by Nancy Gideon
She gave him a most annoying smile, like a long-suffering mother to a persistent child. “And where am I to look?”
“For starters, you can accompany me to a small affair given by the Board of Governors at the hospital. The converse will not bore you, and it would do you good to be seen.”
“So all those grasping medical students can cozy up to me to get at you?”
“Bella, you are far too cynical for your age.” But he smiled wryly, knowing she spoke the truth. His position on the hospital staff made him someone worth knowing for those up-and-coming in the field of medicine. Careers were made by connection to men in his circle. And he couldn’t like the thought of his daughter being a pawn of ambition.
“I will go if it will make you happy,” she demurred, with surprisingly little fuss. It would, she suppose, be more fun than the fashionable squeezes she’d endured during her debut. And she wouldn’t be among strangers.
“And,” her father remarked, “it would be a good chance for you to get to know Wesley Pembrook better.”
“Wesley is a parasite, Father. He only pretends to like me because he hopes you’ll get him the first available opening on the hospital’s junior physician staff.”
“I have been very satisfied with Wesley as an apprentice.”
“Well, believe me, he has his eyes on higher gain. Such as a partnership in your practice. And what better way to gain it than through matrimony? You know a wife is a necessary piece of equipment for any physician. What female patient would entrust herself to a bachelor? That’s all Wesley sees when he looks at me.”
“He speaks of you most fondly, child.”
“Ummm.” She was unconvinced.
“If not Wesley, then some other who strikes your fancy. There must be some male with all the attributes you require in a life’s mate.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard. I require very little, actually. All I ask is that he be cultured, compassionate, articulate, intelligent, broad-minded, self-supporting, exciting, and obsessed with the love of mankind.”
“Is that all?” Stuart drawled. “’Tis no wonder you’re still unattached. I know of no man who is such a paragon. Perhaps you will have to set your sight a tad lower, like down to the level of humanity.”
Arabella smiled, but she knew of such a man. She’d described him perfectly.
She’d described Louis Radman.
ROSES.
Two dozen on long, graceful stems with pure white blossoms just beginning to unfurl. And a card with one word penned in a bold, ornate script: Radman.
Arabella buried her face amongst the snowy blooms and breathed in their delicate fragrance, very aware of Mrs. Kampford’s disapproving stare. Aware as well of the warmth flushing her features. He’d chosen white, not red. A gesture of apology, not one of desperate passion. As if he wished to erase the intensity of their embrace with the pristine petals. As if he could.
“Mrs. Kampford, please put these in water for me.”
The tiny housekeeper took the armful with obvious distaste. “And where would you like them displayed, Miss?”
“Wherever you think they’d be pleasing to the eye.”
That indifferent statement did much to calm the elder lady’s suspicions, but she still clucked and shook her head as she carried the flowers away.
Was he sorry? Arabella wondered. Sorry he’d kissed her, or sorry they’d been interrupted? She wasn’t certain of her own feelings about what had occurred. She didn’t regret the kiss, and she couldn’t resist the man. He held her in some dark fascination, and regardless of her sensibilities, she was loath to break it. She should. Common sense told as much. A man who was noble in intent wouldn’t have risked compromise in such an ardent display of passion. Yet, even now, she couldn’t keep from making excuses for his behavior, not when her own had been so far from circumspect. What she had to be was careful, careful she wasn’t caught up in anything ill-advised. Like letting the moment carry to its carnal end.
She tried to pretend the day was like any other. She worked about her father’s office, organizing his papers, transcribing notes from his dreadful scrawl into her neat script. But while tending those ordinary tasks, her mind spun. Where would he keep his notes on Louis Radman? Somewhere she hadn’t discovered. And what would she find written to describe the case study, if that’s what her father was doing?
What started as a casual glance about the clutter of heavy furniture became a restless inventory of drawers and files. Once she began, she couldn’t seem to stop herself, even though she knew what she was doing was wrong, a betrayal of her father’s trust. But if he trusted her, why was he keeping this one secret from her? She used that to justify her invasion of his private papers. But she found nothing except some hastily scribbled receipts of sums paid to a certain Mac Reeves. The name meant nothing to her. And she gained nothing from her covert search except a terrible sense of guilt—guilt that intensified when her father came home for supper and gently kissed her cheek. He walked her to the dining room with a brief questioning glance at the roses adorning the sideboard.
“A suitor already, Bella? I’m glad you took me at my word.”
“Father, be serious,” she scolded, but she was blushing fiercely. Thank goodness he was distracted by the arrival of their meal and thoughts of fostering romance were abandoned for the moment.
As she served them, Bessie Kampford was full of grisly gossip. Did they hear of the body found early that morning? Drained of blood, she’d heard from the man who delivered fresh vegetables. Had his throat cut ear to ear, the laundress had confided with a gruesome whisper—the third one, if you counted those murdered and not the ones who’d managed to survive. Devil worship, was what she’d heard from a neighboring footman. Vile medical studies, the letter carrier implied with a meaningful glance inside the Howland residence.
“And what do you think it all means?” Arabella asked of the nervous housemaid.
