Befuddled, the boy repeated, “If lice was people … ?”
“Analogy,” Tom said curtly. “A way of making a subject clearer by comparing one thing to another.”
“Noffing’s clear when ye say lice is people.”
“Never mind. Set the broom against the wall and come with me.” Tom passed a reception desk in the foyer and went to his assistant’s office. “Barnaby, stop whatever it is you’re doing. I have a task for you.”
His assistant, who was in the middle of polishing his glasses with a handkerchief, peered owlishly around a tower of books, folios, maps, and plans. “Sir?”
“This boy is crawling with lice,” Tom said. “I want you to take him to a public bath house and have him washed.”
Looking aghast, Barnaby reflexively scratched his own luxuriant mass of lively brown curls. “They won’t let him bathe if he has lice.”
“Ain’t going to no baff house,” Bazzle said indignantly. “I’ll take one of them soaps to a stable and wash meself there.”
“No stable would allow you in,” the assistant informed him. “Do you think they’d want their horses afflicted?”
“Find somewhere to have him washed,” Tom told his assistant flatly.
Barnaby stood, jerked his waistcoat down over his stocky midsection, and squared his shoulders. “Mr. Severin,” he said resolutely, “as you know, I’ve done many things that aren’t listed among my job requirements, but this—”
“Your job requirements are whatever I say they are.”
“Yes, but—” Barnaby paused to pick up a pleated file folder and shoo Bazzle away. “Boy, would you mind standing a bit farther away from my desk?”
“It’s just a few chats,” Bazzle protested. “Everybody ’as chats.”
“I don’t,” Barnaby said, “and I’d like to keep it that way.” His gaze returned to Tom. “Mr. Severin, I neglected to mention this earlier, but … I have to leave the office earlier than usual today. Now, as a matter of fact.”
“Really,” Tom said, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“It’s my … grandmother. She has a fever. The ague. I have to go home to take care of her.”
“Why can’t your mother do it?” Tom asked.
Barnaby thought for a moment. “She has the ague too.”
“Did she get it from a baff?” Bazzle asked suspiciously.
Tom sent his assistant a scathing glance. “Barnaby, do you know what lying has in common with bullfighting?”
“No, sir.”
“If you can’t do it well, it’s better not to do it at all.”
His assistant looked sheepish. “The truth is, Mr. Severin, I’m terrified of lice. Just hearing about them makes me itch all over. One time I had dandruff and thought it was lice, and I was so distraught, my mother had to mix me a sedative. I think my problem started when—”
“Barnaby,” Tom interrupted curtly, “you’re talking about your feelings. It’s me, remember?”
“Oh, yes. Pardon, Mr. Severin.”
“I’ll deal with the boy. Meanwhile, arrange to have every room on this floor thoroughly cleaned, and every inch of carpeting sponged with benzene.”
“Right away, sir.”
Tom glanced at Bazzle. “Come,” he said, and left the office.
“I won’t bathe,” the boy declared anxiously as he followed. “I quit!”
“I’m afraid anyone who works for me is required to give a fortnight’s notice—in writing—before they’re allowed to quit.” Which was pushing the margins of his strict honesty policy, but Tom would make an exception for a boy who was being eaten alive by parasites.
“I’m illegitimate,” the boy protested.
“What has that to do with it?”
“Means I can’t write no notice.”
“The word is ‘illiterate,’” Tom said. “In which case, Bazzle, it appears you’ll be working for me indefinitely.”
THE BOY COMPLAINED and argued every step of the way as Tom took him to Cork Street. Most of the avenue was occupied by Winterborne’s department store, with its marble façade and huge plate-glass windows filled with lavish displays. The store’s famed central rotunda, with its dazzling stained-glass dome, glowed richly against the gray November sky.
They went to a much smaller and more inconspicuous building at the far end of the street. It was a medical clinic and surgery, established for the benefit of the thousand or so employees of Winterborne’s.
