Page 5 of Sweet Duke of Mine

ALIVE—JUST BARELY

S ilently, Daisy unlatched the carefully camouflaged gate, the hinges creaking as she slipped through. She paused, glancing in all directions, her pulse a steady thrum in her ears. The narrow alleyway was empty. No footsteps, no curious eyes.

Satisfied, she cautiously approached the body.

As she drew closer, details sharpened. The man’s boots—though caked with filth—had once been finely made. His tan breeches, waistcoat, and jacket, though torn and stained, were unmistakably tailored from fine fabrics. This was no common beggar or factory worker.

Daisy dropped to her haunches to get a better look, all the while keeping her ears open in case those bobbies returned.

His chest rose and fell, barely. But it proved he was still alive.

For now.

“Who did this to you?” she whispered, not expecting an answer.

And then the stench hit her .

Beneath the unmistakable copper tang of blood, there was something far worse—the cloying, sickly odor of decay.

Wounds left untreated, festering.

Today’s beating could not have been his first.

Her stomach turned. If infection had already set in, there might be nothing she could do for him.

A low sound escaped his throat—not quite a word, not quite a breath.

Then he moved—a sluggish, pained shift of limbs—and this time, he groaned.

Daisy’s gaze swept over him. Thick thighs, broad chest, solid arms. He had the build of a man who had not avoided physical labor, yet well-fed, well-muscled, someone who’d had the means to keep himself strong.

Who was he?

“What are you doing out here?”

Daisy jolted at hearing Gilbert’s voice, right before his head popped around the gate, his expression mildly curious. “The lye is cooling.”

Then his eyes flicked downward, landing on the man.

Daisy clenched her jaw.

I can’t just leave him to die.

She didn’t have the luxury of compassion. And yet, she knew she couldn’t live with herself if she just walked away.

“This man is injured,” she murmured, keeping her voice low. “Help me get him into the garden.”

Gilbert’s brows shot up, but he didn’t argue. He moved swiftly, only wrinkling his nose when the stench hit him full force.

Between the two of them, it took several minutes—grunting, straining, nearly losing their grip more than once—before they finally dragged him through the gate.

Gilbert shoved the lock into place while Daisy sagged against the garden wall, her muscles trembling with exhaustion.

The man lay motionless on the ground between them, as if they hadn’t just spent the last several minutes wrestling his deadweight into safety.

“What do we do with him now?” Her little brother wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

It was a good question.

If one of those horrid bobbies were to return and discover their victim was missing, they would search the area. If they searched the area, they might find her garden—and if they found her garden, they would start asking questions she couldn’t afford to answer.

But leaving him to die?

That would make her no better than them. Under all that blood and filth was a human being.

Daisy sighed. She would do what she could to help him—and hope that he lived.

Apparently, she wasn’t as cynical as she’d imagined.

The bobbies who had left this man to die hadn’t done so to keep the peace. What they had done was evil, pure and simple.

And the shorter one—he had enjoyed it.

A cold trickle slid down her spine.

If those bobbies discovered their victim had survived, they would finish what they had started.

Daisy squared her shoulders. She had to try.

“I need… a sheet, maybe?” Dash it all, she was a soap maker, not a physician! “And something to clean… this?”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to recall what Aunt Theodora had used on her father when he had been injured. Honey, vinegar, alcohol, and… onion juice? Was that right?

He would need willow bark tea for the pain, perhaps—laudanum? That thought made her hesitate .

Before she could spiral into uncertainty, Gilbert returned, arms full with not only the sheet she’d requested, but a few clean cloths, a bucket of water, a half-bar of soap.

“Perfect,” she said, flashing him a quick, reassuring smile.

Her eyes drifted back to their unexpected patient, drawn to the barely-there rise and fall of his chest. And her breath caught. Was it already too late?

She ignored the creeping doubt in her mind—the fear that their efforts might be futile. But she would try her best to save him.

Because it was the right thing to do.

Gilbert cleared his throat. “What should I do about your batch of soap?”

Daisy blinked. The rose petals—she’d forgotten all about them.

“Keep it warm, and ladle it into the pans,” she instructed.

Gilbert nodded, and Daisy absently noted that his curly hair, so similar to hers, needed shorn. Later.

“Anything else?” He flicked a wary glance toward their patient. “If you want to finish the soap, I’ll keep an eye on him,” he offered.

That was her brother, small but earnest. She shook her head. “No. I’ll do it.”

