A Matter Of Delicacy

The Contract

     There was a tense, brittle silence in the room for a split second before Willoughby and I dashed over to the windowsill to peer out.
     Paulette lay spread out on the cobbles below. His body made a dark stain on the polished stone, a light spatter of blood firing out from one side.
     He was totally still.
     Until he wasn't.
     'How in God's name...?' I whispered as he shifted, his arm slipping over his body to clutch at the bullet wound I had put there, just a few inches to the left of his heart. His face, that had been so still and shocked, contorted into a mask of pain and fury. He made no sound, but my heart sank to my boots. 'How the hell did he survive that?'
     Willoughby said nothing. Together we just watched in horror as Paulette rolled onto his front and heaved himself to his feet, grasping at doorways and windowsills and crates piled against walls to stumble away, leaving a smear of blood on the stones. He made it to the end of the road, then turned one last time to where we stood, framed in the window.
     His look was one of fire and vengeance and it chilled me down to my very bones.
     He would be back – and I dreaded the day.
     'How did I not kill him? I shot him in the chest Goddamit.'
     'I wouldn't worry about it,' Willoughby croaked, leaning against the windowsill. 'I can't imagine he'll shake that off with ease.'
     'Even so, he fell twenty metres onto stone! What sort of bad luck are we cursed with when even gravity – '
     Willoughby sank to the ground with a groan and I started, staring down at him, wide-eyed.             'Willoughby?'
     He forced a smile, 'would you be kind enough to pass me my bag?' The bloodstain had spread across his chest and was now tinged a dark scarlet.
     I'd completely forgotten about it.
     'Oh my God, Willoughby!' I knelt and hovered my hands above the slash in his shirt. The fabric was stuck deep to the wound and stained a deep crimson. I didn't have my medicine kit with me. He needed stiches, the cut was too deep. I didn't have anything here to help. 'We need to get you to a doctor, right now.'
     He shook his head, 'it's alright, we can bandage it for now and get back home. Deal with it there.'
     'This will take more than bandages Willoughby!' I cast around frantically, searching for anything that would help. But apart from broken chairs and the whiskey glasses, there was nothing.
     'Please – my bag.' He pointed a shaky hand towards his satchel that I'd left on the bed. I rummaged around inside it and pulled out a roll of bandages he'd tucked inside.
     'Do you carry bandages around with you wherever you go?' I joked, my voice wobbly.
     'I thought your knee might need binding again,' he mumbled, resting his head back against the wall. 'Thought it best to be prepared.'
     I stared at him for a moment.
     There was plaster dust in his hair, a fresh cut on his cheek that had smeared blood down to his jaw. His nose was bleeding and the knuckles on his hands, pressing gently against his wound, were bloody and scabbed.
     But he'd brought bandages for my knee.
     I knelt by his side and started unrolling them. His eyes were heavy and his movements were sluggish. His fingers, when they started pulling at the fabric of his shirt, were shaky and slow. As it came unstuck from his skin another wash of blood cascaded down his side and he groaned through gritted teeth.
     'I should get a doctor,' I flustered, worrying my lip between my teeth and glancing wildly between his wound and his eyes and the door. 'You need stitches now.'
     'I'll be alright, I just need it bandaged for now,' he started tugging at the buttons of his shirt.
     'Willoughby, you're bleeding a lot.' I rubbed my face, my hands coming away filthy and smeared with old blood. 'I could go and fetch someone and we could get – '
     'Kate.' His voice was low and calm and warm. I stared at him, my heart hammering. He reached out and took my hand, squeezing my fingers in his blood-stained ones. 'I just need some help.'
     Just minutes ago he'd told me I should take the help he was offering. Just minutes ago I was the injured one and he was doing what he could to ease my pain. And now here he was, bloodied and bruised, and asking me for mine.
     I sucked a deep breath in through my lips.
     My heart battered in my chest.
     And nodded.
     His shirt was a finicky thing, with buttons at the neck and ties a few inches down his sternum. He tried to undo the knots but his fingers were fumbling and slippery with blood so I pushed them away, working at them with deft tugs.
     Then came the hard part. I slipped an arm around his back and eased him forwards, shushing him gently as he snarled in pain. His head rested on my shoulder and the smell of sweat and blood and cologne warred with each other.
     It was the smell of battle – I knew it well.
     Easing his shirt up sent grimaces of pain through his face. His chest was a mess of blood and dirt from rolling on the floor with Paulette, but I could see the familiar scars and bruises and damaged skin under the red sheen. A long thin scar ran from his sternum up to his shoulder, an old patch of shiny skin at his waist told of a burn from years ago.
     'I need you to lift your arms,' I frowned at the slash on his side and chewed at my lip. 'It's going to hurt like hell.'
     Willoughby let out a pained laugh and gritted his teeth. I placed one end of the bandage directly over the slash and pressed my hand down hard. He let out a hideous groan through his clenched jaws, dropping his head back against the wall and screwing his eyes tight shut.
     I winced and looked closer. Blood was already seeping through the bandage, and I could swear I felt a rib bone beneath the cloth. Passing the bandage around his back, I wrapped it as tight as he would take it, pressing his hand down over it when I was done. The heat was radiating off him, and as my fingers brushed his skin, tucking the end of the bandage, he winced.
     In a way that was not totally pained.
     Heat flooded my cheeks and I ducked my head, getting back to work securing the bandage and pinning it in place. I could feel his eyes boring into me, and when I met them my stomach flipped in a way that made me want to collapse or dance or vomit or sing all at the same time.
I looked away and wiped my bloody hands on my trousers, 'that should hold until we make it to Grenville's. But then we will send for a doctor.'
     Willoughby's voice was slow and deep, 'Humphrey can take a look at them. Used to be an army doctor. "Highly transferable skills" is what Grenville calls it.'
     I started to rise to my feet when Willoughby's fingers met mine again.
     'Thank you, Miss Wentworth.'
     What the hell was happening to me? He was only a man, for God's sake. Granted, a very handsome one who pushed me away from a fight that had got him stabbed, who respected my expertise and treated me like an equal. True, he had flirted with me and danced my worries away and told me he'd found me captivating. Admittedly, he had broken into a palace to give me ice for my knee and had packed bandages today in case I needed them.
     But now was not the time. We had a job to do. Goddamit Kate, pull yourself together.
     I stood, and his hand fell back to his lap. I shot him a quick smile, a curt nod, and went to find the contract.
     It was still impaled to the wall, my knife buried a few inches deep into the plaster behind it. The slash through the parchment was relatively clean, thanks to my religious upkeep of the blade. I pulled it out of the wall and examined the wax seal on the front.
     My blood went to ice.
     'Oh for the love of God,' I snarled.
     'What?' Willoughby pulled himself up to his feet, bracing against the wall and pressing a hand against his ribs.
     I spun on my heel and shoved the contract out in front of me, teeth clenched together.
     'It's the seal of the Duke of Devonshire.'

