Lucas pounded heavily on the door to Woodhuish House. When the butler opened it, he almost fell inside.
“Tish—Miss Trentham—Mrs. Reid—where is she? I need to see her!”
The butler took a step backwards.
“It’s an emergency, man. Where is she?”
“Mrs. Reid is in the blue salon—”
Blue salon? Wasn’t that where he and Tom had sat with Tish? Lucas pushed past the butler and half-ran down the corridor to the right. This door? No, this door. He burst into the room. “Tish!”
Six people were in the blue salon, and they all started at his entrance.
“Tish, I need your help. You have to come! Now!”
Tish stood. “Lucas? What’s wrong?”
“Now!” he said frantically, almost crying.
Major Reid stood, too, and so did everyone else, and if it wasn’t so urgent he’d be mortified.
Tish took his hand. “Lucas, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Tom,” he said, and now he was crying. “The landlord’s half-killed him, and he’s in the roundhouse, and they said he attacked the maid, but he didn’t—he wouldn’t—and I need you to do that thing with the lies—I need you to tell them that he’s innocent!”
“Of course he’s innocent,” Tish said, gripping his hand tightly. “I’ll come.”
“Strike hit him?”
Lucas looked at the man who’d asked the question, and his brain identified him: the Earl of Cosgrove. “Yes. Tish, you have to come now.”
“I’ll come, too,” Major Reid said, and Lucas didn’t really care, as long as Tish came now.
“And I,” said Cosgrove. “The constable knows me. Is your friend hurt badly?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m coming, too,” said pretty, pregnant Lady Ware.
“No,” Sir Barnaby said.
“No,” Cosgrove said, too. “We’ll bring him to you.” And it made no sense to Lucas, but he didn’t care, as long as Tish came.
“Hurry,” he said urgently. And everyone hurried.
The roundhouse was in Kingswear. It took half an hour to get there, Lucas on the horse he’d hired, Tish and Reid and Cosgrove following in a carriage. Moonlight glinted on the wide, black River Dart.
The constable did indeed know Lord Cosgrove. “My lord,” he said, with a respectful nod.
“Evening, Davies,” Cosgrove said. “I understand you have Lord Riddleston’s brother in your custody.”
The constable looked blank. “Who?”
“Lieutenant Matlock. Lord Riddleston’s brother. He’s injured, I believe.”
Lucas opened his mouth to say Let us see him now! but Reid touched his arm lightly and gave a little shake of his head.
Lucas bit back the words and waited in an agony of urgency while Cosgrove and the constable conversed. Cosgrove was polite and pleasant. He pointed out that Tom was a nobleman’s son and that the roundhouse was perhaps not the best place for him, particularly if he was injured. He offered to assume responsibility for Tom’s custody until such time as the charges could be proved true or false.
Davies hesitated, and fetched a lantern.
The roundhouse was a stone building no larger than a closet, with a domed roof and a thick, oak door. The constable unlocked the door, his keys jangling. Lantern light spilled inside, creating jerky shadows, showing the single wooden bench and the man sprawled on it.
Lucas shoved the constable aside. “Tom?”
The roundhouse smelled of fresh blood, and beneath that, of old vomit and stale sweat and urine. Tom looked worse than he had an hour ago. His eyes were swollen shut, his face a mask of dried blood. He was breathing hoarsely through his mouth, and blood bubbled in his nose with each breath.
Lucas knelt. “Tom?” If he didn’t know it was Tom, he wouldn’t have recognized him. “Tom?”
But Tom didn’t stir, even when Lucas gently shook his arm.
Someone came to stand alongside Lucas. He glanced up and saw Tish, white-faced, and Lord Cosgrove. Cosgrove didn’t look pleasant anymore; he looked grim. “How long has he been out for?”
“Uh . . . nearly two hours now.”
Cosgrove turned to the constable. “Do you wish to explain to Lord Riddleston how you allowed his brother to die in a roundhouse?”
After that, it went swiftly. The constable produced a hurdle, and a horse and cart. With the help of the coachman and a footman, Tom was carefully loaded onto the hurdle and then into the cart. He still didn’t stir. He lay as limply as if he were dead.
“A blanket,” Cosgrove said, and the footman ran to fetch a blanket from the carriage.
Lucas laid the blanket over Tom, tucking it around him—and noticed Tom’s right hand for the first time. It looked as if someone had trodden on it with hobnailed boots, piercing skin and snapping bones.
“His hand!” he said, aghast.
Reid gripped his shoulder. “He’ll be all right.”
“He needs a doctor!” Tom would think broken fingers a thousand times worse than a broken nose.
“Leave it to me,” Cosgrove said, climbing up onto the cart seat and picking up the reins. He gave Reid a short nod. “You’ll see to the rest of it?”
“We will.”