by Diana Quincy
“Surely the only person at fault is the man who actually harmed your parents.”
He gave a sad smile. “At least Mother might still be here, if only . . .” Taking a deep breath, he continued. “As to the necklace, Mother wore it all the time. When I picture her in my mind, she’s wearing the sapphire around her neck.”
“No wonder you reacted as you did the day I put your elbow back in.”
“I saw you with the sapphire before that. At the coffeehouse.” He paused to pull something from his pocket. “This was my mother’s as well. She rarely took it off.”
Hanna stared down at the gold signet ring in Griff’s palm. The one with the carved floral band she’d so admired.
“The reason I was at the coffeehouse the day you put Mansfield’s wrist out,” he explained, “was that I’d just come from the post office off Red Lion Square, the one that stamped the package containing Mother’s ring. I tried to find out who sent it.”
Hanna licked her dry lips. She’d dispatched Lucy to mail the package. “What did you learn?”
“Nothing at all. They didn’t remember anything about the package or its sender. I visited the coffeehouse after that to contemplate what to do next. And then you walked in wearing my mother’s necklace.”
Understanding dawned. “Which is why you came to see me.”
“It was deuced convenient that my injury gave me a plausible reason for seeking you out.”
“I wondered why you came to me when it was obvious you were skeptical from the start.” She recalled his surprise upon learning about her modest fee. “You thought I was a charlatan.”
He colored. “I did. Yes.”
“You came to me because you thought I mailed the ring.”
“I suspected.” His gaze met hers. “Did you?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled long and slow. “It was you.”
“I found the ring and the necklace among my father’s things. He’d already packaged the band. Your name and direction were on it. It’s clear that Papa intended to send your mother’s ring back to you.”
“Where did he get it?”
“Papa’s patients sometimes paid with goods when they didn’t have money. Afterward, he must have seen the inscription inside the band and realized the ring belonged to you.”
“Why do you think he didn’t include the necklace?”
“It’s possible he didn’t know the sapphire belonged to the same person who owned the ring. There’s no inscription on it.”
“That makes sense.” His shoulders hunched. “Your father is no longer with us. There’s no way to know who gave him the ring and necklace.”
Hanna drummed her fingers against her skirt. “Actually, there might be.”
He straightened. “How?”
“Every patient and each payment are recorded in my father’s ledgers.”
“My parents were killed fourteen years ago. Do you have records that go that far back? Would you even know where to begin to look?”
“I’ve kept patient records for my father since I was twelve. He always said my handwriting was better than his.” She brightened at the memory. “I might not have been the one to write down this payment, but I know exactly how Papa did things. He was meticulous, and he taught me to be so as well.”
Griff rubbed his hands together. “Where do we start?”
“Anything yet?” Hanna asked.
They’d spent hours poring over the old ledgers they’d brought up from the basement cellar. Hanna working behind Baba’s desk with Griff sitting opposite. Her father’s study was overly warm, thanks to the late-afternoon sun which cast dark shadows over the stone-flagged floor. It was getting late.
“Nothing.” Griff stretched his stiff neck from side to side. “You?”
“No. We’ll just have to keep searching.”
Griff discovered that Hanna was right. Her late father kept excellent notes. Neat columns and careful handwriting detailed each patient’s name, symptoms, diagnosis and treatment. The final note on the patient’s record documented the amount paid for treatment and the date.
Griff also learned that Hanna’s father hadn’t been greedy. He’d accepted just about anything as payment. A rooster. A pail of onions. Fresh-baked pies. But so far, no gold rings or sapphire necklaces.
The servant girl appeared in the doorway. They’d taken care to leave the door ajar. “Supper is ready, miss.”
“Coming, Lucy.” Hanna rose. Griff realized she had removed her fichu at some point during the long afternoon. Even divested of the chest kerchief, the modest cut of her gown ensured she displayed no more of her décolletage than any other respectable woman. Still his eyes were drawn to the delicate bare skin on her chest. And the dark beauty mark above her left breast. A sight hidden from his view until now.
She stretched after sitting for so many hours, arching her back. The cotton bodice of her gown pulled tight, outlining pert, round breasts.
“Would you like to join me?” she asked.
“What?” He blinked and forced his gaze up to her face.
“Would you care to join me for supper?”
“It would be my pleasure. But your brothers—”
“Are not at home, and I have no idea when they will be.” She stacked the ledgers on the desk. “Besides there is nothing scandalous about our taking a meal together. Lucy is here.”
True, but they both knew she was taking advantage of her grandmother’s absence by pushing the boundaries. Griff was in full support. The old woman’s scowl could frighten the most battle-hardened soldier.
He paused. “Before we go in to supper, I want to assure you that I never told Dr. Pratt that I’d bedded you. It is important that you know that.”
She paused, one forearm resting on the stack of ledgers. “Then where did he get that idea?”
“I knew he’d object to your treating my injury, so I led him to believe I might be more interested in . . . erm . . . other attributes.”
She flushed. “I see.”
