Page 8 of The Devil Himself (The Devil You Know #1)

Seven

“ G rey! Rys! Come quickly!” Harris pounded on his office door, and the man wouldn’t interrupt his work on the accounts this way if it were not urgent, so he sprang to his feet and ran.

If someone was causing a problem in his club?—

Harris was pale as a sheet, and he led the way at a hard pace toward the front door, where a commotion was sweeping back toward him through the room.

“My God, he’s been shot!” was finally what he heard, and he increased his pace. Shot? Who would dare bring a firearm into his club?

The crowd parted, and he saw a man in evening kit leaning on a coachman, going by the fellow’s coat, and as he got close enough, he saw that it was Lucian Fitzwilliam.

Harris panted as they came up short in front of them. “He was shot on his way into the club, Grey.”

Fuck. He took in the scene with a glance, his heart beginning to race. Luc was slumped down on the coachman, barely conscious, his arm dangling, bleeding from high up near his shoulder. Blood dripped on the carpets, and the working ladies were beginning to scream.

“Let me have him.” Rys grabbed Luc’s arm off the coachman’s shoulders and bent, driving his shoulder into Luc’s midsection to hoist him into a lift. Luc was heavy as lead weight, but Rys hardly felt it. He needed to get Luc to a private chamber. “Harris! The red room.”

“Yes, sir.” Harris sprinted toward the back hall.

“Send for a physician,” he snapped as he carried Luc out of the gaming room. “And you, come with me and tell me what happened.”

The coachman scurried after them, his boots ringing on the floor.

When he got to the room Harris had opened, he carried Luc through the door, then checked to make sure Harris had pulled the counterpane from the bed. Then he laid Luc out on it, taking off his jacket to wad it up and press it to Luc’s wound.

“Harris, get me whisky and some cloths,” Rys barked.

“Yes, sir.”

He applied pressure, glaring at the coachman. “What in the name of hell happened here?”

“There was a crush outside the club, sir, and I let him out well away from the entrance. He was walking in when he was shot. I had been trying to find a place to pull off and wait. I’m afraid I abandoned my carriage out in front.”

“I’ll send a man to take it to the mews.”

“I’ll do that, sir.” Harris set down a bottle and a stack of bandages. “The physician is on his way.”

“Did you see the miscreant who shot him?” Rys demanded. Luc was pale, his eyes rolled back into his head, his breathing shallow and quick.

“No, sir. I heard the shot and the shouting, and I looked over to see Lord Angelsey stagger.”

Nausea rose in his throat, surprising him. Rys was hardly squeamish about blood. But Luc being injured made him ill.

“Get me the guard who was at the door,” he growled at Harris.

“Right away.” Harris, who had just returned from the carriage errand, was like a well-oiled machine in an emergency, and ran off again.

The coachman shifted from foot to foot. “Is there aught I can do?”

“Go with Harris when he comes back and send a message to Lord Angelsey’s household. Also to Lady Hallowarren. Let her know she is to go nowhere alone and to keep her daughters close by.”

The fellow’s countenance darkened. “Aye, sir. That’s probably wise.”

“Harris. Get—” He raised a brow at the man.

“Will Coachman, sir.”

“Get Will food and drink once he’s sent his messages.”

Harris nodded, looking red-faced and harried. “Yes, of course. Come along, Will.”

That left him alone with Luc, who was beginning to stir. “Goddamn it, Fitzwilliam, what were you thinking?”

Luc opened his eyes, the blue as cloudy as a rainstorm in January. “Rys?”

“Yes. What the devil, Luc?”

“I— what happened?” Luc’s brow creased, his lips moving stiffly.

“You were shot. You don’t remember?”

Luc frowned. “I was walking toward the club. Then there was this cold burning, and I got spun around.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No.” Luc shook his head faintly. “I remember feeling as if someone was watching. If I hadn’t turned to look, the bullet would have lodged in my back.”

A cold chill ran down his spine. “Bloody hell.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Making such a commotion in your club.” Luc’s voice began to fade.

“Luc. I need you to stay awake for the physician. Can you do that for me?” Rys kept his own voice even by sheer dint of will.

“If you need me to, I shall endeavor.” Luc’s lips curved in the faintest smile.

“I do.” He reached up with his free hand to touch Luc’s cheek. “Stay with me, Fitzwilliam.”

“You might— call me Luc. You did before.” Luc was panting like an overheated dog.

The door opened again. “The physician is here, Grey.”

“About damn time.” God knew, half the time the good doctor was actually in the club.

Dr. Grange set his bag down by Luc’s hip. “Let me see the wound, Mr. Grey.”

Luc cracked open an eye again. “May I have some whisky now?”