“What if he wakes up?”

Daisy suppressed an amused grin at the protective note in Gilbert’s voice. He was getting to the age where he thought it his duty to guard her, which was very sweet, but… well, Gilbert was still at least a head shorter and more than a stone lighter than she was.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him.

“If you’re sure…” He still hesitated.

“Quite. Now, get in there and save my soap while I clean him up.”

Gilbert frowned, but a few moments later, from inside the kitchen, she heard the soft clatter of pans as he set about following her instructions, ensuring her hard work hadn’t gone to waste.

Alone with the stranger, Daisy cautiously began wiping the dirt from the man’s face and head, working in slow, careful strokes.

Even through the grime, his skin was unnervingly pale, his lips nearly bloodless beneath the bruises.

Would her efforts even matter?

She worked faster, pushing past hesitation. She scrubbed harder, the lather turning pink as she washed away dried blood. When the wounds on his face were finally clean, she dabbed at them with a dry cloth.

But he didn’t stir.

Was he already too far gone?

Daisy barely had time to dwell on the thought before Gilbert returned and together, they wrestled the deadweight of the unconscious man into the kitchen.

It would have been impossible to carry him upstairs, so their only real option was the pantry, just a narrow space tucked behind the kitchen. But it was dry, clean, and, most importantly, secluded from the rest of the shop.

By the time they settled him onto an old threadbare mattress, Daisy’s arms burned from exertion, her muscles trembling with fatigue.

The hour had grown late, and Gilbert looked as exhausted as she felt, though he tried to hide it behind a furrowed brow and stubborn stance.

“I can help look after him,” he insisted.

Daisy shook her head, gentle but firm. “No, love. You’ve had a long day.”

“But—”

She pressed a reassuring hand to his shoulder. “You need some dinner, and then sleep, Gil. Think of school. ”

Gilbert frowned but obeyed, trudging toward the table where his school papers waited beside their simple supper. Daisy hovered long enough to make sure he ate a proper meal, sitting with him in the quiet kitchen, her mind only half on the food.

Once he had cleared his plate and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, she squeezed his hand. “Off to bed, now.”

He hesitated, flicking a glance toward the pantry, then back at her. “You’ll wake me if you need help?”

He was still just a boy, but he had so much heart.

“I will,” she promised.

Only when his footsteps faded up the stairs did she finally return to the pantry.

The stench of decay, in the small space, was even more noticeable now.

Daisy swallowed hard, but then quickly fetched a small wooden box—Aunt Theodora’s old collection of tinctures, salves, and remedies. Her fingers brushed against glass vials and paper packets, her mind sorting through what little she had left. Willow bark for the pain. Vinegar to cleanse the wounds. Honey, if her patient was lucky, to help him heal.

Her gaze landed on a few packets of laudanum.

He needed rest, but rest alone wouldn’t save him. Not if infection had already taken hold.

Because she knew the truth. It wasn’t the wounds themselves that killed—it was what festered inside them.

That thought jerked her into action, shoving away any lingering sense of modesty or hesitation.

Within moments, she had removed what was left of his clothing, the blood-crusted fabric peeling like old parchment from torn skin. Her fingers, although shaking at first, eventually turned methodical as she focused on one section at a time.

Beneath the grime, bruises bloomed like ink spills, deep and dark across his ribs and abdomen. Knuckles split. A gash along his thigh, scabbed over but still angry and red.

His right shoulder bore the worst of it. The torn flesh there was swollen, hot to the touch, the edges darkened—a sign of trouble.

She pressed a clean cloth soaked in vinegar to the wound, wincing on his behalf even though he made no sound. Next, she swept away debris with careful strokes, using the warm water and soap, the scent of lavender only partially covering the smell.

Not all of him was battered.

His left side—from his collarbone to his waist—was nearly untouched, the skin only marred by smudges of dirt. And aside from his thigh, though streaked with cuts, his legs appeared mostly unharmed beneath the bruises.

He had fought.

Whatever had happened to him, he had not gone down easily.

Daisy ground her teeth together and continued her work. Poultices next, then bandages. Then all she could do was wait.

Long after Gilbert had retired to his room, long after she had cleaned up the pantry and then picked at a meager supper, Daisy remained beside the near-dead stranger, terrified that if she left, she’d find him cold and lifeless in the morning.

Rather than retreat to her own room, she settled into a chair, arms wrapped around herself.

Keeping vigil.