Chapter Two

B lood. So much blood. Over him. Over her .

Everything was happening…moving…throwing Ruthie off her axis. Reggie was shrieking as he scrambled to her. But Ruthie couldn't hear anything. It was as if the world had shut off all sound, knowing that there was only so much she could take.

Her mind and her hands were full.

Because after the gun had fired, Mr. Holmes had collapsed into her, dragging her to the ground.

Ruthie landed hard on her behind, tensing just enough to keep her head from banging onto the ground. Mr. Holmes had no such luck. Her body clumsily caught his, but his head knocked on the pavement, gruesomely bouncing up from the hard ground like a child's ball. He was dead. He had to be. The man's life was lazily draining out in puddles on top of her like red ink spilling out of its pot.

Someone tugged at her arm, attempting to lift her to her feet; however, Ruthie was as lifeless as the man draped over her. All her energy, all her senses, focused on Mr. Holmes as she cradled his head in her hands, smoothing the jet-black hair off his high forehead. How peaceful he looked, she thought whimsically. How…lovely. She'd never seen a dead body before—not even her father's. If this was death, was it truly something to be feared?

"What the bloody fuck!"

The dead man was alive.

Ruthie jolted back to reality as Mr. Holmes's arms flailed out into the night air, eliciting another strangle of colorful curses and a harsh intake of breath.

The unsavory man jostled in her arms, but Ruthie's hold was strong, not allowing him to escape.

Someone was back to tugging. "Ruthie! Let him go, love. Let him go!"

Ruthie shook her head, feeling a moment of clarity shake through her bones. Her mind opened enough to allow the outer world to swarm back in, and she realized that she was not alone with Mr. Holmes. Far from it. Raising her head, she found a crowd beginning to seep out of the club and swarm around her. Reggie positioned himself above her, shielding her from the majority of the madness, though nothing could keep one gentleman away.

With an agility that belied his silver hair and rough-hewn face, the man dropped to his knees at Mr. Holmes's side, covering the wound with both palms.

The older man's countenance betrayed nothing. His breathing remained mild and even as he took in the bloody damage. "What did you get yourself into this time, Harry?" he asked under his breath. He twisted away from the body, snapping his crimson fingers at a couple of boys that looked like they should have been tucked away in a nursery at this time of night. "Go get Dr. Cameron," he yelled, leaving no room for questions or arguments. At once, the boys hurried down the street.

Mr. Holmes's head grew heavier in Ruthie's hands, drawing her attention back to the man in her lap. His sigh was laced with pain and…resignation? "Don't bother, Ernest," he replied lazily, even while his chest rose and fell quicker, his breathing more labored. Ruthie had never been shot before, but she understood pain, and this man was in an excruciating amount of it.

"Miss…" Ernest coughed, staring at the top of her head. Her wig! It must have flown off when she hit the ground. "I apologize…my lord? May I?" He leaned closer, slowly wedging his hands in between Mr. Holmes's body and her lap. "He doesn't like to be touched."

Ruthie's mind was still working at half pace. She hadn't the faintest clue what this Ernest was doing. What did he mean that Mr. Holmes didn't like to be touched? Who didn't like to be touched? And why was he trying to take Mr. Holmes away from her? She had him. He was safe in her arms.

Mr. Holmes seemed to agree with her, because even with his depleting strength, he resisted the older man's intentions. "You're the only one trying to touch me, dammit. And I said stop. You're my butler, not a miracle worker," he muttered, slapping Ernest's hands away. "This is the end. I knew it. She knew it. She…she fucking told me." His words dropped suddenly like they'd been thrown off a cliff. Ruthie had to lean over the poor man to hear them out.

"I…I didn't say anything," she stammered, throwing beseeching eyes to the butler. She shook her head frantically as the words tumbled out. Suddenly, everything that had just happened hit her like a brick to the chest. A sob choked her throat. "I never said he was going to die. I didn't tell him that. I wouldn't. I thought he was going to die. Actually, I thought he was already dead, but I didn't…I didn't…"

The butler patted her arm. "Shh…shh, lass. You did nothing wrong. He wasn't talking about you."

The dam broke and tears fell quick and fast down Ruthie's face. "Then…What…I don't understand…"

The butler's smile was kind as he, again, tried to wedge his hands under Mr. Holmes's heavy body. "I'll tell you when we get him inside. He's out of his mind right now, and losing a lot of blood. Do you see that?" Ernest's words were slow and measured, as if he were speaking to a child—but they worked.

Ruthie blinked away her tears and stared at the picture the butler was trying to show her. The pool of Mr. Holmes's blood was growing larger by the second. What had she been thinking? He wasn't safe in her hands. She would be the death of him if something wasn't done soon.

