“Careful, Dr. Jessop. I strive for balance in my profession. And while some may see the populace as fodder for their laboratories, I refuse to ignore a person’s humanity so that I can feel more secure or important.”
“I don’t ignore a person’s humanity. But it hardly matters if I set aside science and progress to waste my time listening to patients prattle rather than seeing to their diseases.” Dr. Jessop stroked his mustache and then sighed, rising from his chair and effectively signaling an end to his visit. “I’ve lost another evening in your stubborn company.”
“For which I am grateful.” Rowan followed him to the doorway. “I will see you at the lecture series next month.”
“Yes, yes. Come and meet some of the new students. Perhaps one of them will suit for an assistant and you can devote yourself more readily to that experimental approach to infections you presented in the spring. You need help, you know!”
“I know.” Rowan shook the other man’s hand. “Thank you again, Dr. Jessop.”
Dr. Jessop finally retreated, mumbling down the stairs in his usual fashion. “Visiting foolish young doctors! That’s my charity! A statue. A man should have a statue raised for visiting foolish young doctors. . . .”
“Everyone is always accusing you of being too softhearted.” Gayle sighed, stepping into the room.
He turned back, realizing that she must have been on the other side of the library door listening. “Except you.”
“You’re practically a saint, Rowan.”
“Saints don’t burn with desire. A saint wouldn’t be considering at this very moment how to separate you from that dress and pull you down onto this bearskin rug.”
She blushed. “You have a good heart. And he’s wrong to ask you to change.”
“Eavesdropping is a terrible habit, Miss Renshaw. Haven’t you learned that by now?”
“I didn’t intend to listen at the door. I followed you down because I didn’t want you to leave without . . .” She shook her head. “All the most important things I’ve ever discovered, I think I’ve overheard by eavesdropping, Dr. West. It’s a hard thing to give up. Besides, how else would I know what the Royal Society thinks of my mentor?” She smiled at him and playfully plucked at his sleeve. “No offense, but it’s hard to look at you and see a revolutionary in danger of toppling the medical industry simply because you don’t mind holding your patients’ hands or asking them how they feel.”
“None taken, but don’t say that I didn’t try to warn you. If I’m a heretic for these blasphemies, and if Jessop and the others have their hackles up over my objection to the latest social reforms, what do you think they’re going to say when I introduce you as my pupil?”
“I don’t care. Someone has to be first.”
“Easy to say, Gayle. You have less to lose.”
The mischievous light dimmed in her eyes, and he watched the familiar retreat of her emotions as she withdrew from the topic. “You’re right, of course. I’ll try not to—”
A knock at the door cut her off. “Sorry to interrupt, but Miss Featherstone’s sent a runner, and the boy is most insistent that the lady is dying.” Carter’s look was all apology, since Miss Featherstone was known to be on the brink of death at least twice a month.
“I’ll go.” Rowan retrieved his bag from behind his desk, and then gave Gayle an assessing look. “Miss Renshaw will stay here. Have Mrs. Evans draw a hot bath in the second-floor guest bath for the lady.”
“I’m fine! Please don’t trouble Mrs. Evans on my account.”
“It’s no trouble. You look like you’re about to fall over, Miss Renshaw. So consider this an order. You’ll bathe and rest and we’ll restart the lab work tomorrow morning with fresh eyes.” He leaned closer, the glow in his eyes strong enough to make her heart race as a flutter of restless heat reminded her of the reason the lab work had gone undone. Carter was behind him, so Rowan couldn’t touch her or make any overt comments. “Does that sound agreeable to you, Miss Renshaw?”
“Yes, Dr. West.” Every thought in her head was about how delicious it might be to torture a man like this—to seduce him if he couldn’t move—and it must have telegraphed between them, as his eyes darkened with desire. “A bath sounds perfect.”
Mr. Carter nodded. “I’ll see to it, doctor, and have Florence fetch you, Miss Renshaw, as soon as it’s ready.”
“Thank you, Carter.” Rowan ground it out, his eyes never leaving hers as the butler backed out of the room.