Two years ago, Rhys Winterborne had hired Dr. Garrett Gibson to serve on the clinic’s medical staff, despite people’s suspicions that a woman wasn’t suited for such a demanding profession. Garrett had dedicated herself to proving them wrong, and in a short time had distinguished herself as an unusually skilled and talented surgeon as well as physician. She was still regarded as something of a novelty, of course, but her reputation and practice had grown steadily.
As they approached the front doors of the clinic, the boy stopped and dug in his heels. “What’s this?”
“A medical clinic.”
“Don’t need no sawbones,” Bazzle said in alarm.
“Yes, I know. We’re only here to use the facilities. Specifically, a shower bath.” The clinic was the only place Tom could think of to take him. There would be tiled rooms, hot water, medicine, and disinfectants. Better yet, Garrett wouldn’t dare turn them away in the light of the favor Tom had done for her husband.
“Wots a shower baff?” Bazzle asked.
“It’s a small room with a curtain all around. Water comes down like rain from an overhead fixture.”
“Rain won’t scare off me chats,” the boy informed him.
“A good scrubbing with borax soap will.” Tom pushed open the doors and ushered the child inside. He kept a hand on Bazzle’s shoulder, half suspecting the boy might bolt. Upon being approached by the waiting area receptionist, a brisk and businesslike matron, Tom said, “We need an appointment with Dr. Gibson.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Gibson’s schedule is full today. However, Dr. Havelock may have an opening, if you wish to wait.”
“I’m too busy to wait,” Tom said. “Tell Dr. Gibson I’m here, please.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Tom Severin.”
The receptionist’s frown vanished, her eyes widening in something like awe. “Oh, Mr. Severin, welcome to the clinic! I very much enjoyed the market fair and fireworks display you put on for the public when your underground railway was opened.”
Tom smiled at her. “I’m so glad.” As he had intended, paying for the city-wide celebrations had not only enhanced his image, but had also dazzled people into overlooking the multitude of aggravations the railway construction project had caused.
“You’ve done so much for London,” the woman continued. “What a public benefactor you are, Mr. Severin.”
“You’re too kind, Miss …”
“Mrs. Brown,” she supplied, beaming. “Pardon, sir, I’ll fetch Dr. Gibson right away.”
As the woman hurried away, Bazzle looked up at Tom speculatively. “Are ye the most important man in London, sir?” he asked, scratching his head.
“No, that would be the editor-in-chief of The Economist. I’m lower down on the list, somewhere between the police commissioner and the prime minister.”
“How do ye know who’s above and below?”
“When two creatures meet in the jungle, they both have to decide which one of them would kill the other in a fight. The winner is the more important one.”
“Analogy,” Bazzle said.
That surprised a grin out of Tom. “Yes.” The boy might be sharper than he’d originally thought.
Before another minute had passed, Garrett Gibson came to the waiting area. Her dark dress was topped with an impeccably white surgeon’s smock, her chestnut-brown hair pulled back tightly in a neat braided coiffure. She was fresh-faced and smiling as she reached out to shake his hand as a man would. “Mr. Severin.”
He grinned at her and returne
d the shake in a firm grip. “Dr. Garrett Gibson,” he said, “this young fellow, Bazzle, is one of my employees. He’s in need of your professional attention.”
“Master Bazzle,” Garrett murmured, inclining her head in a brief bow.
The boy regarded her in bewilderment, scratching the side of his head and neck.
“Bazzle,” Tom said, “bow to the lady … like this.”
The child obeyed halfheartedly, still staring at Garrett. “She’s the sawbones?” he asked Tom skeptically.
“As of now, the only licensed female physician in England,” Tom said.
Garrett smiled, her incisive gaze traveling over Bazzle as he scratched. “The reason for your visit has quickly become apparent.” She glanced at Tom. “I’ll have a nurse give you the necessary items and explain how to delouse him at home—”
“It has to be here,” Tom interrupted. “He lives in a rookery, so it can’t be done there.”
“Why not at your house?” Garrett suggested.
“Good God, woman, I’m not bringing him past my front door.”
