He was also large. Streaked with grime. Dripping wet.
And moving. Staggering, stumbling…directly toward her alcove.
The men drew those sabers now, and some of them rushed forward. Corporal Thorne looked fully prepared to skewer the man—dull blade notwithstanding.
But the intruder did not pose a threat for long. Before any of the militiamen could reach him, he collapsed.
Right at Violet’s feet.
“Oh, goodness.”
As he slid to the floor, he clutched at her skirts, tangling with them. By the time the man’s head met parquet with a heavy thud, a long streak of blood marred her watered silk.
Violet sank to her knees. She hadn’t much choice. She pressed her gloved hand to the intruder’s neck, searching for his pulse. Her satin-sheathed fingertips came away bright red. And trembling.
Kate and Sally crouched beside her.
“Dear heaven,” Kate breathed. “He’s just covered in blood.”
“And dirt,” Sally said. “But cor, he’s gorgeous anyhow.”
“Sally, only you could think of such a thing at a time like this.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t notice. Just look at those cheekbones. That strong jaw. Pity about the nose, but those lips are made for sin. He’s like a fallen angel, isn’t he?”
“He’s fallen,” Kate said. “So much is certain.”
Violet removed her soiled glove and pressed her bare hand to the man’s chilled, dirt-streaked face. He moaned and tightened his grip on her skirts.
Sally gave her a sly look. “Whoever he is, he seems to be rather taken with Miss Winterbottom.”
Violet’s face heated. She never knew how to act at a ball, but this situation was entirely missing from the etiquette books. When a man lumbered across a ballroom and collapsed at a lady’s feet, shouldn’t the lady offer him some comfort? It seemed the only decent thing.
Then again, she’d made that error in the past—offering comfort to a wounded man, and letting him take too much. She’d spent the past year paying for that very mistake.
“Pardon me. Let me through.” Susanna, Lady Rycliff, pushed through the crowd and knelt at the man’s side. “I need to find the source of his bleeding.”
Lord Rycliff joined her. “Let me check him for weapons first. We don’t know who he is.”
“He’s someone who needs help,” Susanna answered. “Without delay. He’s chilled through. And he has a nasty gash to his head, see?”
“Susanna—”
“Look at the man. How can he be a threat? He’s barely conscious.”
“Lift your hands from him,” Lord Rycliff demanded in a low, stern voice. “Now.”
With a tiny huff of breath, Susanna raised both hands to shoulder height. “Fine. Do it quickly, please.”
“Thorne, see to his boots. I’ll take the pockets.” Lord Rycliff patted the man’s chest and waistband and riffled through the pockets of his simple dark-blue coat. “Nothing.”
“Naught here, either.” Thorne turned the man’s weathered, hard-toed boots upside down and shook them.
“Not even a bit of coin?” asked Kate. “Perhaps he’s the victim of a robbery.”
“May I do my work now?” Susanna asked. At her husband’s nod of consent, she motioned to a footman. “Bring blankets and bandages, immediately.” She turned to the ladies. “Kate, can you fetch my kit from the stillroom? Sally, do bring a cup of mulled wine.” After removing her gloves, she pressed her bare hands to the wounded man’s feet. “Like ice,” she muttered, wincing. “Hot bricks, please,” she called to the servants, lifting her head.
Thorne plucked a cluster of Irish moss from the man’s boot. “It’s seawater. He must have washed up in the Cove.”
“Oh, dear. But if he washed up in the Cove, how did he make it all the way here?”
Lord Rycliff’s jaw hardened. “More to the point, why?”
The stranger began to tremble violently. Words spilled from his bluish lips. He muttered a steady stream of words in a foreign tongue.
Rycliff frowned. “What language is that? Not English. Nor French.”
“Violet will know,” Susanna said. “She knows every language.”
“That’s not true,” Violet protested. “Only a dozen or so.”
“Pish. You once learned Romany in an hour, when that baby was sick.”
“I truly didn’t.”
She hadn’t learned Romany at all. She’d learned, through trial and error, that one of the women spoke a bit of Italian, and they’d translated back and forth—with a great deal of hand gestures and pantomime added to the mix. It hadn’t been elegant translation, but it had been effective in the end—enough to help a frightened mother and her feverish babe.
Language was a vast, complicated tapestry. The key to communication was finding a common thread.
To that end, Violet pushed aside her emotions and concentrated on the man’s words. “It’s…some sort of Celtic dialect, from the sound of things. Not my particular area of expertise. Perhaps he’s Welsh?”
She lifted a hand to request silence. She willed even her heartbeat to stop its pounding, so she might better hear his words.
Definitely a Celtic language of some sort. But on further listen, it didn’t sound like Welsh after all. Much less Gaelic or Manx.
“Here.” Sally returned with a steaming cup of mulled wine. “Have him drink this.”
With help, Violet lifted the man’s head and put the cup to his lips. He sipped and coughed, then sipped again.
“I’m listening,” she said in English, hoping the reassuring tone would translate even if the words did not. “Tell me how to help.”
He rolled onto his back and looked up at her.
Violet’s breath caught. A jolt of recognition struck her so hard, it set the whole ballroom spinning.
His eyes. Good heavens, those eyes. They were the rich, layered brown of spice and tobacco. They held an intelligence that belied his coarse, simple garments. They conveyed desperation, a plea for help.
But most of all, those eyes looked…familiar.
It couldn’t be, she told herself. It made no rational sense. But the longer she stared into those spice-brown eyes, the stronger her sense of affinity grew. Violet felt as though she were gazing into a face she’d seen before. A set of features more familiar than her own looking-glass reflection. The face that haunted her dreams.