A Radical Arrangement by Jane Ashford Page A

lied.
    “Shall we have Mrs. Dowling again before the doctor?”
    “She said she would come today.”
    “Ah.” Mrs. Appleby started to clear off the table. “I’ve put some broth on the hob. Perhaps the gentleman can take some later on.”
    “Yes, thank you.” Margaret returned to Keighley’s room to find him much the same as when she left. A brief conference with Annie established her willingness to help with the nursing, and they made arrangements to divide the time. Margaret was impressed with the girl’s calm competence. Though they were probably about the same age, Annie seemed much better equipped to deal with the situation.
    By the time they finished, Mrs. Dowling had arrived to check her patient. Her assessment was more optimistic than Margaret expected, though she was not offended to hear that the doctor had been sent for. “A bit of fever’s bound to come with that sort of wound,” she assured Margaret. “Might last awhile too. Never can tell. He looks a strong man, though. He’ll do. Don’t let the doctor bleed him, mind.”
    “ Bleed him—he has lost too much blood already.”
    Mrs. Dowling chuckled, her shrewd blue eyes twinkling. “These doctors have their ways, miss. Perhaps I’ll come by while he’s here.” She looked at Margaret sidelong.
    “Yes, indeed, you should. You can tell him more than I about the wound.”
    The midwife seemed surprised but pleased. However, she replied only, “Keep the wet cloths on his head and let him drink whenever he will. And don’t worry, child, he’s not like to die.”
    Margaret reminded herself of this last several times during the course of the morning. Sir Justin did not thrash as much as he had in the night; on the contrary, he lay almost too still and breathed heavily and loudly. Every so often his black brows would draw together and he would murmur a few words, but she could never understand them. His forehead, when she changed the cloth, was always hot.
    Mrs. Appleby brought up a tray around one, and with it some news. “One of the lads found some ladies’ clothes and things scattered on the cliff road a mile or so off. I thought they might be yours, Miss Camden, so I told him to bring them here.”
    “Oh, yes.” Recollecting herself, Margaret added, “Was there a bandbox? And a…a blue dress?”
    “I don’t know, miss. I’ll call you when the things arrive.”
    “Oh, yes, thank you. Perhaps the…the highwaymen dropped some of our luggage.”
    Nodding skeptically, Mrs. Appleby went out. Margaret turned to her luncheon tray and poured out a cup of tea from the pot. The food she left; she was not hungry after her substantial breakfast.
    She was just getting a second cup, and gazing out the window at the sea, when a weak voice murmured, “ You .” Turning, she found Keighley’s hazel eyes open and regarding her.
    “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
    The man ignored this and continued to stare at her. Slowly Margaret’s face crimsoned. “Where are we?” croaked Sir Justin.
    “A…a village. A tavern. Th-the owners are very nice.”
    “Cornwall?”
    “Y-yes.” She wondered if he were still off his head. Where else could they be?
    “And is my memory possibly correct? Did you, in fact, shoot me?” His tone was coldly scornful.
    “It was an accident .”
    He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “You pointed a pistol at me and fired. Hardly a description of an accident.”
    “I was only trying to frighten you away. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    Sir Justin’s chest rose and fell under the coverlet. He seemed to gather his energy before replying, “You are the most witless, whimpering ninnyhammer it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, even in a long series of London seasons, which abound in the species. Through your inexplicable, idiotic antics, I have been bored, annoyed, and now confined to a lumpy bed, in what appears to be a common alehouse, with a pistol ball in my shoulder. I am enduring