“Bella, do not encourage such nonsense,” Stuart warned, leveling a glowering look toward Bessie.
“I think evil’s abroad these nights, Miss, and one would be wise to stay within doors,” the dour woman confided.
“Bessie, that is quite enough,” Stuart snapped to send the housekeeper scurrying with a backward glance of concern. Then he regarded his daughter with a tolerant smile. “Nonsense, of course—but you would be wise to keep a sensible head about you. One cannot ignore that violence is afoot, and I would like you to promise not to go out unescorted after dusk.”
“Oh, Father, I’m not afraid—”
“You should be,” came his ominous reply. Then he rose, excusing himself from the table with a brusque, “See that you take care, my dear. You are all that I love in this world, and there are things in it that can hurt you.”
Arabella sat for some moments reflecting upon her father’s odd caution. She looked up with interest when Bessie returned to clear the table. She watched the woman for a time, then her curiosity could no longer be contained.
“And what kind of bogeyman is it that walks the streets after dark?”
Bessie gave her a scowling glance. Then, seeing she wasn’t being mocked, she set down her tray and adopted an intimate mood. “Miss, there are strange goings-on all about. Now, I don’t myself believe in bogeymen and such, but I know there be men of evil who prey upon the darkness. Bad men who would do anything for coin. Men your father should never have—” Suddenly, as if realizing that what she was about to say could cost her her position, she clamped her jaw tight and began to pick up the tray. Arabella stayed her with a gentle hand upon her sleeve.
“Men like Mac Reeves?” she ventured, knowing she’d struck true when the elder woman paled.
“Where did you hear that name, Miss?”
“It was on some of Father’s papers. Who is he, Bessie?”
“He pl
ies the London underworld down in Thieves’ Kitchen. He is no one you want to know.”
“Then why does my father know him?”
“That, I could not tell you.”
Could not or would not? Arabella considered what she’d learned as Bessie hurriedly finished and disappeared into the back of the house. What business could her father, a respected physician, have with an underworld thug? Another secret. Another truth she vowed to learn from him.
It was then that her secret passion for Louis Radman resurfaced. The moment she heard his after-hours knock, her pulse began a frenzied thrumming and she was up and in the hall to answer it before decorum and common sense could catch her.
At first, she couldn’t separate his figure from the enveloping darkness. His stillness was so absolute that when he moved to turn toward her, she was aware of a shock of surprise, for it was as if he’d suddenly appeared on the steps before her. A trick of the poor light, of course, but unnerving nonetheless. His heavy multitiered coat swirled about him like a dark fog, a concealing mist from which his refined features rose in startling contrast. And his eyes burned.
“Good evening, Miss Howland. Is your father at home?”
His voice played along her senses like subtle music, deep and pulsing in its melody. It took a moment for her to react to the question. “Yes. Please, come in, and I shall announce you.”
He came in from the night, surrendered by shadows into the warmth and life of the Howland home. He moved with a grace that was almost liquid and seemingly weightless, yet the power was there, a deep current of strength beneath that languid glide. And Arabella was remembering the feel of his grip, the intensity of his control, and the helplessness of succumbing to it. And the glory. Her tone was slightly unsteady when she asked him for his coat.
He shed it in a single shrug. He was dressed, as always, with impeccable style. Above the high gloss of his footwear, his trousers clung with an admirable snugness to the swell and sleekness of his thighs. A cutaway coat of dark superfine was tailored to the breadth of his shoulders and sturdy torso, tapering to a lean waist defined by the close fit of his patterned vest. A frill of stark white protruded from the deep vee of his outerwear and culminated at a strong throat with a cravat that was elegance in its simplicity. And Arabella was surprised to note that for all his command of presence, Louis Radman was no giant of proportion. He stood not much taller than she, who was an unfashionable five foot and seven-odd inches in her silk-stockinged feet. His sense of power confused perspective, overwhelming mere numbers on a tailor’s measure, impressing one with the illusion of greater height and sturdier mass.
There was much to Louis Radman that was not quite as it should be.
For example, on this night, the gauntness was absent, as was his terrible pallor. Instead, there was a healthy fullness to his features and a near ruddiness to his skin. And with that smooth, well-fed appearance was an almost unnatural male beauty.
Breeding was obvious in every compelling angle of his face: old-world sophistication with none of the modern-day pasty weakness. Dark auburn hair was cut conservatively close in defiance of the fashionable tumbled waves. Beneath the dark slash of haughty brows that nearly met over a thin aristocratic nose, his eyes were not really gold, but a soft hazel-green that appeared molten when the light picked up their deep amber flecks. And set above a determined chin was a wide mouth drawn with sensual arcs and an inviting lower swell... a mouth intimately acquainted with the shape and softness of her own.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from this first meeting, but certainly not the coolness of his disregard. He was so distant, she could almost believe that what had transpired with heavy passion-laden breaths and ardent whispers was no more than a figment of her mind. Surely this was not the man who’d promised her paradise and shredded the fabric of her will. If it was, could he be so unaware of her, so unwilling to spare her the slightest glance as he looked with anticipation toward her father’s office?
