He nodded and pressed a finger to Charlie’s neck. “His pulse is strong. But I think he might have broken his arm when he fell.” Gently he touched the strangely angled arm and Charlie’s eyes opened as he groaned.

“Charlie, darling, be still.” Petra leaned over him, still pressing down on his side. “You’re hurt. We have to get you to a doctor.”

“Give me that boa,” Guy instructed. He took the feather boa from her and fashioned a sling, deftly looping it around the injured man’s neck, securing the arm against his chest. “I’ll be back in a moment. Keep the pressure on.” He hurried across the street and Petra realized that the accident had happened right outside his house.

He reappeared within minutes with two footmen carrying a flat board that looked to Petra like a door. Following Guy’s orders they set it down beside Charlie and then the three men lifted him and put him on the board in a movement so swift Charlie uttered only one stifled groan of pain, his eyelids closing again.

“You can take your hand away for the moment,” Guy said to Petra as the three men hoisted the board. “Come with us.” They carried the injured man across the road and into the cool depths of Granville House.

“Set him down on the billiard table,” Guy instructed, gesturing to the open double doors to a room at the rear of the hall. “It’ll be easier to see to his injuries.” He turned to the butler, who, showing no sign of having been dragged untimely from his bed, was setting a basin of hot water and a pile of white napkins on the sideboard in the billiard room. “Has Ferguson gone for the doctor?”

“Yes, m’lord. Ten minutes ago. He should be here soon.” The butler looked at Petra, bloody and bedraggled, her face white. “I’ll send for Mrs. Carter, ma’am. She’ll know what to do for you.”

“No, please don’t wake anyone. I don’t need anything,” Petra said swiftly.

Guy shrugged out of his coat, tossing it over a chair. “Do as Miss Rutherford says, Babbit. But bring cognac.” He rolled up his sleeves and bent over Charlie again, resuming his pressure on the wound.

“Will he be all right?” Petra asked, coming to stand beside him.

He looked up. “I’m no doctor, and it’s a nasty wound. As far as I can see, the wheel gashed his chest, probably broke some ribs. There’s a lot of blood, but his pulse is still strong.” He frowned. “How much of that blood is yours and not Aldershot’s?”

She shook her head, looking at her red hands and blood-soaked skirt. “I scraped my knee when I fell, but it’s nothing. The carriage tilted and threw Charlie out and then the horse backed up and the wheel ran over him. It’s all his blood.”