Gayle heard the door close behind them, but still neither one of them was able to move, caught in the delicious spell of proximity and promise.
“I’ll look in on you before I retire.”
“Thank you, Dr. West.”
I’ll be waiting.
Chapter 18
“I just come to see to you, miss.” Florence stepped inside Gayle’s room off the laboratory, holding a small square basket with a hinged lid. “Mrs. Evans said your bath is ready and I wanted to bring you a little something with my thanks for what you did for me.”
“That’s so dear of you! But you needn’t have, Florence. Anyone would have done the same, and I was just glad I was there.”
“I wanted to! Dr. West gets gifts all the time from his patients, and I thought—well, I could be your first.”
“Thank you, Florence.” Gayle bit her lower lip. “You’ve been kinder than . . . I always look forward to bumping into you in the halls because you greet me, as you did even in the first few days after I’d arrived, and I think of you as a friend.”
“I’d love that! If we was friends! Here!” She pressed the basket into Gayle’s hands. “I painted it myself! See?”
“It’s beautiful, truly beautiful.” She held it up to admire the flowers and scrollwork that decorated the handle. “How is your hand feeling?”
“Better and soon it will be as good as new, I’m sure. Barnaby swears I should be rubbing goose fat on it, but”—Florence crinkled her nose in disgust—“the man once put a snail and mushroom poultice on one of the horses and nearly killed the poor thing! I’m not going to be under Dr. West’s roof and ask a footman with no sense of smell for a cure!”
“You’re a wise girl, Florence.” She retied her robe and stepped into her slippers to finish readying herself. “Are you . . . sweet on Barnaby?”
“Him?” She laughed. “He’s mooning over the abigail across the street at Tildon’s. They walk out on Saturday mornings sometimes, but she’s away with the family for the winter season.” Florence reached up to adjust her white mobcap. “I’ve no beau, presently. But I put a white feather underneath my pillow and I had a dream about a man with ginger hair, so we’ll see.”
“Do you believe in dreams, Florence?” Gayle asked in surprise.
“Always! But enough of this chatting! The water will be ice if I don’t let you get going.” She stepped back to let Gayle pass. “I’ll walk you down to the guest bath. It’s ever so much nicer than yours. I’m sure that’s why Dr. West insisted on it.”
“Dr. West is . . . very thoughtful.”
“Dr. West is the best man that ever was, Miss Renshaw! We all think fondly of him, and you mustn’t be too cross with Mr. Carter or Mrs. Evans for it. They thought you were . . .”
“They thought I was what?” she asked, dreading the answer but sure she was about to be accused of prostitution.
“Likely to ruin Dr. West with this apprenticeship business. He’s already on the outs with that Dr. Jessop, and mean old Whitfield is even worse! They come regular as a head cold to peck at him because they want him to go back to the Academy and teach like his great-grandfather, settle in they call it, and be more respectable instead of traveling off to India and causing a stir with all his newfangled ideas. But Dr. West is too good for those old birds! They try to rattle him, but Dr. West knows better. And I like his new friends!”
“His new friends . . .”
“Since he got back from India, he has a new circle of gentleman friends that pop in
from time to time, and I like them! Mrs. Evans was afraid they were bad company for him, but Carter’s as soft as peaches about the men now. Why, there’s even a lord that comes by and takes a tray now and again! The man stands to be an earl one day! Can you imagine it?”
“An earl. That is hard to imagine.” Gayle tried to picture her kind and handsome Rowan entertaining some crawfaced earl, and just couldn’t. The only earl she’d ever seen was a puffed old gourd of a man who appeared to be allergic to his own upper lip.
“As we see it, Dr. West is doing better than ever—but when you came, well, Mrs. Evans is protective, that’s all.’Cause if the dusty Society gets wind of your skirts walking about in Dr. West’s laboratory, they might turn on him faster than you can say bedlams and bells. But don’t worry. We’ve all kept mum on the topic, and if Dr. West sees the way clear, well, who’s to say it won’t come out right as rain?”
