Free The Birth of Blue Satan by Patricia Wynn Page A

Eppington House to deliver the news.
    Anxious and grieving, Tom awaited the return of the new Lord Hawkhurst. He knew that sorrow would prevent Gideon from welcoming his new honours. Still, Tom wanted to be the first to bend his knee to his master as a peer.
    The sound of wheels turning into the courtyard brought him eagerly to his feet. But the sight of his lordship’s strange retinue, consisting of two carriages, Gideon’s cousin, Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons, the justice of the peace, and two sober-faced constables, alerted Tom to the fact that something even worse was amiss.
    The footmen who had run alongside Gideon’s carriage hurried to open the coach door on which the Hawkhurst arms were emblazoned. As Tom moved nearer, flanked by two stable boys and the retreating footmen, he saw Gideon emerge.
    His normally sanguine mien was defaced by lines of pain. A cloud seemed to have affected his eyes, and perspiration beaded his face.
    The footmen recoiled in shock.
    Tom rushed forward.
    Gideon took a few steps his way, then reached out for his arm. Tom could feel him trembling with an uncontrollable chill.
    “Tom—Thomas—” Gideon spoke through chattering teeth— “help me upstairs and call for Philippe.”
    “Just a moment, my lord.” Sir Joshua came after him, protesting loudly. “There are questions to be answered.”
    In fear, Tom caught his master about the waist just as Gideon’s legs collapsed. “Can ye not see his lordship’s hurt?”
    His shout must have pierced Gideon’s oblivion, for he gave the ghost of a smile. “Tell them I shall speak to them in the morning,” he murmured, before he was overcome by the next wave of shudders.
    “Don’t you be fretting about them gen’lemen, Master Gideon. They can wait.” As Tom felt his master’s weight slump against him, alarm shot through him like birds flapping frantically in a cage.
    St. Mars was burning.
    “Open the door for my Lord St. Mars!” he cried for the second time that evening. Nearly dragging Gideon into the house, Tom prayed he would not lose both his masters on this one horrible night.
    Mrs. Dixon had stayed awake since receiving word of Lord Hawkhurst’s death, and entering the vestibule now, she gave one glance at Tom’s frightened face and ran for the kitchen. A harried footman took Gideon’s legs, and with Tom cradling his shoulders, together they carried him up the marble stairs.
    “Send for the Frenchy!” Tom called down. Much as Philippe annoyed him, Tom knew the little fop would be his master’s ablest nurse. He only hoped Philippe had the fortitude to treat a festering cut.
    The Frenchman, he found, had also awaited his master’s arrival. As the two breathless men carried Gideon into his chamber, they found Philippe at work over his master’s suit of bloodstained clothes. With a gasp, Philippe saw the red on Gideon’s fresh coat, and instantly became a whirlwind of efficiency.
    “ Mettez-le là!” Forgetting his English, he gestured towards the large curtained bed. “There! Là! Just so.”
    He felt Gideon’s forehead, and a frown disturbed his carefully painted face. He whispered, “ Sacré Dieu!”
    Tremors were now racking Gideon’s whole body. His face was flushed, and he moaned. Tom cushioned his head.
    “Help me to remove milord’s coat,” Philippe said. To the footman he added quickly, “Fetch the water and fresh linen and a leaden plaster. Vite! Vite!”
    As the footman hastily quitted the room, Philippe and Tom got Gideon out of his clothes. His shirt had stuck to his wound which had turned an unhealthy colour.
    “Mayhap you should soak it,” Tom suggested, wincing as the Frenchman moved to pull at the garment. “You’ll make him bleed again.”
    “The bleeding will not hurt him. With this fever, he would need to be bled de toutes façons . ”
    “Should I fetch a surgeon?”
    “ Non ! Your surgeons are all butchers, whereas, me , I trained as a barber before becoming a gentleman’s servant. I