Venetia by Georgette Heyer Page B

cheap, became so nearly cross that Aubrey asked  her if she felt quite the thing.
    And in the end it was neither she who brought about a second meeting, nor Damerel, but  Aubrey.
    Damerel was riding home with Croyde after one of his tours of inspection when a  faint  cry for help made him break off what he was saying, and look round. The cry was repeated, and  Croyde, standing in his stirrups, so that he could see over the hedge that straggled beside the
    lane, exclaimed: “Good God, it‟s Mr. Aubrey! Ay, I thought as much!—that nappy young  chestnut of his has come down with him, like I always said he would! If your lordship will  excuse me ,   I‟ll have to attend to him.”
    “Yes, of course. Is there a gate, or do we push through the hedge?”
    There was a gate a little farther along the lane, and in a very few moments both men had  dismounted, and Croyde was kneeling beside Aubrey, who was lying just clear of the ditch  which, with the hedge above it, separated the stubble-field from a stretch of pasturage. At a little  distance his horse was standing; and when he moved nervously away from Damerel‟s advance it  was seen that he was dead lame.
    Aubrey was sickly white, and in considerable pain. He said faintly: “I came down on my  weak leg. I can‟t get up. Think I must have stunned myself. Where‟s Rufus? Jumped off his fore.  I hope to God he didn‟t break his knees!”
    “Never you mind about that clumsy brute, sir!” Croyde said, in a scolding tone. “What  have   you   broken, that‟s what I want to know?”

    “Nothing. For God‟s sake, don‟t maul me about, or I shall go off again! I‟ve twisted my  other ankle—that‟s the devil of it!” He struggled on to his elbow, turning ashen as he did it, and  biting his lip. Croyde supported him, and after a moment he managed to say: “I shall do—in a  minute. My  horse—?”
    “Your horse has a badly sprained fetlock,” said Damerel. “You can‟t ride him, but he  hasn‟t broken his leg. The question is, are you quite sure you‟ve not broken your own?”
    Aubrey looked rather hazily up at him. “It‟s not broken. It is only my hip. I have—a weak  hip. It will be better directly, I daresay. If a message could be sent to Undershaw they‟ll bring the  carriage.”
    “It‟s young Mr. Lanyon, my lord,” explained Croyde. “I was thinking it would be best if I  was to fetch the chaise from the Priory, for it‟s six miles and a way-bit to Undershaw.”
    “And a devilish rough road to be jolted over,” said Damerel, looking thoughtfully down  at Aubrey. “We‟ll take him to the Priory. Tell „em to make up a bed, and bring Nidd back with  you to take charge  of the horses. Here, put this under the boy‟s head!” He stripped off his coat as  he spoke, rolled it up, and handed it to Croyde, adding, after a glance at Aubrey‟s face: “Bring  some brandy as well— and bustle, will you?”
    He took Croyde‟s place beside  Aubrey, and began to loosen the boy‟s neckcloth. Aubrey  opened his eyes. “What— Oh! Thank you. Are you Lord Damerel, sir?”
    “Yes, I‟m Damerel, but never mind talking to me!”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, I fancy you had a slight concussion, and would do better to lie quiet.”
    “I don‟t know. Or even how long I‟ve been here. I did come round once, and then I  suppose I went off again. I was trying to get up. You see, I can‟t.”
    Damerel caught the bitter note, but all he said was: “No, and with a weak hip and a  sprained  ankle you were a damned young fool to try, weren‟t you?”
    Aubrey grinned feebly, and shut his eyes again. He did not open them until Croyde came  back with the chaise, but Damerel knew from the frown between his brows and a certain rigidity  about his mouth  that he was neither asleep nor unconscious. He muttered something about being  able to walk with a little help when he was lifted, but upon being commanded to put his arm