Page 7 of Earl Crazy
So, he gave himself up to it—to the inevitable tumble backwards, the scuff of his boot heels against the steps, the whoosh of the cold air around him as he fell, and, dimly, the sharp crack of his shoulder against the cobbles as his body met the pavement.
There was no pain, though. A blessing, that.
Just a soft gasp—his own—and then, encroaching darkness.
* * *
He wasn’t getting up again.
Tilly grasped the iron rails of the fence she’d ducked behind, pushing closer until her chin was in danger of getting wedged in the gap.
Her first night in London, and already she gotten herself into a dreadful mess. It wasn’t fair, dash it! She hadn’t done a single thing wrong, and here was trouble, already courting her.
She could just return to Lady Fosberry’s, and pretend she hadn’t seen the open door, or witnessed the man’s tumble down the stairs. She could simply go back the way she’d come, and no one would have to know she’d been out here at all.
It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong. She was perfectly innocent.
But an unconscious man at the bottom of the steps, alone on a frigid night? There was nothing innocent aboutthat. She couldn’t just leave him here to freeze to death, mere feet from his own front door.
Dash it, this was what came of sneaking about. Phee was going to be furious when she found out about this foray into the garden in the wee, dark hours of the morning— and shewouldfind out. She always did, one way or another— but there was no help for it.
Tilly muttered a quick prayer to whatever saint protected young ladies from the consequences of their own foolish choices, and scurried down the garden path toward the man, who hadn’t stirred a single inch since he’d fallen down the stairs.
He was splayed out on the ground, his face as pale as death, one side of his forehead smeared with…dear God, was that blood? Had those people who’d just gone bludgeoned him before they took their leave? It hadn’t looked like it, but it was so dark. Mightn’t they have assaulted him without her seeing it? Had he been burgled, and left for dead?
Oh, Phee was going to be beside herself if she’d managed to stumble upon a murdered gentleman on her very first night in London! She’d get that particular wrinkle between her brows when she found out—the one that belonged to Tilly alone. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Getup, damn you.”
Alas, he did not get up, but remained sprawled at the foot of the steps.
“Sir? Oh, please, do wake up!” She patted his cheek, but he didn’t stir.
Was it possible he was dead? He didn’t look dead, precisely, or at least, he didn’t look as she’d imagined a dead man ought to look. His eyes were closed, yes, but he looked rather well. He was young, and aside from the blood, quite handsome, with thick, dark eyelashes curled against his flushed cheeks.
She crept closer, her heart in her throat, and knelt down beside him. That was when she smelled it. Port, the sour scent of it so strong about him he must have drunk a great quantity of it.
Either that, or he’d been bathing in it.
He was a drunkard then, but notdead, thank goodness. His eyes were closed, but his chest was moving up and down in slow, steady breaths. Quite a chest it was, too. Solid, and thickly-muscled, and he had a pair of correspondingly broad shoulders.
She hadn’t a prayer in the world of moving such a large gentleman on her own. “Er, sir?” She nudged one of his shoulders with her finger. “I beg your pardon, but it’s time for you to wake up now.”
The man didn’t appear to agree, because he remained as he was.
Heavens, what a debacle! Perhaps she could just throw a blanket over him, or…no, no. That wouldn’t do. She’d have to find someone to help her. Surely, there must be a servant or two lurking inside the house?
“Wait here, sir. I’ll be right back.” She left him where he was and hurried up his front steps and through the door, but there were no servants lingering in the hallway. “Hello? Is there anyone here? I’m afraid your man here has had a nasty fall.”
There was no reply, and the hallway remained deserted. There wasn’t a single person, it seemed, who cared if he lived or died. Not one person about to help him, aside from a complete stranger, who shouldn’t be here at all.
It was disgraceful. Even if he was a drunkard— which seemed likely, given the amount of port he’d consumed, and his unconscious, bloodied state —he deserved better than this.
What was to be done, then?
She glanced around the entryway, but it was distressingly free of the sort of apparatus required to hoist a large man off the ground.
Unless…
Surely, there must be a study nearby? She tiptoed down the corridor toward a light at the end of the hallway. She wasn’t likely to find smelling salts in a man’s study, but she’d once roused a kitchen maid who’d fallen into a swoon by sprinkling a little water on her cheeks.
