as her palm came away smeared with blood.
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Sophia demanded, frantically pulling him toward the bed. “Have you sent for a doctor?”
“I can tend it myself,” he said testily. “A mere scratch, as I said—” He grunted with pain when Sophia tugged the coat from his shoulders and down his arms.
“Lie down!” She was horrified by the amount of blood that had stained his shirt, leaving his entire left side soaked in scarlet.
Unbuttoning the garment, she lifted the fabric from his shoulder and gasped at the sight of an oozing bullet wound.
“It is not a scratch, it is a hole . Don’t you dare move.
Why in God’s name didn’t you tell someone? ”
“It is only a minor injury,” he said grumpily.
Sophia snatched up the shirt from the previous day and pressed it firmly against the welling blood. Sir Ross’s breath hissed between his clenched teeth.
“You obstinate man,” Sophia said, stroking back the lock of hair that had adhered to his damp forehead. “You are not invulnerable, despite what you and everyone else at Bow Street seem to think! Hold this in place while I send for a doctor.”
“Get Jacob Linley,” he muttered. “At this time of evening he is usually across the street at Tom’s.”
“Tom’s coffeehouse?”
Sir Ross nodded, his eyes closing. “Ernest will find him.”
Sophia dashed outside the room, shouting for help. The servants appeared in less than a minute, all of them appearing thunderstruck by the information that Sir Ross had been wounded.
As the servants at Bow Street No. 4 were accustomed to emergencies of one kind or another, they were quick to respond. Ernest scampered away to locate the doctor, Eliza went in search of clean rags and linens, and Lucie ran next door to inform Sir Grant of the situation.
Sophia returned to Sir Ross, her heart pounding in fear when she saw him lying so still on the bed. Gently she took his hand away from the wad of bloodstained cloth and applied more pressure to the wound. He made a rough sound, his eyes slitting open.
“It’s been years since the last time I was shot,” he muttered. “Forgot how damn much it hurts.”
Sophia was overwhelmed with worry. “I hope it hurts,” she said vehemently. “Perhaps that will teach you not to be running about on rooftops! What possessed you to do such a thing?”
Sir Ross gave her a narrow-eyed glance. “For some reason the suspect didn’t want to come down to the ground so that I could catch him more easily.”
“It was my impression that the runners are supposed to give chase,” she replied tartly. “Whereas you are supposed to stay safe and tell them what to do.”
“It doesn’t always work that way.”