“I’ll tell Father you’re here.” How much of her pique and injury was reflected in her tone? Not enough to penetrate his distracted mood. Still carrying his greatcoat, Arabella swept toward her father’s rooms, managing a regal disdain of posture that was probably totally lost on him.
Stuart Howland’s medical office was in a large room off his study. There, he met with patients and conducted his research, and Arabella was always free to come and go... except when the patient was Louis Radman. Then, as usual, Stuart issued the marquis within, and firmly closed the door behind him, barring Arabella from all she was dying to discover.
She lingered in her father’s study, hugging the marquis’s coat to her. And when she heard voices rise to a heated elevation from behind that forbidding barrier, she hesitated only a second, then leaned in close so she might make out the words.
“. . . endangering everything we’re trying to do!”
That was her father, and rarely had she heard him in such a fury.
“Do not dictate to me,” came the cold cut of Louis Radman’s words. “Have you forgotten whence your fortune stems? I pay you well to be here when I need you. What happened was as much your fault as mine.”
“Oh, no, dear sir. There you are mistaken. The vileness of your condition is no fault of mine, nor is your weakness. I understood you wanted to change those things. If that’s not true, tell me now and I will bid you a good night.”
There was silence, long and heavily laced with tension. When Louis spoke again, his low tone throbbed with a desperate anxiety. “Please. I need you. Do not abandon me over this—this momentary lapse.”
“Lapse? A callous choice of words, my lord.”
“You cannot know how I have suffered. You can’t imagine the pain, the hunger. It burns until I can’t think. Do you believe I enjoy what I must do to survive?” His voice broke, and when he continued, it was with an impassioned plea. “If I did, would I risk so much in trusting you with the truth? Please. Help me. We are close, so close. I can feel it. You are my only hope, my only chance. Do not forsake me because of the wretchedness of what I am.” A pause. “Please.”
“How long before the... pollutants are gone from your system?”
“A few days.”
“We shall continue then.”
“And now? What of tonight, and the next, and that after?”
“Your arm.”
A soft, “Thank you.”
Arabella pressed to the thick wood, listening intently. She caught her breath at the sound of Louis’s harsh hiss and trembled to hear the tortured sounds that followed. Raw, moaning sounds, awful to hear, terrible to imagine.
And then the door opened so abruptly, she nearly tumbled in upon the doctor as he readied to exit. They looked at one another for a long beat, he blocking the room’s interior with the position of his body. Then Stuart gripped her none too gently by the upper arm and maneuvered her back so he could shut the door.
“What are you doing, Bella? Listening at keyholes?”
She blushed fiercely in her dismay, but was aggrieved enough to challenge, “If you would not make such a secret of your business with the marquis, I would not be drawn to take such reprehensible measures.”
He took hold of both of her arms to shake her sternly, his expression immobile. “Louis Radman is none of your concern. He is dangerous and you would do well to remember that. If you force me to it, I will see you locked in your room during his visits.”
“I am not a child—”
“Then do not act like one!”
Arabella pulled away from his chastising grasp, and with all the composure she could assemble under such trying circumstances, she turned and stalked from the study.
Chapter Three
LORD AND LADY Ainsworthy’s rout had all the dazzle of a society affair. Though the rank and file of the medical field wasn’t drawn from men of t
itle, the hospital boards were made up of the polite world whose only claim to eminence was the desire to be linked to a prestigious philanthropic cause. As such, they were wooed by staff physicians and surgeons looking for favor and by the young students seeking an anchoring connection to their future.
Arabella held her father’s arm and watched the scene with a detached interest. What she beheld was a parasitic feeding frenzy, medical professionals latching onto members of the aristocracy to drain them of their resources. Social amenities barely covered their greedy purposes as they circled like birds of prey around influential carrion. Competition lent a sharp edge to civility, and rivalries grew as fierce as a gathering of young bucks eager to gain the attention of some belle flower. She could not recall such blatant attention having been paid to her when she’d made her debut, and perhaps, that was why she was so caustically aware of the shallow nature of the goings-on.
“Good evening, Doctor Howland, Miss Arabella.”
Arabella forced a rigid smile as Wesley Pembrook paid elaborate court over her gloved hand. She was uncomfortably provoked by her father’s approving smile. It wasn’t that Wesley was unappealing or a deadly bore. He was an attractive young man with a riot of blond curls and a winning smile, tall and fit of form from his prowess in athletic pursuits. He belonged to cricket, football, and rowing clubs, hoping to gain the notice of those who frequented the elite events, and avidly participated when not busy as her father’s clinical clerk. One could almost believe him sincere in his interest, if not for the calculating gleam in his blue eyes. There was no cheerful animation in his gaze. That stare was as cold in observation as it would be during a lecture on dissection, as if he were studying, weighing, arranging all he beheld in a priority of how things could best serve him. And that was why Arabella could not like him or trust the shower of his charm.
“Doctor, would you allow me to escort your daughter for some refreshments?”
“Father—”
But Stuart spoke over her subtle objections, smiling at Wesley, prying her clutching hand from his sleeve to arrange it within the crook of his protégé’s arm. And with the doctor’s best wishes, Arabella found herself led away from her source of safety into the milling crowd of desperate carnivores.