"See?" She pressed aside his hair so the air touched his wound. "He's been hit on the back of the head with something-some weapon."

Juggs harrumphed. "P'rhaps he hit his head on that table in the Manor drawing room when he swooned."

"Juggs! You know as well as I do this wound is too severe for that."

Eyes closed, Lucifer breathed shallowly. Pain was rolling over him in sickening waves. In desperation, he conjured the image of the lady's face, struggled to concentrate on that and hold the pain at bay. Her throat had been slender, graceful. That augered well for the rest of her. She'd mentioned a bed-He broke off that train of thought, once again disconcerted by its direction.

" 'Ere, let me see," Juggs grudgingly said.

A heavy hand touched Lucifer's skull-his head exploded with pain.

"Papa, this man is seriously injured." His guardian angel's voice drew Lucifer back to the living. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since last he'd been with them.

"He's been hit very violently on the back of the head. Juggs has seen the wound, too."

"Hmm." Heavier footsteps approached. "That right, Juggs?"

A new voice, deep, cultured, but tinged with the local county accent-Lucifer wondered just who "Papa" was.

"Aye. Looks like he's been coshed good and proper." Juggs-the clod-was still with them.

"The wound's on the back of his skull, you say?"

"Yes-here." Lucifer felt the lady's fingers part his hair. "But don't touch."

"Papa" thankfully didn't. "It seems very sensitive-he regained consciousness for a moment, but fainted when Juggs touched his head."

"Hardly surprising. That's quite a blow he's taken. Administered with that old halberd of Horatio's by the look of it. Hemmings said he found it beside this gentleman. Given the thing's weight, it's a wonder he isn't dead."