She inhaled deeply, and the thick, cloying smell of the blood curdled her stomach. "Yes…yes," she said, raising her head to find her cousin. Poor Reggie appeared as tragic as Mr. Holmes. His face was as green as the grass in Hyde Park after an afternoon rain shower. "Reggie…I can't get out from underneath. Help me, please."

Ruthie reached out her arm, but Mr. Holmes smacked it back down with a painful groan. Why did the man continue to move when it hurt him so much?

"I said no," he muttered through clenched teeth. His eyes were closed now, his jaw willfully set. "If I'm going to die…I'm going to die right here…just like she…just like she told me I would. Cold and alone. Like I deserve. I'm ready to meet my maker."

Good Lord! And men said women were maudlin.

The butler rolled his eyes, thwarted once again, and sat back on his ankles. He ran a hand over his face, which was quickly losing its composure. His studied veneer was cracking, and Ruthie could finally see the worry. Luckily, she remembered that she was quite adept at dealing with maudlin, overly dramatic people.

"But you're not alone, Mr. Holmes," she stated reasonably. Her words didn't prod his eyes back open, although she noticed his pale lips twitch. "You're surrounded by people and creating quite a spectacle, actually. So why don't you let us get you inside? We'll put you in your bed, and if you want us to leave you alone then, we will so you can die in peace. We won't even throw a cover over you, so you can meet your maker as cold and miserable as you like."

Ruthie could feel his resistance thaw. She nodded to the butler. This time when Ernest wedged his hands under Mr. Holmes's body, there was no struggle.

"Help me get him up, sir," Ernest said over his shoulder. Reggie jumped into action, sliding into place on Mr. Holmes's other side. He held his mouth in a stiff line and looked close to losing all his dinner, but he managed to do as the butler asked, and together they lifted Holmes off Ruthie and carried him to the club entrance.

A freezing chill whipped over her as she was freed. The wet blood had soaked through her clothes so deeply it felt like it had leached into her bones. It was sloppy and cumbersome, but she dragged herself to her feet. Loneliness and a vague, uncomfortable, bereft feeling overwhelmed Ruthie as she was left behind. She'd done her job; her part was over in this odd, gruesome play. Reggie would come back for her soon, and they would leave. It was as simple as that. It felt like hours since the shooting, but it had only been minutes. She still had time. She would bathe and change her clothing at Freddie's townhouse then slip back into her home before her mother woke. It would be like this never happened. The event would fade into a dream, and one day, when she was old and safe, she would wonder if it had ever happened.

Ruthie was abandoned by the crowd who followed Mr. Holmes back toward the gaming hall, all interest in her forgotten. The night was young for them as well. There was still more gambling and debauchery to be had. This was London, after all. If there was any interest in her botched disguise, it was long gone. Her secret was safe.

But why did it feel like her heart was breaking? Why did it feel like something was dying inside of her? Like she was somehow…incomplete?

A murmur of commotion caught her attention. The crowd had stopped moving. Tall enough to see over it, Ruthie noticed Ernest duck his head to Mr. Holmes.

The butler motioned for her to come to them, and something indescribable—unmistakable—leapt in her stomach. The swarm of people divided, allowing Ruthie easy passage, and she was back to Mr. Holmes in seconds. His eyes remained closed, and his pallor was dangerously gray.

Ernest's mouth twisted in annoyance. "He won't go in without you," he said pitifully.

Without saying anything, Mr. Holmes lifted his hand slowly off his chest. It waited in the air.

For her. To take.

Ruthie didn't waste any time. It was too precious. She clasped his hand. He flinched at her touch but didn't pull away. A sheen of sweat hung at the top of his forehead, and his skin appeared clammy and waxy, but his hand was warm and sure inside hers.

Ernest shrugged. "It seems like he doesn't want to die alone after all."

*

Mr. Holmes didn't want to die cold, either.

After making it up three flights of stairs and countless dark, forbidding corridors, the unlikely trio eventually situated the man in his room on the biggest bed Ruthie had ever seen. It took monumental maneuvering, but with the help of Mr. Holmes's blue silk sheets, they managed to slide him to the center of the mattress and cover his shivering frame without adding to his distress. Not that he would have cried out. Mr. Holmes had mercifully passed out as they were climbing past the second floor.

"Jesus," Reggie remarked in a hushed tone, stepping away from the bed to admire the curious splendor surrounding them. "Would you look at this place?"

Only then did Ruthie allow herself to gawk at the most unusual room she'd ever stepped into. The space was fastidiously clean and organized—but she couldn't begin to understand the items Mr. Holmes surrounded himself with. Most of them should have been in a vault somewhere, or in a pirate's treasure chest deep in the ocean. For instance, who needed ten ancient-looking swords lined up like sentries along the wall? And why were tiaras stacked like a pyramid on top of a massive bureau?

