Читать книгу The Bargain - Mary Jo Putney - Страница 13

It took only a quarter-hour to get the major and his few belongings settled in a sumptuous room with a diagonal view of Hyde Park. It appeared to be the best guest chamber, and Sally again conceded, with enormous reluctance, that Lady Jocelyn did not do things by half-measures. David was white-faced with pain from the move, and Sally was grateful that she had carried the bottle of laudanum over in her knitting bag. When the footman had left, she gave her brother another dose of opium.

Burying her own feelings about Lady Jocelyn, Sally said, “Though your wife was good enough to offer me a room here, I think it’s best that I sleep at the Launcestons’. But I’ll come every afternoon, as I did at the hospital, and Richard said he’ll call tomorrow.” She straightened the covers over his thin frame. “Time for you to get some sleep. The trip must have been exhausting.”

David smiled faintly. “True, but I’m fine now, little hedgehog.”

“Now that you’re settled, I’m going to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Dr. Ramsey said there’s a very fine surgeon there, someone who might be able to help you.”

“Perhaps,” her brother said, unimpressed.

She noticed that his eyes kept drifting to the door. Was he expecting his so-called wife to visit him? Hoping that Lady Jocelyn was well-bred enough to do that much, Sally said, “I’ll visit again later.” She bent to kiss his forehead, then left.

Hugh Morgan was approaching the blue room. “Her ladyship has assigned me to be the major’s servant,” he said ingenuously. “It’s a real honor.”

“I’m sure you will suit him very well.” As Sally left, she felt unwilling amusement at the perfect poetic justice Lady Jocelyn had visited on Morgan, the accidental instrument for bringing the major to these hallowed precincts. Caring for a gravely injured man would not be easy. Luckily, the footman seemed like a kind, conscientious young man. David would be in good hands.

Now to find the mad Scot at St. Bartholomew’s.

It took Jocelyn a good half-hour to calm down. When her appalling sister-in-law arrived, she’d been admiring the flowers Candover had sent that morning. The note read only Until September, and was signed with a boldly scrawled C.

Holding the note and remembering that wordless but potent interchange between them, she’d been lost in dreams. Perhaps in the enigmatic duke she would find what she had always sought, and never dared believe she would find.

Then that unspeakable female had blundered in with her threats and her emotional blackmail. Except for Sally Lancaster’s vivid green eyes, there was no resemblance to David, who was a gentleman to the core.

Jocelyn’s mouth curved involuntarily as she remembered her remark about buying the major with gold. Aunt Laura would have gone into a spasm if she had heard her niece say anything so unforgivably vulgar, but Sally Lancaster had a genius for bringing out the worst in Jocelyn’s nature.

Jocelyn sighed, her amusement gone, and absently scratched between Isis’s ears. How could she have thought getting involved with someone’s life and death would be simple? She would rather not think of the major’s imminent death, and she certainly had not intended to witness it, but that could not be avoided now.

Whenever she thought of David Lancaster, she wanted to cry. It was like a candle going out, reducing the amount of light in the world.

She pulled her mind back to practical considerations. Fortunately Morgan had welcomed the opportunity to serve the major. The footman had a good heart and a steady hand, and Jocelyn had heard from Marie that he aspired to be a valet. Now he could get some real experience.

Summoning the butler again, she said, “Order two wagon loads of straw and have it spread on the street outside. Make sure that it’s layered thickly—I don’t want Major Lancaster disturbed by the sound of traffic. Also, tell Cook to prepare food suitable for an invalid.” If the major could be induced to eat.

After Dudley left, she ordered herself to be more patient with Sally Lancaster, since it would be impossible to avoid her sister-in-law entirely. Sally’s irritability was understandable given that she was devoted to her brother and had no one else to care about. With her looks and disposition, she probably never would again.

Jocelyn did not even bother feeling guilty for the uncharitable thought.

Sally had believed that the York had inured her to hospitals, but St. Bartholomew’s seemed ten times as crowded and twenty times as noisy. It had been founded in the Middle Ages by monks and appeared not to have been cleaned since. Bart’s treated many of London’s indigent and a clamorous, odorous lot they were.

Nonetheless, the hospital trained some of the country’s best surgeons. As she passed through endless crowded wards, she supposed that was because the surgeons had so many patients to practice on.