“Yes,” she echoed in a whisper. “Who’s to say?”
“Here we are! Mrs. Evans warmed the towels and I’ll leave you to it. When you’re finished, just ring the bell and head back upstairs, and I’ll see that it’s all cleared off with no worries.”
“Thank you, Florence.”
And she was alone in a grand room with a graceful clawfooted monstrosity that could easily have accommodated two of her. Steam rose from the water’s scented surface, and Gayle sighed at the sight. Mrs. Evans had even sprinkled dried flower petals into the bath for a lovely touch.
Her own water closet upstairs provided a washstand and a toilet, but few other amenities. She’d been bathing daily by improvising with a basin of ice-cold water and a sponge, which was well and good for hygiene but was daunting to face in the winter drafts that blew through her rooms.
So this room, this was a slice of paradise with its bright enameled surfaces, ornate brass fixtures, and plush oriental rug. There was even a little fire going in the grate to ensure that there was no chill in the air.
She locked the door and disrobed quickly, sinking into the heated water up to her chin with a heartfelt sigh. She wriggled her toes and closed her eyes to soak in the comforts of a jasmine-scented bath.
I should be upset with the man for not offering a bath before now . . . but I think I’d forgive him anything after this.
The conversation with Florence echoed in her mind, and Gayle sat up to idly soap her arms and elbows as she examined the casual revelations of the day. Up until now, I’ve been so worried about my own progress—but I really have selfishly pushed Rowan to the edge of a cliff.
And how was I planning on pulling him back? Oh, yes. I hadn’t planned on it. I was that callous little chit bullying him in his own salon and blackmailing him into getting what I wanted.
Oh, God! What if Rowan is right? If Jessop is keyed up over his lovely bedside manners and concern for his patients, then what am I going to be looked on as?
I insisted that Rowan be open-minded and take this risk.
And all my worries have been about myself. How I would be perceived, how much I would lose if people saw me as little more than his mistress . . .
Now how do I protect him without giving up my dreams?
Because retreat wasn’t an option. She’d burned her ships, or at least, most of them. She hadn’t worked up the courage to tell her aunt the truth, and was still unsure if she had the strength to forfeit the last living family she possessed by doing so.
I called him a liar, but I’m the one sending ridiculous letters home every week pretending to be on the Continent buying bonnets and looking at church frescoes.
She stayed in the bath until the water’s warmth was gone, and even then, she lingered, distracted by thoughts of Rowan and the future she couldn’t see.
Gayle returned to her room, noting that the house had fallen quiet for the night, and retrieved the case study. She curled up on her bed, tucking her feet under the quilts, and read it all in one pass.
There is something here he wants me to see. But what? It was a contagious fever. He has notes of her symptoms from the doctor in Standish Crossing to confirm it.
High fever. Patient was in a great deal of discomfort, with restless hallucinations accompanying pain. Vomiting bile. Fluid and blood loss immense.
It was a gruesome scene, even in clinical terms.
“Blood loss? From a fever?” Gayle spoke aloud, checking back to see if she’d missed something, but then saw in the Standish Crossing doctor’s hand on a smaller page his indication that he suspected “bleeding for a remedy,” and she wondered if Aunt Jane had tried bleeding Charlotte first to relieve the fever and with an amateur hand and done more damage than good.
Poor Charlotte! So lovely and dear to meet death in such a way . . .
A small handwritten note in the margins caught her eye, and she turned the page sideways to try to discern what Rowan had intended.
Ask D. L. re: appendicitis.
Then nothing.
No indication of cause. It was all about the outcome.
She read it all again, more slowly this time, willing the truth to appear in her hands, but there was only the mystery of one young woman’s death.
He’d gone back to Standish Crossing to find the cause, and according to Aunt Jane, he’d ended up practically confessing to murder.
How?
She closed the notebook and set it aside, then blew out her lamplight. In the dark, she felt safe enough to whisper what the study had revealed. “There is no how. He couldn’t have done anything. He was well on his way to India when it happened. He’s innocent.”
