Damsel in Distress Read Online Free PDF Page A

He looked vaguely familiar.
    â€œA tramp,” he said, displeased, tapping his cane on his hand in a thoroughly schoolmasterly fashion.
    â€œHelp,” Phillip croaked again.
    â€œMy good man, if you’re hungry you may go up to the kitchen and tell them I said to give you bread and cheese. Then be on your way. Our local magistrates are hard on vagrants.”
    By the time he finished, Phillip had both cleared his throat and recognized him. “I say, Lord Dalrymple,” he said, “I must look like the most frightful vagabond, but I’m Phillip Petrie. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a spot.”
    Daisy’s cousin—second or third, and once or twice removed—hitched the pince-nez lower on his nose and stared down at Phillip over the top.
    â€œâ€™Pon my soul! Petrie? So you are. My dear fellow, give me your hand and let me help you up. No, wait a moment.” Leaning down, he pushed his eye-glasses back up and peered through them. “That is, if I am not mistaken, the larva of Calothysanis amata on your neck. The Blood Vein moth’s caterpillar, you know.”
    â€œWould you mind removing it?” Phillip asked with what patience he could muster. “I’ve lost enough blood lately, as a matter of fact.”
    â€œDear me no, it feeds on dock leaves, not blood. None of our native moths and butterflies is a blood-sucker—though some
do, admittedly, feed on the juices of decaying meat—and I rather doubt whether even any tropical …”
    â€œPlease,” begged Phillip, who felt not unlike a piece of decaying meat himself. He was also suddenly aware of his own juices, long pent up, suddenly demanding egress.
    â€œYes, yes, let me rid you of it. There. Not a rare species, alas. But you don’t want a lecture on the Lepidoptera . Your hand, my dear fellow.”
    â€œI can’t. My hands are tied behind my back.”
    â€œGood gracious! Well, happily I always carry a pocket-knife, to collect the leaves fed upon by any larva I wish to try to hatch. If you will roll over, I shall see what I can do.”
    Clucking in horror over the dried blood on Phillip’s head and hands, Lord Dalrymple efficiently severed the cords. Phillip’s hands stung like blazes as the circulation was restored, but his bladder insisted on more immediate attention. He clambered shakily to his feet and, with a word of apology, pissed long and satisfyingly into the hedge.
    During this exercise, Lord Dalrymple politely turned his back, moved away a few paces, and hummed a verse of the Eton Boating Song. Phillip, amused, recalled Daisy telling him her cousin had taught at a very minor prep school before unexpectedly inheriting Fairacres and the viscountcy from her father.
    Fairacres, presumably, was where Phillip now found himself. He had been dumped not ten miles from the site of the kidnapping, considerably less from his own home, and alive. At least half alive, he amended, as he struggled with smarting, tingling fingertips to button his fly.
    He took a few steps towards Dalrymple and found himself staggering. The bright morning blurred before his eyes, poppies, ox-eye daisies, and purple knapweed swirling in a vast kaleidoscope with the blue sky and green hedges. He sat down and buried his head between his knees.

    â€œI’m awfully sorry,” he gasped, “but I seem to be a bit wonky. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
    â€œYou have been in the wars.” A comforting hand patted Phillip’s shoulder. “You just sit here, old chap. I’ll pop down to my gamekeeper’s cottage and between the two of us we’ll carry you up to the house.”
    â€œGad no,” said Phillip, revolted, “I’ll be able to walk in a minute.” He raised his head. The blood red poppies, as always, reminded him of Flanders, but at least they kept still now.
    â€œSure? Then I shall send him along to lend you a hand while I go ahead to