Speak Its Name: A Trilogy by Lee Rowan, Charlie Cochrane, Erastes Page B

opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the light, and raised a hand, heavy as lead, expecting Darling to pull him to his feet.
    Darling took his hand, but merely held on to it. “Best stay where you are, my lord,” he said firmly. “I’m told there’s a physician aboard, and he should be here shortly.”
    “Darling, don’t be an ass.” Scoville rolled onto his side, but a wave of pain and dizziness kept him there. “God damn .” Whoever had hit him might not have meant him to survive—or had not cared if the blow killed him. “I don’t know what happened. Didn’t see anyone. Help me up, damn it.”
    “I don’t believe you’re entirely yourself, my lord. And your head is bleeding. If you’ll just lie back, I’ll fetch a compress.”
    “I’m not a bloody invalid.” He felt like one, though. He wouldn’t swear that his skull hadn’t been split, but it was beyond embarrassing to admit that someone had been able to creep up on him.
    “No, my lord.”
    It was impossible to argue with Darling when he went all deferential, and therefore equally impossible to win an argument. “Very well, I’ll keep still. Bring on the bandages and barley-water.”
    “Yes, my lord. If you would lie back on this handkerchief—yes, thank you.”
    Scoville lay back with ill-expressed gratitude and let himself drift while Darling returned with a cool compress, which did reduce the throbbing pain and made the short wait for medical assistance more bearable.
    When he finally appeared, the doctor, a sensible Belgian, put three stitches in Lord Robert’s scalp, diagnosed a mild concussion, prescribed a day of bed rest, and advised him to find a physician in Vienna if he was not much improved the following morning.
    The doctor had barely left when the train stopped in Salzburg, and an Austrian Customs officer came through to inspect their passports. When the Customs man learned that Lord Robert had not even seen his assailant, he offered his regrets that he could not hold all departing passengers on suspicion. Darling assured him that the intruder had fled without taking anything. On that inconclusive note, they were left alone.
    His lordship, denied the luxuries of the dining car, supped on tea, crackers, and boiled chicken in broth, with Darling hovering in solicitous attendance. Even that light meal was more than he could finish. Pushing away the half-empty bowl, he found a reclining position that kept the sore spot on his head clear of the pillows. “Well, Darling?”
    “My lord?”
    “That’s enough coddling for now, thank you. What I need is information. You said nothing had been taken—I assume that was to get Customs on his way as quickly as possible.” At Darling’s nod, he continued, “Then what was he after? Is anything missing?”
    Darling raised a hand. He stepped silently to the door, eased the lock back, and suddenly yanked it open. The corridor outside was empty. He peered out, looking both ways, then relocked the door. “Forgive the dramatics, my lord, but I’d rather be certain we don’t have eavesdroppers.”
    “The train does make a fair amount of covering noise,” Lord Robert said, matching his low tone. “So what did you find?”
    “Nothing was stolen, but we seem to have acquired this.” He held out an old-fashioned snuffbox. “It was in your trunk, tucked under your unmentionables.”
    Lord Robert took the box, a handsome item. Something of an antique, it had a tiny ivory panel set into the chased silver, the British lion rampant carved upon its surface. “He didn’t need to brain me to present this.”
    He started to flip open the catch with his thumb, but Darling quickly touched the box lid. “Best not, my lord. It’s full of cocaine.”
    “I could do with an analgesic,” he protested, but left it closed. “What the devil do you suppose this is in aid of?” The stuff was legal enough in England, but Scoville did not know, offhand, what the laws might be in the various