“It’s just a few chats,” Bazzle protested. He smacked his palm on his forearm, adding, “Maybe a couple o’ biddies too.”
“Biddies?” Tom repeated, recoiling and brushing at his own sleeves reflexively. “You have fleas?”
Garrett looked sardonic. “Very well, I’ll have a nurse see to him here. We have a tiled room with a shower bath and a sink, where he can be thoroughly—”
“No, I want you to do it, so I know it’s been done properly.”
“Me?” Her fine brows lowered. “I’m about to have lunch with my sister-in-law.”
“This is an emergency,” Tom told her. “The boy is suffering. I’m suffering.” He paused. “What if I make a large donation to the charitable institution of your choice? Name the place, and I’ll write a check before I leave.”
“Mr. Severin,” she said crisply, “you seem to think your money is a panacea for every problem.”
“Not a panacea, a balm. A wonderful soothing balm, especially when applied in a heavy layer.”
Before Garrett could reply, a new voice joined the conversation, coming from behind Tom.
“We can delay our lunch, Garrett, or have it another time. This is more important.”
Gooseflesh rose all over Tom’s body. With disbelief, he turned to find Lady Cassandra Ravenel standing behind him. She had just entered the clinic and approached the reception area, while a Ravenel footman waited beside the doorway.
Over the past few weeks, Tom had tried to convince himself that his memory of her had become embellished over time. Even his brain, accurate as it was, was capable of subtly altering his perception of the facts.
But Cassandra was even more breathtaking than he remembered. Her golden sunstruck beauty illuminated the sterile environment of the clinic. She was wonderfully dressed in a green velvet walking dress and a matching hooded cloak trimmed with white fur. Her hair, so shiny it looked molten, had been pinned up in a complex mass of coils and topped with a flirtatious little excuse for a hat. He felt her presence like a shock, every nerve tingling.
“My lady,” Tom managed to say, grimly aware that he’d been caught at a disadvantage. He was embarrassed to have her see him there with a raggedy, scratching child in the middle of a workday, when he should have been busy with something dignified and businesslike. “I wasn’t aware that you—I wouldn’t deprive you of your lunch—” He broke off, cursing himself silently for sounding like a blithering idiot.
But there was no mockery or disapproval in Cassandra’s gaze as she approached. She was smiling as if she were glad to see him. She gave him her slim gloved hand, a gesture of closeness and familiarity.
The day instantly became the best one he’d had in weeks. His heart thumped joyfully at her nearness. The shape of her hand fit his as if every joint and fine muscle and soft ligament had been designed for perfect alignment. It had been like this when they’d waltzed, their bodies fitting together, moving together, with magical coordination.
“How are you?” he asked, holding her hand a few extra seconds before letting go.
“Quite well, thank you.” Her sparkling gaze fell to Bazzle. “Will you introduce me to your companion?”
“Lady Cassandra, this is—” Tom paused as the boy retreated behind him. “Bazzle, come around and bow to the lady.”
The boy didn’t budge.
Tom could well understand. He remembered how overwhelmed he’d been by his first glimpse of Cassandra’s rich and luminous beauty. She was probably like nothing human Bazzle had ever seen before.
“Just as well,” Tom said to Cassandra. “You should keep your distance from him.”
“I ’as chats,” came Bazzle’s muffled voice from behind him.
“How very trying,” Cassandra said sympathetically. “It could happen to anyone.”
No response.
Cassandra continued speaking to Tom, although the words were clearly meant for the boy. “You’ve brought him to the right place, obviously. Dr. Gibson is a very nice lady, and knows just what to do about chats.”
Bazzle leaned cautiously around Tom’s side. “I been itchin’ somefing awful,” he said.
“Poor boy.” Cassandra crouched to bring her face level with his, and smiled. “You’ll feel much better soon.” She tugged off her glove and extended her hand. “I’m Lady Cassandra. Will you shake hands, Bazzle?” Her gentle fingers closed around a small, grubby paw. “There … now we’re friends.”
