“You’re hurt.” The young man sat up, retrieved his bowler, and replaced it on his head. “Is it broken?”
Almost afraid to find out, Philomena waggled her fingers. “I don’t think so. But it hurts like the devil.”
“A sprain, then.” The young man who appeared to be with him sported an astonishing nose and a purple waistcoat, cut in a style that had been madly fashionable that season. “Come on. Best get it seen to.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said. Their housekeeper was good at binding up her scrapes and bruises before Papa got a look at them.
“Nonsense,” the more sober individual said. “Maggie is closest,” he told his friend. “She can get that wrapped before it swells up like a melon.”
The fewer people who saw her in the light, the better, including whoever Maggie was. Two men pushed past h