She scrunched her nose. "It's a bit eccentric…and cold."

Reggie chuckled. With a quick look at the sleeping patient, he wandered over to the bureau, skimming a finger lightly over a tiara that held so many emeralds that Ruthie figured she'd need both hands to lift it.

Reggie whistled. "This could keep anyone warm at night. But…it can't possibly be real…Could it?"

Ernest huffed from the bed, prodding at his master's clothing, unbuttoning and rearranging as much as he could in an effort to make the ailing man as comfortable as possible. "Of course they're real. Everything Mr. Holmes owns is real."

Reggie's brow reached up to his thinning hairline, and he shared a pointed look with Ruthie. "One of these would solve your problem easily enough…"

"Reggie!" she exclaimed. "We're not thieves!"

"Don't even think about it," Ernest snapped. "I took you for a gentleman. I must have been mistaken."

Reggie shrugged, giving the tiara one more hangdog glance before reluctantly meandering back to the bed. "I am a gentleman, just a decidedly light-in-the-pocket one. But aren't we all?" His laughter was brittle. "Oh, come now. It was just a joke…I think." He shoved his hands in his pockets, frowning at the invalid. "It's not like he'd know, anyway. Besides, what are the odds that he'll make it? Not good, I'd wager."

A thin cough sounded from the bed. "And that's why you're shit at cards, and you'll always be shit at cards," Mr. Holmes rasped. "You don't know anything about odds, and you never will."

Ruthie was so relieved he was still alive that she frowned. She hurried to Mr. Holmes's side, hands on her hips. "Stop doing that!" she ordered him.

Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. Even at death's door, his eyes were green and striking, maybe even more so because of it. "Do what?"

Taken aback by the gentleness in his voice, Ruthie had to fight to remember just what had made her so incensed in the first place. She bit her bottom lip, thankful her mother wasn't here to scold her for it. "Pretending to be asleep and listening to our conversations!"

Mr. Holmes stretched against the sheets, wincing at what the small action cost him. "I wasn't pretending. I was asleep, and planned to stay that way until I heard your cousin's asinine comments. Usually, it's customary to wait until a person's dead before looting his belongings."

Ruthie's gaze dropped to the floor, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. "We had no intention of looting. He was only playing."

Mr. Holmes answered her with a wry expression. "Sure he was," he said, closing his eyes again. The man had lovely eyelashes. Dark as night, sooty and full, just like his hair.

For goodness' sakes, Ruthie! Contain yourself. Now is not the time!

"We really should be going," she said.

Reggie nodded, casting one last wistful look at the tiaras. "Yes. We'll be off now," he added as if this had all been a lark, a friendly carriage ride in the country. "I trust you have this handled—"

A banging knock on the door cut him off. Ernest ran to it, throwing it open with little grace. The action pawed at Ruthie's conscience. The butler wouldn't behave that way if he wasn't worried. She didn't want to watch a man die, but leaving him during his last moments seemed wrong for so many reasons.

Reggie came to her side; however, she couldn't budge when he attempted to steer her toward the door, past the boys she recognized from the street earlier.

"He's here! We found Dr. Cameron, just like you told us to!" they cried, speaking over one another. Red-cheeked and out of breath, the boys reminded her of two dogs who'd just performed tricks for their owner, proud and hungry for praise.

But it wouldn't be forthcoming, not with Dr. Cameron stealing the show. He stumbled in after them, almost tripping twice until he found his footing before Ernest. He had a curly mop of hair and a nose as red as a ripe cherry, and smelled like he'd taken a bath in a vat of wine and something else Ruthie couldn't quite place.

Mr. Holmes sneered. "For fuck's sake, he smells like he's spent the last week drinking at a whorehouse!"

Yes. That. Mr. Holmes had hit the nail right on the head, Ruthie concluded.

The taller boy nodded eagerly. "You're exactly right, Mr. Holmes. Found him at Old Sarah's. She was only too happy for us to take him…Said he'd been there for long enough."

Ernest lifted his nose. "What's long enough? A month?"

"Oh, stop with the bloody nonsense," the doctor exclaimed. With righteous indignation, he punched his fists into his hips; however, the effect was lost when they kept slipping off. Not only did the man smell horrendous, but he looked like he'd been dipped in grease. What went on at Old Sarah's, Ruthie wondered? "I'm the best damn doctor in this blasted city," he continued, speaking slowly to prevent slurring. "Do you want my help, or do you plan on ridiculing me all night while you bleed out?"

Mr. Holmes's lips screwed up to the side. He was in between a rock and a hard place, and yet he was too stubborn to admit it.

