She motioned to the approaching men. “Lay him here. Let us see if we can help him.”

Agatha handed her the bench cushion from the carriage, and Juliette laid it on the cobbles. The men eased the injured man to the ground. Without a word, they turned and went back toward the mill.

The wounded man groaned, sweat on his brow making putty of the dust clinging to him.

“Sir, where are you hurt?” Juliette tried not to look at the cut on his forehead, filthy and still bleeding. She took her handkerchief from her pocket and laid it over the wound.

“Ribs, mostly.” The words ground from between clenched teeth.

Agatha edged closer. “Were you in the mill? Have you seen my father, Mr. Montgomery?”

Juliette removed Mr. Swann’s cloak, then her pelisse, and folded the pelisse to place under the man’s head. She put the cloak on again as cold air bit through her day dress.

“Wasn’t in the mill. In the lane. Bringing grain. Got thrown into the side of a building.”

Juliette had no idea how to treat injuries, but surely making the man comfortable came near the top of the list. “Sir, what can we do for you?”

“I don’t suppose you’d have any gin, would you?” He smiled through clenched teeth. “I could use a draught.”

“I am sorry I have no spirits, but someone has gone to fetch water. We’ll wash your wounds and bandage you.” Again she averted her gaze. It wasn’t seemly for unmarried women to act as nurses, but what could they do? It was every hand to the work in a crisis.

Heinrich reappeared carrying an ewer and holding a stack of toweling under his arm. “The inn up the street has become something of a hospital. Perhaps we should transfer this gentleman up there.” He set the pitcher down and handed the towels to Agatha.

“You go. I must stay with the carriage and wait for my father.” Agatha’s mouth set in a stubborn line.

“By rights I should escort you both back to your homes. Your sensibilities must be affronted at such chaos. At least let me take you to the inn.” The duke motioned to the tiger, who had tears streaming down his face, making him seem even younger than he was. “Stay with the carriage, and tell whoever comes where I’ve taken the ladies. And watch my horse. Do not allow him to be stolen.” He pointed to his mount, a shining bay with white stockings, snorting and pulling at the reins tethering him to the rear carriage wheel.

The youngster nodded, his signature striped vest hanging open, the buttons torn off. He had witnessed both carriage horses, which he’d helped care for each day in the stable mews behind the Thorndike townhouse, killed. One by the blast, and the second by a merciful bullet when it was discovered he could not be saved.