“But,” he said with another sigh. The carriage had just entered Berkeley Square and was rounding a corner of the garden when something shot out through the railings, darting into the street, between the hooves of the horse, which reared up in the traces with a high whinny of alarm.

“Whoa, steady there,” Fred said, wrestling with the reins, trying to bring the frantic horse under control. As he did so the same creature that had shot out from the square suddenly turned and raced back chased by something small and black. Fred had almost gained control of the horse when the racing pair hurtled between its legs and the animal reared again, hooves flailing as it jerked forward.

The two-wheeled carriage, unbalanced, tilted at a sharp angle, hovering for an agonizing moment on one wheel. Charlie grabbed at the edge of the door too late. He tumbled into the street. Petra, off balance, half fell, half jumped down behind him, just as the horse backed up, bringing its hooves to the ground again. The right wheel rolled over Charlie as he lay momentarily stunned in the road.

His shriek of pain resounded through the hitherto quiet square. Fred, cursing, leaped to the ground, grabbing the horse by the bridle, trying to pull it forward to get the wheel off Charlie’s body.

Petra struggled up to her knees beside Charlie. “Oh, God,” she muttered seeing the odd angle of his arm, the blood welling from his side. “Get the damn wheel off him, Fred,” she yelled, trying to lift it off him herself. With a sickening jolt the wheel finally moved forward off the body and onto the road again. Petra gasped in horror at the bleeding wound it left behind. She yanked up her lavender skirts and ripped the thin silk of her petticoat, pressing the strip into the wound, desperate to staunch the blood.

“Here, let me do it.” Suddenly Guy was kneeling beside her. He pulled the white silk evening scarf from his neck and swiftly substituted it for the already soaked strip of her petticoat. “Keep pressing down.”

Petra did so, stunned by the rapidity of the unfolding horror. She pressed hard on Charlie’s side, watching the blood well up, soaking the silk scarf. She took folds of her skirt and added them to the bloody scarf, pressing with all her strength. Charlie was gray, his eyelids fluttering, but other than that and the welling blood gave no signs that he was conscious, or even alive.

She glanced up to see Guy leading the trembling horse far away from Charlie, all the while giving sharp orders to Fred, who, shaking with shock himself, went to check the animal. Guy came back, kneeling once more beside Charlie.

“Are you hurt? You’re bleeding.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I’m hurt, maybe a scratch. I think the blood is Charlie’s.”