“It wasn’t to impugn your reputation,” he quickly added. “I would never do that. I just wanted to get Norman off the topic of my being treated by a bonesetter.”
“I don’t approve of what you said, but I understand why you spoke as you did. Goodness knows, I’ve wanted to divert my grandmother’s conversation often enough.” She came around the side of the desk. “Shall we eat?”
He followed her through the passage into the dining room. A round table with tapered legs was in the center of the room. A mahogany sideboard stood along one wall and, for some reason, a yellow sofa was pushed up against the other. Half-open folding doors led to the front parlor where Hanna’s grandmother often planted herself, smoking the strange water pipe of hers.
He surveyed the crowded bookshelves tucked between the sofa and an adjacent wall. Sketches, prints and needlework adorned the space. “This is an interesting room,” he remarked as they took their seats.
She glanced at the sofa. “We have a large family. We put seating wherever we can manage. There’s never enough room when the entire family is together. We’re practically sitting on top of each other.”
Griff wondered what it would be like to always be surrounded by family. The home wasn’t large, but it was a comfortable, middle-class abode. From what he could discern, there were four floors. The maid brought the food up from the basement kitchen.
The tray was laden with open-faced meat pies, cheese and fruits all to be washed down with ale. The maid also set out small plates of olives, radishes, cucumbers and pickles. The tantalizing aroma of fresh-baked meat pies filled the air; they were unusual, with minced meat and pine nuts on individual servings of round flat bread.
“Those smell delicious.”
“They’re Arabic-style meat pies,” she said as they took their seats. “We call it sfeeha.”
He admired her as she filled a plate for him. Hanna’s actions were sure and purposeful. Undaunted confidence lent her a grace that Mayfair de
butantes could never hope to attain. She reached for the radishes. Her hands were not the delicate porcelain of a gentlewoman. They were smooth and tan, strong and capable. Those knowing hands had delivered him from years of misery.
“Sfeeha is made with ground lamb, onion and spices mostly,” she said. “Nothing too exotic for an English palate.”
“Knowing you has whetted my appetite for the out-of-the-ordinary. For the extraordinary.”
She flushed as she concentrated on adding two meat pies and some olives, radishes and pickles to his plate. “It’s a light supper. Nothing suitably grand enough for a viscount.”
“Meals are a hearty but modest affair at Norman’s . . . erm . . . Dr. Pratt’s house and at Bell Cottage.” He bit into one of the meat pies. It was warm, the dough just a touch crispy, the robust taste of lamb subtly enhanced by unusual spices.
“Bell Cottage?” she asked.
“My home in Devon.”
She popped an olive into her mouth. His gaze lingered on her lips. Her mouth was wide and plump, the bottom lip fuller than the top. “You live in a cottage in Devon?”
He tore his eyes from her mouth. “Yes, I seldom come to London. On the rare occasion that I am in Town, I stay with Dr. Pratt.”
Mirth danced in her eyes. “I thought viscounts lived on grand country estates with dozens of servants.”
“I prefer something more intimate.” He paused. “It is, after all, just me.”
“Do you have any sisters or brothers?”
“Three sisters.”
“Do you see them often?”
He swallowed a too-big bite of meat pie. “No. All are married and busy with their own families.”
“Really?” She frowned, a delicate number eleven forming between her full brows. “You should make time to see them. They are your family.”
“Our lack of connection is not my doing,” he said tightly. “It is their choice.”
“Oh.” She searched his face, but what she saw there did not invite more questions about his siblings. “And Dr. Pratt?”
“Norman is not only my former guardian, he is also family. He and my father were cousins.”
He registered the distaste on her face before she quickly concealed it.
“I realize Norman made a terrible first impression,” he said. “He was unaccountably rude to you, but he’s been very good to me.”
“I’m happy Dr. Pratt treated you well. You deserved that. But I have my own experiences.” Anger clouded her luminous eyes. “He tried to ruin my father’s reputation. He did everything he could to make certain my father had no patients.”
Griff frowned. “I had no idea a previous association existed between Norman and your family. He never mentioned it.”
“Purposefully, I am sure.” She scoffed. “My father successfully treated a patient that Dr. Pratt was unable to cure. Your guardian was furious. He warned Papa to stay away from his patients. Dr. Pratt threatened to ruin Papa, to see to it that he never practiced bonesetting again. We are simple people. An influential man such as Dr. Pratt could easily have ruined my father.”
A chill rippled through Griff. “And history has just repeated itself.” He finally understood the grave error he’d made in speaking to the medical journal. “Only this time with you, the bonesetter’s daughter.”
“Exactly. You told all of London that a bonesetter bested Dr. Pratt, and a female daughter of foreigners at that.”
“I do beg your pardon.” Regret panged through him. “I would never purposely put you in harm’s way.”
“Nonetheless, you have done so.” The words were matter-of-fact, rather than accusatory. But they stung, nonetheless. “Now it is only a matter of time before Dr. Pratt retaliates. He will want to see me ruined.”
“I won’t let him harm you.” He slid his hand across the table to cover hers. Her skin was smooth to the touch. “I swear it.”