Then why did he confess and why do I feel like I’ve missed something terrible in this account?
Chapter 19
Waking up a short time later, her hair still damp from her bath, Gayle wrapped her blue velvet robe around her and restlessly walked the floor of her room. She lit the lamp on her desk and put the case study away in the back of the drawer, as far as she could, as if it were a snake that might strike her. She wanted to talk to him and send all her fears away. Even an argument was more desirable than being alone with her doubts.
And then it was as if she’d summoned him, as if he’d heard her thoughts.
“You’ll catch a cold strolling around like that.”
“I’m fine.” She smiled at the sight of him leaning against the door frame. He wore only his white linen shirt, untucked and unbuttoned to give her a glimpse of his body, and his long black woolen pants. “I didn’t hear the bell.”
He shrugged. “I came in the back to try not to wake Carter.” He walked toward her. “You’re not using your dead bolt, Miss Renshaw.”
“That would defeat the purpose of deliberately leaving it open and hoping that you would pay me a call.” She held her breath.
“I said I would.”
She nodded. “You always do what you promise to do.”
“There’s a delightful change! Thank you, Gayle.”
“I take it that Miss Featherstone isn’t dying?”
“Not tonight. Although she did manage to come down with a genuine cold, so it was a nice diversion from her overexcited blood. Naturally, the combination of an imaginary disease and a genuinely sore throat was almost more than the poor creature could manage, but I think it’s the recommended treatment that might do her in.”
“A new tonic?”
“Warm throat wraps, brandy, and absolutely no talking for three days.”
Gayle gasped in delighted horror. “Three days? You’re a wicked man, Rowan West.”
“Not wicked enough, I fear. Here, come, calm yourself and let’s sit for a minute.” He pulled her down to sit on the cot and then winced when it squeaked in protest, the rusty frame shifting slightly under his weight. “My God! Tell me this bed isn’t as uncomfortable as it sounds!”
“It’s worse than it sounds, but I’ve grown fond of it, so don’t insult my dear little room, please.”
“I’ll ask Carter to get you a new bed.”
“Don’t! Don’t you dare! It’
s completely inappropriate for you to show any interest or knowledge about my bed, Rowan!”
“I love it when you’re prim and impossible, Gayle. But if you prefer, I’ll refrain and you can continue to enjoy your dear little room—iron cot and all.”
“Thank you.”
“Now tell me what has you marching around up here?”
“Did you mean what you said earlier, about having more to lose? Nothing is what I expected on this journey, Rowan, and I can’t help but worry that I’m blindly doing more harm than good. But I can’t quit. I won’t—”
“I spoke out of turn, Gayle.” He pulled her close, kissing her softly behind one of her ears in a tender onslaught that stripped her slowly of her arguments. “Lament the world another day. You and I, we can only control the tiniest little sliver of our existence. The rest of it is out of our hands. But you and this . . . this . . . and this . . .” Each this was accented with the touch of his mouth against one of the delicious points of pleasure across her throat and shoulders. “This is all that matters now.”
At his touch, all her worries slid away, and she gave in to it. “Yes. I believe you’re right, doctor.”
She shifted on the bed, tucking one foot underneath her bottom to face him and give her natural curiosity full rein. “Rowan, how am I with you? I mean . . . how does any woman know how to conduct herself when she is with a man?”
He shook his head. “You are yourself. I don’t want you conducting yourself, Gayle.”
Her cheeks warmed at his words, encouraged in her quest to discover how to please him. In the space of a single heartbeat, suddenly it was all she wanted most in the world—to repay him for his kindness and show him only pleasure. “Rowan, what seduces a man? What do you think a man finds most seductive in a woman?”
“Confidence. A woman who knows what she wants and isn’t shy to ask.” He sucked in a breath as her teeth grazed the sensitive peaks of his chest, pebbling the flesh. “I—suppose it’s different for every man.”
Ecstasy Wears Emeralds Page 17