Page 59 of The Viscount of Shadows

A firm hand on the shoulder shook him awake. “Your lordship.”

Doctor Drew Hornsby. There was no mistaking the clear blue eyes and the golden-tawny hair. Drew’s spectacles sat low on his nose.

“Claudia?” Oliver rasped.

“I saw to her wound. She is resting comfortably. There is no initial sign of infection. You, on the other hand, will need a longer recovery.”

“I am not surprised,” Oliver mumbled.

“I cleaned and restitched the wound, applied camphor, and wrapped it loosely.”

Oliver glanced downward. He was bare-chested, and the doctor had neatly placed a large plaster with gauze on his side.

“You have a slight fever, so I prepared a mixture of willow bark and meadowsweet. You must drink it, and it is best mixed with tea.” Doctor Hornsby pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Perhaps someday, the scientists will develop a medication to fight infections, but until then, we must work with what we have. I have also left a small amount of laudanum for any pain. Just a drop in your tea will also assist in sleeping. You will recover, but rest is needed more than anything.”

“Thank you, Drew.”

“I will return tomorrow afternoon, and hopefully, I can obtain some aspirin powder. No food tonight, just sleep. In the morning, a light breakfast. I have conveyed complete instructions for your dietary needs to your kitchen for the next few days. Miss Ellingford as well.”

Relief tore through Oliver, sending his emotions in all directions. The urge to cry, not only from exhaustion but from the news Claudia was not seriously hurt, nearly overtook him.

“Is DS Simpson still here?”

“Yes, along with the Duke of Chellenham. You may speak to them, but only briefly.”

The young doctor patted his shoulder and departed. A few moments later, the men entered the room. Oliver held out his hand, and Mitchell clasped it, squeezing it briefly before he released it.

Damon then took it. “My God, Oliver. I assume there is an explanation for this? Althea has a theory—”

Oliver laughed, but it came out as a rough bark. “I am sure she does. You can speak in front of Mitchell.”

“Are you this vigilante that came to our aid weeks ago? Outside The Savoy?” Damon asked as he released Oliver’s hand and stepped back.

“Yes.”

“Jesus,” Damon whistled.

“Tell no one, except Althea.”

“Agreed. I will keep your secret, as will Althea. Rest, my friend. I will return in a day or so.” Damon turned toward his half-brother. “Mitchell. Look after him.”

“I will.”

Damon quit the room.

“Well, my lord.” Mitchell then gave him a quirky smile. “Quite the adventure.”

Oliver wearily chuckled.

“Your cousin says he will visit with you tomorrow. Your cat is also impatient to see you.”

Oliver nodded, his eyelids growing heavy.

“I will return tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully, you and Miss Ellingford can tell me what occurred. Meanwhile, I will head to the station to see what guttersnipes we scooped up and if Danaher is among the multitude.” Mitchell patted his shoulder, then quietly left the room.

Fatigue eddied all around him, sinking deep into his bones. Just as he was about to slip into a deep slumber, the springs dipped slightly as if someone had crawled in next to him.

“Claudia?”