Tom, who was terrified she was going to catch something from the walking plague that was Bazzle, turned to Garrett. “Should she be touching him?” he asked curtly. At the same time, his gaze pleaded and commanded Do something.
Garrett sighed and asked Cassandra, “Would you mind if we rescheduled lunch? I must attend to this boy, and I expect it will take a while.”
“I’ll stay and help,” Cassandra offered, standing and continuing to smile down at the boy.
“No,” Tom said, inwardly appalled by the idea.
“That would be most appreciated,” Garrett told Cassandra. “I’ll start treating Bazzle, if you’ll pop over to Winterborne’s with Mr. Severin and help him select some ready-made boy’s clothing. We’ll have to dispose of the ones he’s wearing.”
“I don’t need help,” Tom said.
“Lady Cassandra is familiar with the layout of Winterborne’s,” Garrett told him, “and she’ll know exactly what Bazzle needs. If you go alone, heaven knows how long you’ll take.”
Cassandra ran an assessing gaze over Bazzle’s small form. “Children’s sizing is labeled by age. I think seven to nine years would suffice.”
“But I’m fourteen,” Bazzle said sadly. When all three adults’ gazes flew to his face, he gave them a gaptoothed grin, indicating it had been a joke. It was the first time Tom had ever seen him smile. The effect was endearing, although it revealed the urgent need for an application of tooth powder and a good brushing.
Garrett laughed. “Come, young rascal, let’s dispose of your uninvited guests.”
“THERE’S NO NEED for you to accompany me,” Tom muttered as he and Cassandra went through the ready-made clothing department at Winterborne’s. “I’m perfectly capable of asking a sales clerk to find clothes for Bazzle.”
Tom knew he was being a surly ass, when he should have been making the most of the opportunity by trying to charm her. But this situation was not something he wanted Cassandra to associate him with.
The last time they had been together, they’d waltzed in a winter garden. Now, they were de-lousing a pestilent street urchin.
It wasn’t exactly progress.
Moreover, it would make Tom look even worse in comparison to the well-bred gentlemen who were undoubtedly pursuing her.
Not that he was competing for her. But a man had pride.
“I’m delighted to help,” Cassandra assured him with annoying cheerfulness. She stopped at a table with goods displayed for browsin
g, sorting through stacks of little folded things. “May I ask how you came to meet Bazzle?”
“He was collecting cigar stubs from the gutter outside my building. The wind blew my hat from my head, and he brought it to me instead of running off with it. I hired him to sweep and dust my offices.”
“And now you’re taking care of him,” she exclaimed, beaming.
“Don’t make too much of it,” Tom muttered.
“You took valuable time out of your workday to bring him to the doctor yourself,” she pointed out.
“Only because my assistant refused to do it. I’m merely trying to minimize the amount of vermin in my workplace.”
“No matter what you say, you’re helping a child who needs it, and I think it’s splendid.”
As Tom followed her through the clothing department, he had to admit Cassandra knew what she was doing. She went briskly past counters and shelves, addressed store clerks by name, and located what she wanted without hesitation.
“You shop very efficiently,” he said begrudgingly.
“Practice,” came her airy reply.
She selected a pair of trousers, a cotton shirt, a gray wool broadcloth jacket, thick knit stockings, a wool cap and a muffler. A pair of sturdy leather shoes was added to the pile, after Cassandra estimated the size and decided to err on the side of larger rather than smaller.
“Miss Clark, would you wrap these immediately, please?” she asked a sales clerk. “We’re rather pressed for time.”
“Right away, Lady Cassandra!” the young woman replied.
While the sales clerk listed the items on a sales slip and totaled them, Cassandra glanced regretfully at the entrance to the stairwell. “The toy department is right beneath us,” she told Tom. “I wish we had time to buy a toy for him.”
“He doesn’t need toys,” Tom said.
“Every child needs toys.”
“Bazzle lives in a St. Giles rookery. Any toy you gave him would be stolen immediately.”
Cassandra’s good cheer deflated like a cooling soufflé. “He has no family to look after his belongings?”
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