It took half an hour of walking and asking questions to locate anyone who knew anything about Ian Kinlock. At first she was told that he wasn’t in the hospital because “this was ’is day for the swells.” Another listener chimed in that he’d seen the doctor ’imself that very day.

Another half hour of searching brought her to the dingy little room where Kinlock was alleged to be found after he’d done his day’s work in the cutting ward. She settled down to wait on an uncomfortable wooden chair. A jumble of books, papers, and anatomical sketches covered the top of the battered desk and bookcase, with more tottering in stacks on the floor. Brilliant Kinlock might be, but neat he definitely wasn’t.

After an hour of increasing boredom, Sally’s basic fondness for order asserted itself, and she began to straighten the books and papers. A small, grubby towel that had fallen behind the desk was pressed into service as a dust rag. Remembering how her scholarly father had felt about people who rearranged his books, she took great care not to shift anything to a new location. Nonetheless, simply squaring up the piles neatly and removing the dust did wonders for the appearance of the office.

After tidying the desk, she started on the bookcase, working from top to bottom. On a cluttered middle shelf, her fingers brushed what felt like a china mug. She pulled it out and found herself holding a hollow-eyed, grinning human skull. She gasped and hastily replaced the ghastly relic, rather proud that she hadn’t dropped it from shock.

An impatient voice with a definite Scots burr growled from the doorway, “That skull belonged to the last person fool enough to meddle with my office. Are you trying to become a mate to it?”

Sally jumped and spun around, making a sound regrettably close to a squeak. The owner of the voice was a man of middle height with massive shoulders and a blood-splashed smock. His bushy dark brows provided a strong contrast to a thick shock of white hair and added impressively to a scowl that was already first class.

“I … I didn’t actually move anything from its place,” she stammered. “You’re Ian Kinlock, the surgeon?”

“Aye. Now get the hell out of my office.” He dropped into the desk chair, unlocked one of his drawers, and pulled out a bottle of what looked like whiskey. Ignoring his visitor, he uncorked the bottle, took a long, long draft, and slumped against the chair back with his eyes closed.

When Sally approached, she realized that he was younger than she had first thought, certainly under forty. The hair might be prematurely white, but the lines in his face were from exhaustion, not age, and the compact body had the lean fitness of a man in his prime. “Dr. Kinlock?”

His lids barely lifted to reveal weary blue eyes. “You’re still here? Out. Now.” He took another pull of whiskey.

“Dr. Kinlock, I want you to examine my brother.”

He sighed, then said with an elaborate show of patience, “Miss Whatever-the-devil-your-name is, I have seen over fifty patients today, performed six operations, and just lost two patients in a row under the knife. If your brother was Prinny himself, I would not see him. Especially if he were Prinny. For the third and last time, get out, or I will throw you out.”

He ran a tired hand through his white hair, adding a smudge of blood to its disarray. Despite his profanity, there was a forceful intelligence about him, and Sally felt a breath of hope. Even more determined to get him to David as soon as possible, she said, “My brother was wounded at Waterloo. He’s paralyzed from the waist down, in constant pain, and wasting away like a wraith.”

Kinlock’s eyes showed only a bare flicker of acknowledgment. “With that kind of injury, he’s a dead man. For miracles, try St. Bartholomew’s church across the street.”

Sally caught his gaze with her own. “Didn’t you take an oath, Doctor? To help those who are suffering?”

For a moment she feared that she’d gone too far and the surgeon would murder her on the spot. Then his anger dissolved. “I’ll make allowances for the fact that you’re concerned about your brother,” he said with great gentleness. “I should even be complimented by your touching faith that I might be able to help him. Unfortunately, the amount we know about the human body is so minuscule when compared to the amount we don’t know that it’s a wonder I can ever help anyone.”

She saw the bleakness in his eyes and remembered the two patients who had just died. No wonder he was in a foul mood.

Kinlock took another swig of whiskey, then continued in the same reasonable tone. “Waterloo was fought when? The eighteenth of June? So it’s been almost five weeks.” He shook his head, talking to himself. “How many bedamned operations did I do over there? And how many men did I lose?”

“You care about your patients,” she said quietly. “That’s what I want for David—a surgeon who cares passionately.”