     Fifteen minutes later and we were still examining it, taking turns to move it about in various lights. It was a little rough around the edges, with bubbles in the wax and mangled scratches on either side of the seal itself, but there was no denying it. Not when I'd spent hours of my own life breaking into the man's apartments and making a copy of it.
     It was Lynton. Sarah's husband.
     He'd duped us all.
     'This doesn't make sense,' I grumbled, snatching it up from the table and holding it by the window again, inches from my nose. 'Why would Lynton hire them to kill the Princess?'
     'He must have done it on the Prince Regent's behalf,' Willoughby was sat on the sole surviving chair. 'You'd hardly expect the Prince himself to put his name on treasonous papers.'
     'But then why wasn't Lynton at the meeting outside Buckingham House? Beresford only went to meet the Prince and Grenville.'
     Willoughby opened his mouth to answer but I broke in again, 'And, come to think of it, Beresford and Paulette know that we know Lynton is involved. I saw them all together at Vauxhall and you were working for them – ' Willoughby started to object but I continued to ignore him, starting to pace back and forth by the table. 'So if they know that we know Lynton is involved, why bother hiding this final bit of evidence?'
     'Because it's not just evidence against him,' Willoughby said. 'It explicitly contracts Beresford and Paulette in the assassination of the Princess of Wales. So, no matter if Lynton is exposed or not, this contract seals the deal on them. They'll hang for it. No doubt about it. That in itself is worth trying to keep it hidden.'
     I chewed my thumb. It still didn't make sense. 'But Lynton doesn't need the Princess dead.'
     'No, but the Prince Regent does,' Willoughby stood awkwardly and picked up his bag. 'It makes sense that he would ask Lynton to sort it out; he's a close friend and a trusted advisor.'
     'But then surely it would be too dangerous for Lynton to put his name to it either? He's one of the most powerful men in the country!'
     He scrubbed at his face, 'I don't know, Miss Wentworth. Perhaps they needed the Devonshire Seal to add a little legitimacy. The contract includes legal protection so they'd need a name of some influence for that.'
     'Something doesn't add up,' I slammed the paper back down on the table and braced my hands on either side. 'It doesn't make sense.'
     'Perhaps not, but Grenville will be able to explain it all. We need to get back,' Willoughby winced as he slung his satchel onto his shoulder on the unwounded side, and gave me a tight, thin-lipped grimace that could barely pass for a smile. 'It's enough to do something about it. Enough for Grenville to force a stop to it.'
     I pursed my lips, but nodded.
     Willoughby struggled down the stairs so I went ahead to hail us a cab, shoving a handful of coins at the driver before he had time to protest at how filthy and bleeding his passengers were.
     Willoughby sagged back against the bench and closed his eyes, one hand wrapped around his side. The blood stain on the bandage had stopped spreading, which was good, but his colour was still low and sweat was beading on his forehead.
     I looked out of the window and went back to chewing my thumb.
     This was going to ruin Sarah's life. Lynton was finished, no matter what his position was. At best he'd be exiled, at worst hanged for treason. Either way, Sarah would be left a disgraced and destitute widow, flung on the mercy of her family and friends, those who didn't mind risking their own necks to help her.
     Would Caroline help? I couldn't imagine the Princess turning her back on her, not after everything. But even the Mad Princess of Wales had to keep up some appearances, and I would be surprised if she was allowed to openly support the wife of her would-be assassin.
     'What did Paulette mean?' Willoughby's raspy voice broke through my thoughts. I glanced over and met his eyes. He must have been studying me for some time, watching me fret. 'When he mentioned your "little friend?"'
     I turned back to look out of the window. How could I explain it? How could I tell him that I had willingly entered into a debt without boundary when I had had so much to lose? So much had rested on me to protect and I had thrown it onto the table without a thought.
     How could I admit to him that it had been my recklessness that had caused him to be wounded now? Mother Quinn had outed our scheme to Beresford and Paulette somehow, and because of that Willoughby now sat bleeding in front of me.
     I shook my head and focused my eyes on London. I could feel his eyes on me, trying to pry the answers out. But eventually, he turned his face away and shut his eyes again.
     The relief that went through me did little to counteract the heavy dread in my stomach.