"Yes please, doctor," Ruthie said, stepping away from Reggie. She returned to the bed, motioning to Mr. Holmes's stomach. "It was a gunshot. Here, you see. It struck him in the side. Can you do anything?"

"Will you get this fool out of here?" Mr. Holmes yelled, folding his arms across his chest. He sucked in a breath to combat the pain. The man was determined to cut off his nose to spite his face. "I'm going to die, and if that degenerate comes any closer, I might be sick. Just let me go peacefully and clean, without the smell of liquor and whores in my lungs."

"Some might consider that the perfect way to go," Reggie piped in.

Ruthie covered her face with her palms. "That's not helping."

Dr. Cameron stumbled to the bed, flicking his head at Ernest. "Help me roll him to his side. I need to see the wound more closely."

Mr. Holmes scoffed. "You couldn't see a cannon in your face right now."

"But I bet I could see a dead man…which you will be if you keep this up," the doctor shot back, leaning over the bed as Ernest worked on doing as he asked.

She was so engrossed in the doctor's inspection, Ruthie didn't notice Reggie creep up behind her. "We need to go, now," he said firmly, tickling her ears with his furtive whisper. Ruthie swatted him away. His voice was heavy with warning, which told Ruthie everything. Reggie wasn't exactly known for his pragmatism, which was why she'd enlisted his help to begin with. But it seemed like even her cousin had a line he wouldn't step over…namely incurring her mother's wrath.

"I want to watch this," she said.

"Ruthieee," he whined. "They don't need you anymore. You're covered in blood. I'm covered in blood. We have to go. Now ."

Ruthie's brow wrinkled as she strained to hear Dr. Cameron. With Reggie's harping she could barely make out what the doctor was saying, something about the bullet going through. She definitely heard the word clean . That was positive, wasn't it? Unless the doctor was talking about cleanliness being next to godliness, and in that case, was he talking about washing the body before Mr. Holmes met his maker?

Why couldn't she leave? Ruthie had never considered herself a voyeur, but it wasn't like she'd ever had a chance to be. Her mother held too much control over her life to allow that.

Ruthie didn't notice until it was too late that Reggie was dragging her toward the door. On impulse, she grabbed at the handle, but her cousin caught her hand. "No," he said. "This has gone on long enough." Reggie leveled her with a weighted look that clogged her protestations in her throat. "The man is going to die, my dear," he went on. "It doesn't matter what the doctor does. You can't do anything either. But I can. I can get you away, safe in your home so you don't have to see it. Now, let's go."

"Um…sorry…Not so fast, if you please."

Ruthie twirled around to find Ernest, Dr. Cameron, and Mr. Holmes focused on her.

"No," Reggie said with greater conviction. He moved to block her from their sight, which didn't do much, since the top of his head only came up to her chin. "I'm taking her home. We've done our Good Samaritan bit. We can do no more."

"But we think you can," Ernest said.

Reggie lifted his arms at his sides. "There's nothing more I can offer."

"Not you." Mr. Holmes scowled. "Her."

"Me?" Ruthie squeaked, sidestepping her cousin.

Mr. Holmes nodded. "I need a woman," he said.

Dr. Cameron looked thoroughly confused. "There's no woman here. What the hell is he talking about?"

Ruthie ignored him. "There are plenty of women downstairs."

"They're not exactly the sewing types," Ernest interjected.

"Sewing?" Ruthie shook her head. "You want me to sew ?"

"I said I could do it," Dr. Cameron muttered.

Mr. Holmes coughed himself into a fit. "You drunken, lecherous fool. With where your hands have been, I wouldn't let you sow seeds."

The poor doctor cowered away from the bed, folding into himself. "Honestly, Harry. There's no need for such vicious name-calling."

Ernest came back to her. "So will you do it?"

Ruthie couldn't hold a thought in her head. "Do what?"

"Sew the wound," he explained. "If he makes it through the night, the good doctor says he has a chance. We assume you can sew a straight line."

"Yes…I suppose I can."

Ernest slapped his hands together. "Then it's settled. I'll get everything you'll need."

All at once, everyone scurried around her like mice. Reggie paced the room, ripping his hands through what was left of his hair; the doctor retreated to a corner where he opened his black bag and took out a flask; Ernest flew to the door and screamed out for someone named Jessica.

Only Ruthie and Mr. Holmes remained motionless, each regarding the other curiously, comically, as if this were all a show performed for their benefit.

When she couldn't take it anymore, when it felt like she would jump out of her skin under his frank perusal, Ruthie blurted the first thing that came to mind.

"I thought you were ready to die."

A smile formed on Mr. Holmes' face. For the first time since the gunshot, Ruthie didn't detect an ounce of his pain. "I remembered that I'm much too busy to die."

"Can death be dictated to so easily?"

His smile broadened. "By me? You bet your arse it can."