Scowling, he gulped more whiskey. “With a spinal injury severe enough to cause paralysis, the surprise is that your brother is still alive. Half the bodily functions are destroyed, there are infections and ulceration from lying still too long. A man doesn’t survive long like that, and from what I’ve seen in such cases, it’s a mercy when they die. So take my advice: say good-bye to your brother and leave me alone.”

He started to turn to his desk, but Sally reached out to touch his sleeve. “Dr. Kinlock, none of those things have happened to my brother. It’s just that he is in such pain and is wasting away. Couldn’t you just look at him? Please?”

At her words, Kinlock’s dark, bushy brows drew together thoughtfully. “A great deal of pain? That’s odd, one would expect numbness …” He pondered a moment longer, then rattled off a series of medical questions, his gaze sharply analytical.

Sally could answer most of the questions due to her badgering of the doctors at the York Hospital for information.

After ascertaining what David’s condition and treatment had been, Kinlock asked, “How much laudanum is your brother taking?”

Sally tried to estimate. “A bottle of Sydenham’s every two or three days, I think.”

“Bloody hell, no wonder the man can’t move! Opium is a marvelous medication, but not without drawbacks.” He folded his arms across his chest as he thought. Finally, he said, “I’ll come by and examine him tomorrow afternoon.”

Her heart leaped. “Could you make it tonight? He’s so weak …”

“No, I could not. And if you’d want me to after I’ve put away this much whiskey, you’re a fool.”

His hands looked steady enough, but she supposed he was right. “Then tomorrow morning, first thing? I’ll give you one hundred twenty-five pounds.” Reaching through the side slit in her dress to the pocket she wore slung around her waist, Sally pulled out the pouch of gold and handed it to him.

Kinlock whistled softly at the weight of the bag. “You’re a determined little thing, aren’t you? However, I have patients to see tomorrow morning. Afternoon is the best I can do, and I won’t make any promises about the precise hour. Take it or leave it.” He tossed the bag back to her.

Stung by the dismissive phrase “little thing,” Sally said tartly, “I’ve always heard surgeons are a crude, profane lot. So good to know that rumor spoke true in this case.”

Instead of being insulted, Kinlock gave a crack of laughter, his expression lightening for the first time. “You forgot to mention abrasive, insensitive, and uncultured. That’s why surgeons are called mister instead of doctor—we’re a low lot, lass, and mind you remember that.” He corked his whiskey and set the bottle back on his desk. “By the way, what is your name?”

“Sally Lancaster.”

“Aye, ye look like a Sally.” His Scots accent was thickening rapidly, probably because of the whiskey. “Write down your brother’s direction, and I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon. Probably not early.”

While Sally wrote the address, Kinlock crossed his arms on the desk, laid his head on them, and promptly fell asleep. She carefully tilted the slip of paper against his whiskey bottle, sure it would be found in that position.

Before leaving, she studied the slumbering figure with bemusement. What the devil did a Sally look like? A mad Scot indeed, abrasive, insensitive, and all the rest. But for the first time in weeks, she felt a whisper of hope that David might have a future.

Lady Jocelyn threw her quill across the desk in exasperation, leaving a scattering of ink blots on her account book. Isis raised a contemptuous nose at her lack of self-control. All afternoon she’d tried to attend to correspondence and monthly accounts, but she was unable to concentrate for thinking of the man lying upstairs in the blue room.

She rested her chin on her palm and thought how ridiculous it was to be so shy about visiting him. After all, she was his hostess. Lord, his wife! His prickly sister had gone out and not returned and had reportedly turned down the offer of a bedchamber, for which Jocelyn was thankful. At least the wretched female wasn’t entirely lacking in sense. If they had to meet daily over the breakfast table, there would be murder done.

“You’re quite right, Isis. Since I’m not getting any work done anyhow, I might as well check that the major is comfortable.” Or alive, for that matter. Jocelyn pushed herself away from the desk. “Do you think he’d like some flowers?” The cat yawned luxuriously. “So pleased you agree with me. I’ll go cut some in the garden.”

After gathering and arranging an armful of cream and yellow roses, with some greens for contrast, Jocelyn took the vase of flowers up to the blue room. She knocked lightly on the door, entering when there was no response. The major appeared to be asleep, so she set the flowers on the table by the bed, then turned to study him.

