Venetia by Georgette Heyer Page B

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 round Damerel’s neck he obeyed, and thereafter devoted his energies to the really rather formidable task of maintaining a decent fortitude. Carrying so slight and thin a boy across the field presented no difficulties, but it was impossible to lift him into the chaise without subjecting him to a good deal of pain, and although little more than a mile had to be covered before the Priory was reached the road was so rough that the journey became a severe trial. No complaint was uttered, but when he was lifted down from the chaise Aubrey fainted again.
    “Just as well!” said Damerel cheerfully, carrying him into the house. “No, no, take those smelling-salts away, Mrs. Imber! We’ll have his boots off before we try to bring him round again, poor lad! Get a razor, Marston!”
    The removal of his boots brought Aubrey to his senses again, but it was not until he had been stripped of his clothing and put into one of his host’s nightshirts that he was able to collect his dazed wits. The relief to his swollen right ankle afforded by a cold compress seemed to mitigate the grinding ache that radiated from his left hip-joint, and the sal volatile which was tilted down his throat enabled him, after a fit of choking, to take stock of his surroundings. He frowned unrecognizingly upon Damerel and his valet, but when his eyes wandered to Mrs. Imber’s concerned face his memory returned, and he exclaimed thickly: “Oh, I remember now! I took a toss. Hell and the devil confound it! Riding like a damned roadster !”
    “Oh, the best of us take tosses!” said Damerel. “Don’t fret yourself into a fever over that!”
    Aubrey turned his head on the pillow to look up at him. A surge of colour came into his cheeks; he said stiffly: “I’m