Her color deepened. “It is probably already too late.”
Griff stared at their joined hands, his focus on the delicious weight of her warm fingers in his palm. He was overcome with the urge to touch more of her. To feather his fingers over the beauty spot on her décolleté. To feel the urgent press of her lips against his. To taste her. Knowing her grandmother was nowhere in the vicinity made him reckless.
Her eyes met his. “I shall have to be on guard.”
He blinked, sensing she was no longer talking about someone else. “Against?”
“Apparently from all of the men in your family,” she said. “And not just your father’s cousin, who clearly detests me.”
“You cannot believe I mean you any harm. I would do anything to protect you.”
“That is why you are perhaps even more of a danger to me. To my sense of self-preservation.” He registered the banked heat in her gaze, the dilated pupils, the high color on her cheeks. Her fingers pressed against his. “When you touch me, I am tempted to do your bidding. Even though it could destroy everything I’ve worked for.”
Heat slid across the surface of his skin. He could have free rein. Do what they both so clearly wanted. He had nothing to lose by taking her to bed. But she would be risking everything. Her reputation. Her livelihood. He could not subject her to that.
Griff slowly, regretfully, withdrew his hand. She briefly tightened her grip, startling him by momentarily prolonging the physical contact. Then she let him go.
He struggled to gather his thoughts. “On the subject of Norman, there is something I must tell you.”
“What is it?”
“Norman knows about Mother’s necklace.”
“Knows what exactly?”
“That it is in your possession. That you found it among your father’s things.”
She pressed her lips inward so that they all but disappeared. “And how did he react?”
“He accused your father of being a fence. We only discussed it briefly once. It’s entirely possible that Norman has already forgotten about the necklace. He hasn’t mentioned it to me again.”
“Perhaps.” But he could tell by the somber expression on her face that she didn’t think so. Neither did Griff.
Chapter Twelve
Norman was waiting for Griff when he returned to his former guardian’s home.
The moment Griff stepped through the door, Norman appeared in the front hall, his wrinkled shirt untucked from his trousers. Norman’s rumpled appearance surprised Griff. The man prided himself in always looking neat and tidy. He said patients had more confidence in an orderly-looking physician than an unkempt one. “Where have you been?”
“Here and there.” Griff shrugged off his coat. “I had matters to attend to.”
“Were you with her?”
“Need I remind you that I am a grown man? My whereabouts are not your concern.”
“Please come to my library,” Norman said tightly. “I should like to have a word with you.”
“I’m exhausted.” Griff headed for the stairs. “Can we speak in the morning?”
“I would prefer that we talk now.”
Out of respect for all Norman had done for him, rather than fear, Griff turned in the direction of the library. As soon as they entered, Norman rounded on him.
“Have I been good to you?”
Griff edged around Norman to settle into a stuffed chair. “You know you have.”
“And yet you see fit to insult me before my peers, before all of London.”
Griff rubbed his eyes. “I gather this is about the medical journal.”
“You know damn well that it is.”
“What would you have me do, Norman?” he asked, exasperated. “You insulted her in public. Impugned her reputation. You practically called her a whore.”
“It might not have been my finest moment, but you are overreacting.” Norman perched on the edge of his chair. “She’s a member of the laboring class. It isn’t as if I insulted a lady.”
Griff clamped his mouth shut, struggling to keep his temper in check. “I
don’t want to hurt you, Norman. You and I both know that you are the only family I have left.”
Norman flushed. “And yet, this is how you treat me.”
“I told the truth. I had to counter any damage to her reputation done by your attacking her in public.”
“I stood by you when no one else did.”
“Yes, you did. And I am grateful.”
“I don’t want you to feel indebted. You’re like a son to me. All I ask for is a little loyalty.”
“You have it. Unreservedly. But I will not stand by and watch you ruin the reputation of a woman who has done nothing to deserve it.”
“Can you not see that she is dangerous?” Norman entreated. “Or at the very least inept. She put out Mansfield’s wrist!”
“Maybe it was no accident.”
“What are you saying?” Norman squinted at him. “You believe the bonesetter intentionally dislocated Mansfield’s wrist? That is even more concerning.”
“I am not saying anything. All I mean to suggest is that you’ve only heard Mansfield’s side of the story.”
Norman threw up his hands. “I give up. There is no talking reason into you where she’s concerned. At least your association with the bonesetter is at an end. Your treatment is complete, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Dare I assume you won’t be seeing her again?”
“I am a grown man,” he said coldly. “I alone decide who I wish to associate with.”
“Meaning you intend to continue to consort with the bonesetter.”
“Do not make me choose, Norman.”
“Make you choose?” Disbelief flooded Norman’s face. “As if there is a choice between a foreign woman you met a few weeks ago and me, who raised you as my own son since the age of fifteen.”
“What do you want me to do? Acknowledge the obvious? That I am in your debt? Pay you for all of the years?”
He tsked. “Certainly not. There is no debt. However, I cannot abide you going from my house to hers. It is the height of disloyalty.”