[Previously: Lavinia has discovered that Cedric has a secret identity, and that he was wounded in a failed ambush. She and Jacques are preparing to treat his injury.]

*

Lavinia had braced herself to deal with whatever the situation required, but it was still difficult to have to hurt someone she loved so much. Even with the aid of the laudanum, the treatment of his wound was painful for Cedric, and it wasn't much easier on his two nurses, either.

Thankfully the bullet had not penetrated too deeply as it had gouged its way between two ribs on his left side, but it had made a trench, a little more than a man's hand span long, the edges of which were still raw and ragged. Perhaps, if he could have gotten help sooner things would be better, but all those hours on horseback, with his clothing rubbing against it, had aggravated the condition of the wound, making it worse than it might have been otherwise.

Still, it might have been much, much worse was the thought with which Lavinia consoled herself as she carefully cleaned the affected area and applied the poultice. She didn't have to remove a bullet, nor had Cedric's ribs been broken by the force of the shot, and he'd been hit only once. That in itself was a miracle, considering what he'd been able to tell Jacques about the way he'd been attacked. And, she wondered, who had fired the shot that had saved her lover's life? Who had been his guardian angel?

Eventually the wound was cleaned, dusted with the Basilicum Powder Lavinia always kept handy, and re-bandaged. Because it was such a jagged wound Lavinia was sure Cedric would always have a scar. All she could hope for was to minimize it by helping it to heal as cleanly as possible.

Jacques began putting dry sheets on the bed, gently moving Cedric to one side or the other as he worked. Lavinia was brewing a tea that included, among other things, various amounts of peppermint, black elder and yarrow, which she knew would help reduce his fever. A moan from Cedric caused her to look up just as Jacques was easing him to the left side of the bed. She gasped at the sight of a fading, but still ugly bruise across his right shoulder blade.

"Mon Dieu! Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?"

She startled Jacques who was focused on turning Cedric as gently as possible. He followed her stare.

"That? That is from a fight with two robbers four ... no five nights ago. It is better now. We have l'arnica for it."

Better? Yes, she supposed it probably was, after five days. But it still looked as though it must bother him to some degree.

"Five nights," she repeated? She thought back over the past few days. "The night before you returned to Kentham, n'est-ce pas?"

Jacques nodded. "We were at Vinehall, the smallest of the farms, and the only house where I must stay in the servants' quarters. The other houses, they all have caretakers who live in separate cottages and come only in the day, you understand. But at Vinehall, there is no other abode nearby and so the caretaker and his wife sleep in the attics, and so must I. Fortunately, they are not observant and they are heavy sleepers. Cedric comes and goes through his bedroom window. I did not know he was injured ... could not help him until the next morning."

Lavinia nodded her understanding and returned to mixing the tea. Five nights ago ...? So the night of the Earl's party, the night when she'd nearly walked into Cedric in the upstairs hall, he'd arrived with that injury. She remembered thinking that he had looked tired, but obviously there had been more going on than she could have guessed from the way he'd laughed and danced with her.

And now this bullet wound.

Perhaps because the Masked Avenger, when she had first met him, had been so strong, so capable, and seemingly invincible, she hadn't thought of him ever getting hurt. She recalled how she'd blithely used such phrases as, "risking his own life for others," but without somehow actually acknowledging the truth of this statement. Stirring the tea gently, to blend the ingredients, she took a slow, deep breath to ease a sudden tightness in her chest. How often, she wondered, how often had he been cold and wet, or injured, or tired? And yet, he kept going out anyway, to help others. For her it was a new perspective on courage, and she loved him even more.

"The tea," she said, her tone subdued, "it is ready." She brought the glass to the bedside and, once again, they worked together to give this new medicine to their patient. Then there was little to do but wait.

"He should have some of this throughout the day, but only this much each time," she added, indicating on the glass the small amount necessary. Also, the poultice may be needed again."

Jacques acknowledged her instructions then insisted that she rest while he cleaned the room. She sat by Cedric's bedside, bathing his face and holding his hand, watching as he slipped deeper into an uneasy slumber. She was barely aware of the manservant's movements and didn't even notice when he left the room.

He returned a short while later with a tray for her, containing hot chocolate, toast and a boiled egg which he placed on the small table near the fire. "I know, mademoiselle, that your appetite may be small, but I also heard that you did not eat this morning. I have presumed to bring you le petit dejeuner.

She knew he was right. That she should eat. And she was touched by his concern for her, especially since it was obvious that he was very tired himself and would be the better for sleep. Therefore she accepted his offering and sat down before the dishes he'd arranged for her.

"Et tu, Jacques ... have you eaten?"

