Free The Spy's Kiss by Nita Abrams Page A

confusion, dizziness—consistent with a blow to the head. A rather serious one, I am afraid. And his pulse, Miss Allen! His pulse!” He took up the unbandaged hand lying on the counterpane and held it out to her, as though it had been detached from the sleeping body. “Feel that,” he commanded.
    Puzzled, Serena leaned over and laid two fingers gently on the inside of the wrist. At first she felt nothing unusual, but when she made as though to withdraw her hand, the doctor gestured at her to wait. After a few moments she realized that the beat, though reasonably strong, was very slow. She compared it to her own, and even allowing for her present state of agitation, the difference was marked. “Most interesting,” she said feebly. She had no idea what such a disorder of the vessels might mean. But she did have a vague impression that patients who were chilled, and those who had been given laudanum, had slower pulses. Was a slow pulse in itself dangerous?
    â€œExactly,” said the doctor triumphantly, as though he had read her thoughts. “The cerebral bruising, the effect of the cold, and above all, the sedative—a mistake, a most lamentable mistake, but of course you were not present, my dear Miss Allen, you would never have allowed it!—so that now we are at some risk for congestion of the lungs.”
    â€œMrs. Digby did not know,” Serena objected, forgetting about medical reasoning in her need to defend the old nurse who had dosed their visitor. “He was trying to get up, insisting he was perfectly fine. She thought it was for his own good.”
    â€œIt would be for Simon’s good if the earl pensioned off Mrs. Digby,” grumbled the doctor. “Boy should be at school, not malingering at home with a nursemaid and a tutor. No wonder he looks peaked, hounded by a pack of old women every time he gets mud on his breeches or brings in a frog from the pond.” His attention went back to the young man. “He seems otherwise quite healthy,” he said, frowning down at his patient. Lifting a corner of the counterpane, he pulled aside Pritchett’s old flannel dressing gown (the only warm garment which came near to fitting their guest) and poked gently at the bruises on the torso, completely unconcerned with Serena’s potential embarrassment. Before she looked hastily away she saw a slender chain around his neck with a gold ring at the end of it. “You say someone rigged a trap at the top of Clark’s Hill?”
    â€œYes, they strung a rope; it caught him on the neck, evidently. Bates has sent a message to my uncle and gone into the village for the constable. He thinks it is some poachers, trying to frighten old Mr. Jackson.”
    â€œFrighten! Kill, more likely. This gentleman would be dead now had Simon not found him.”
    â€œWell—” Serena floundered for a moment. “If it had been Jackson—he is rather short—I think it would only have knocked his hat off. But,” nodding down towards the bed, “he is quite tall—perhaps you did not notice—he was already in bed when you arrived.” To her chagrin, she could feel her face grow pink.
    â€œTaller than you, hey?” The doctor looked up at her with a smile. “Well, your uncle’s gamekeeper is certainly not a large man.” Jackson was, in fact, so short and round that he was nearly spherical. “Perhaps you are right, and they merely meant to give Jackson a scare. But I hope that they can convince a magistrate of their intentions. Because it looks to me like a case of attempted murder, and this young man appears to be of a station in life where such matters will not be brushed aside easily.”
    â€œYou may be right about that,” she said slowly. “He is a friend of the Derrings who was here looking at the collection, and my aunt seems to know his family. She has gone into a frenzy making arrangements to nurse him; you