“A small draught only,” the doctor said. “It won’t do for you to cast up your accounts with your wound where it is.”

Rys allowed Grange to take his place, going to pour Luc a drink. A hard grunt and the rip of fabric told him the doctor was examining Luc’s wound, and Rys found he had broken out in a cold sweat.

Surely Luc would be all right.

“Harris,” Grange snapped. “Bring the whisky bottle. And I will need strong thread and a needle.”

“Right away.” Harris was off and running once more, and Rys paced over to lift Luc’s head.

“Drink.”

“Ugh.” Luc drank as ordered, grimacing as the doctor prodded him.

“I’ll need to stitch you up, though you are lucky that the bullet did as little damage as it did. The danger will be infection, but I will clean the wound well and treat it with a poultice I have, but I’ll use the whisky to cleanse it in the absence of hot water.”

“Do I need to be awake for this?” Luc asked, the pattern of his breathing concerning.

“No, my lord. In fact, it might be better if you are not.”

“Oh good.” Luc’s golden lashes fanned his cheeks as his eyes closed, and he drifted out of consciousness immediately.

Rys stared at his face, which was pale as milk.

He could only pray that Luc actually woke after all the stitching was done.

Luc woke feeling stiff and hot, his body and face on fire, and with pain throbbing in his arm and shoulder. He was thirsty, he needed to piss, and he had no idea where he was.

The slight light from a dimmed lamp showed when he opened his eyes. He was in a decadent bedchamber with gold and cream on the walls, intricate mahogany furniture, and a huge four-poster bed.

And there was the shadowy figure of a man sitting in a chair next to said bed, in which Luc lay.

“Rys?” His voice sounded as if he had gargled rocks.

Rys started up from a doze, he thought. “Luc. Fitzwilliam. How are you feeling?” Rys’s gray eyes gleamed in the low light, the expression hard to read.

“Sore. Thirsty.” He had a mouth that tasted like an army and all of its horses had camped there.

“Let me get you some water. You’ve been a bit feverish. The doctor left some willow bark tea, but you haven’t been awake to drink it.”

“How long have I been out?”

“It’s not quite five in the morning.” Rys stood, moving to bring him some water. “Drink up, and then I shall ring for hot water for your tea.”

“I’m still at your club. I apologize. I’m sure I can make it home with Will’s help.” Luc tried to rise, but pain shot through him, and he groaned, easing back down.

“You will do nothing of the sort. You will stay here where you are safe. Will took your carriage home.”

“I see.” He breathed through a round of throbbing pain. Honestly, when the lurid novels talked about a bullet graze, they made it sound so trivial. Then his eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up. “Gareth. Hannah.”

Rys put a hand on the side of his chest opposite his wound and gently eased him back down. “Hannah’s guards have been informed, and a message was sent to Joe.”

“Oh, good.” Nausea assailed him, and Luc closed his eyes. “That tea…”

“Coming right up.” Rys’s chuckle made him smile. The rustle of fabric told him Rys had gone to ring for the tea, and he dozed until Rys touched his chest again. “Your tea, Luc.”

“Thank you.” Not that he could sit up to drink it.

“Let me.” Rys shifted around, lifting his head so he could take a drink. The feel of that big, warm hand behind his head made the pounding in it ease somehow, and the tea soothed his raw throat.

“Did anyone see what happened?” Luc asked once he sank back down.

Rys set the tea aside, his mouth a hard line. “No. My men scoured the crowds, making inquiries while we waited for the authorities to come. No one saw a thing. And the doctor assures me that the shot must have come from a hunting gun or one used to shoot targets.”

“So it happened from a distance. Damn.” Luc mulled that over.

“Apparently so.”

Luc had trouble focusing on Rys, so he narrowed his eyes to focus. “You do remember that both of your remaining brothers are avid target shooters and hunters?”

“I do. The ramifications are not lost on me. Would you like more tea?”

“Dammit, Rys?—”

“No.” Rys cut him off. “I know you want to dig into this problem, but I have men out scouring Town for information, watching Hannah and my brothers, and guarding your household. You just need to rest.”

He tried to get a deep breath, but pain snatched it away. “I?—”

“Sleep, Fitzwilliam. That is the best way to help everyone in this situation right now, including yourself. You need to mend.”

“Have you ever been shot?” His words slurred together, his body trying to shut down into slumber.

“No, but I have been stabbed. Much the same thing, my dear man. Now, sleep.” Rys stroked his hair back off his face, the touch oddly gentle and very welcome. Pleasing.

He leaned into it, smiling a little, letting Rys ease him down into his sleep.

Rys was right. He was no use to anyone if he didn’t recover. So he let himself drift away with Rys’s touch on his face.