In repose, his face reminded her of a carved medieval knight resting on a marble tomb in the village church at Charlton. Gaunt, noble, remote. His pallor was intensified by a dark shadow of beard. Moved by some impulse of tenderness, she reached out to touch his cheek, feeling the rasp of bristles beneath her fingers.

Disconcertingly, his eyes opened. “Good day, Lady Jocelyn.”

Hastily she dropped her hand, her fingers tingling. “Good day. Have you been well taken care of?”

“Very. It was kind of you to invite me here.”

With that pleasure in his eyes, she could not have disabused him of the idea, even if Sally Lancaster hadn’t warned her. Still, innate honesty compelled her to say, “Most of the credit belongs to your sister. It was she who thought of asking your doctor if it was safe to move you.”

“Doubtless Ramsey said that it really didn’t matter one way or the other.” His gaze circled the room with its high molded ceiling and silk-clad walls. “Your house is an infinitely pleasanter place to die than the hospital.”

She pulled a chair up to his bedside and sat so that their faces were nearly level. “How can you be so calm, to speak of your death as if it were a change in the weather?”

He gave the impression of shrugging, though he scarcely moved. “When you’ve spent enough time soldiering, death is like a change in the weather. I’ve been on borrowed time for years. I never really expected to make old bones.”

“Your experience goes far beyond my understanding,” she said quietly.

“We are all products of our experience. Mine just happens to be rather melodramatic,” he said absently, for most of his attention was on Lady Jocelyn. With the afternoon sun sculpting her perfect features, she was exquisite. Her eyes, a delicate golden brown with green flecks, entranced him, and he found he was a little less resigned to dying than before.

With a pang, he realized that he would have liked to meet and court this lady when he was well and whole. But even then, his circumstances would never have made him a suitable mate for a woman of her station.

There was a glimmer of tears on her cheeks. He found that by concentrating all his strength, he could lift his hand and brush them away, his fingertips lingering on the rose-petal softness of her skin. “Don’t weep for me, my lady. If you remember me at all, I would rather you did with a smile.”

“I will not forget you, David—I can promise that.” The tears didn’t entirely disappear, but she did smile, raising her hand to cover his. “It’s so strange to think that three days ago we had never met. Now, there is a … a unique connection between us. I had thought a marriage of convenience was just a matter of words spoken and papers signed, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“It has been for me.” Too tired to hold his arm up any longer, he let it rest on the bed. Her hand followed, fingers twining his. There was an intimacy in her clasp that warmed his heart. He wished he had had the strength to touch the shining hair, to see if it felt as silky as it looked. That would be high romance, given that no other part of his body was capable of responding. “I am only sorry to be disturbing your peace.”

“Perhaps it’s time my peace was disturbed. Too much tranquillity can’t be good for the soul.” She stood, releasing his hand, to his regret.

Her sweet musical voice took on a businesslike note. “Is Hugh Morgan acceptable to you as a servant? If not, I’ll find another.”

“Perfectly acceptable. I don’t mean to be a demanding guest, or to overstay my welcome.”

She bit her lip. “If there is anything you wish, you have only to ask. Do you object to my visiting you?”

Amused that she could imagine such a thing, he asked, “Why should I object?”

“The impropriety …”

He laughed at the absurdity of that. After a startled moment, she joined in. “That was silly of me, wasn’t it? There can be no impropriety between husband and wife.”

“Your reputation is quite safe. Even if we weren’t married, I’m in no condition to compromise you.” He grinned. “More’s the pity.”

Jocelyn looked uncertain, then smiled and leaned forward to brush a gossamer kiss on his lips before she turned to leave the room. He admired the grace of her walk and the way the sun burnished her chestnut hair to a shade of red that was more provocative than respectable. Did that color hint of a temper concealed beneath her cool, flawless facade? A delightfully intriguing thought. She was not only a lady, but a woman. One he might have loved.

It was ironic to think that if he hadn’t been dying, they never would have met.

Jocelyn closed the door behind her, then leaned against it, feeling as drained as the major looked. Damn the man, why did she have to like him? Every time she saw him, it got worse. Strange, the feeling of intimacy between them, perhaps because there was no time for polite preliminaries.

There was scarcely any time at all. …