"Oui, mademoiselle. I thought it wise to eat downstairs, in the servant's hall, and to tell them that Master Cedric has the influenza. They are grateful that you are helping with the nursing of him."

She had been about to take a bite of toast but stopped, blushing a little at his compliment, but made reference only to his forethought. "Très bien, Jacques! I had not thought of that. They might wonder about him."

"Oui, mademoiselle. But it is not unusual for Cedric to have these ... 'sick times'." He said this hesitantly, still a little unsure of her possible reaction, despite the fact that she had earlier seemed accepting of Cedric's alter ego. When she didn't make any comment, however, he continued. "And, because Cedric had retired early to his room last night, without eating his dinner, it did not surprise them to learn that he is ill today."

"C'est bon. And the influenza has the fevers, too, so they will not question our need for clean bedding."

"Non, mademoiselle, as long as we can ... can keep his blood from the sheets."

She nodded, knowing his concern was a valid one, but they'd been very careful thus far and had been successful, so she hoped they could continue to do so.

"Pardon, mademoiselle ... I have distressed you?"

"Non, Jacques," she assured him quickly. "Je suis bien. I was ... just thinking." He looks very tired, she thought, but she knew he would attend to her until she finished her repast. She gestured for him to take the chair opposite hers and, after some persuasion on her part, but with reluctance on his, he did, sitting stiffly on the very edge of the chair. "So, tell me, Jacques," she asked, with a smile, "Cedric doesn't truly suffer from headaches, does he?"

"Non, mademoiselle," he admitted, "he does not now, but there was a time, when he was a child, that he was often sick."

There was a sympathetic expression on her face, so perhaps it was that, or maybe it was just that Jacques needed, after all this time, to talk to someone about the young man he loved like a son. "He has told me some of what has passed between you, so I do not believe he would mind if I told you a little about that time."

She blushed slightly, but gestured for him to continue.

"You knew that his parents died in France?"

"Oui, he told me."

Jacques nodded and continued. "Even the death of his own daughter could not change the Marquis de Savonne--Cedric's grand-père Français--into a nice man. He was very cold and distant to Cedric. For a child who had been loved as Cedric had been, this was un déchirement de coeur. After his parents' deaths he ... he had terrible nightmares, stomach-aches and headaches, too. If not for Milord Kentham, I do not know what might have become of Cedric."

He paused, but whether it was to collect his thoughts, or because he was reliving past events, Lavinia could not tell. And in that pause the memory of the painting in the gallery caught at Lavinia's heart: a sweet-faced child smiling at and reaching for his loving mother. When Jacques spoke again, reclaiming her attention, his voice was full of suppressed emotion, so she suspected that her second supposition had been the correct one.

"Six months after the deaths of Cedric's parents, Milord Kentham came to France to hear, in person, what had happened to his youngest son, and to visit his grandson. As soon as he learned how ill the boy had been ... still was ... and how he'd been treated, Milord brought him here to live. It took almost a year, but Cedric gradually got better. I believed then, and I still believe now, that his grandfather's love saved Cedric's life."

"But why did Milord wait so long before journeying to France?"

"Because of Master Lucius, mademoiselle! He was always causing trouble. Always fighting and gambling and drinking! Milord feared to leave, because he did not know what next his son would be doing. Then, he killed a man in a brawl. Lucius claimed it was a duel, but there were witnesses who knew it had not been a fair fight. Milord had to get his son out of the country, and he took him to Italy himself. It was on his way back to England that he stopped to visit Cedric."

Lavinia briefly wondered if this could be the trouble that the old Earl hadn't wanted people to talk about. "Killed? You mean Lucius ... murdered someone?"

"Oui, mademoiselle. If he had not been the son of an Earl, he would have been transported, or hanged."

"Mordieu! That's terrible! I did wonder ... the cruel things I've heard him say, but ...! How is it that he can be in England again?"

"Because he is now an Earl, and because it was a long time ago--20 years. Not many now remember that time, and the Earl, he acts as if there is nothing in his past."

Lavinia glanced towards Cedric, a nameless fear suddenly gripping her heart. "Is there any news of his return, Jacques?"

He did not pretend to misunderstand her. "Non, mademoiselle, not yet. I hope he does not return until Cedric is well again, or at least until he can get out of bed. The Earl, he is not a fool, and might see what we do not want him to see. And now, Cedric is helpless ...." There was real fear in his voice, but also loathing and determination. "I would kill Lucius myself, if he tried to harm Cedric."

Despite the fact that this was what she, herself, had feared it still shocked her to hear Jacques say it out loud. "His uncle would not kill him! Here, in his own house! He would not dare," Lavinia paused, staring at Jacques uncertainly. "Would he ...?"

"Mademoiselle," he told her, with convincing seriousness, "there is nothing he would not dare."