Lady Disdain

by Michelle Morrison

  Striding through the streets of the fashionable shopping district at an unfashionably brisk pace, he felt his spurt of annoyance at his sister dissipate. He knew she truly did love him and despite being six years younger, she’d always sought to mother him, making sure he ate regularly and worrying over how little he slept.

  Caroline was correct in that he had no preferences when it came to women: he truly adored them all. Although, there was something about Lady Disdain’s shiny mahogany hair and smoldering dark eyes that stood out from all other women. There was also that haughty tilt to her head that he suspected was more defensive than arrogant. As she’d stood there on the fringes of the ball last night, his attention had been drawn to her like a magnet to a lodestone. Her tawny complexion and dark slashes of brows didn’t conform to the current standards of feminine beauty, but somehow that made her even more attractive to him. Her lips, though compressed in displeasure or disappointment, were full and lush, and the slender column of her neck positively begged to be kissed, as did the curve of gently rounded shoulder exposed by her gown. The understated midnight blue gown fit his impression of her: subtle beauty and sophistication that camouflaged hidden depths.

  Alright, he would concede that Caroline was right, he’d been intrigued.

  But it was also true he rarely bothered pursuing a woman if he didn’t sense an answering and active interest from her immediately. He knew such a trait would probably be considered unmanly, especially by his friends who thought the challenge of winning over a woman was proof of their masculine vigor. But Samuel had always considered such behavior to be egotistical in the least and downright offensive in the worst cases. To convince a woman to care for you just to prove you could seemed the height of disrespect for the fairer sex. And so he had become an excellent judge of determining if a lady was receptive to his attentions—be they mild flirtations or more salacious pursuits—and quickly abandoned any woman who did not promptly return his interest. Who could fault him for such a code of conduct? he thought, firmly dismissing his sister’s words.

  Yet, as he turned left on Oxford Street intending to take a circuitous route back to the seamstress’s shop, Caroline’s suggestion that he had been missing out kept niggling at the back of his mind.

  His flirtations and love affairs had satisfied his cursory desires. He was not, after all, looking for a wife. Perhaps he’d not spent time with women who wished to discuss more than the latest party or newest fashion, but he had plenty of mates to discuss weightier issues with over a pint.

  Unbidden, an image of Lady Disdain again rose in his mind’s eye. Their interaction had been brief, but talking with her had invigorated his brain in a way he could not remember experiencing before with a woman. He could perfectly recall that lush dark hair piled high, those judgmental dark brows over almond-shaped eyes and the graceful stillness with which she held herself, as if she’d never coyly fluttered a fan or swished her skirts coquettishly. But he’d met plenty of beautiful, graceful women over the years. Not many had remained so coolly aloof when he turned on his charming smile and engaged in teasing flirtation. None had verbally baited him or made him scramble for a response as she had. He liked that he’d had to stay on his toes with her. He’d had to reach beyond the glib small talk that usually won ladies to his side within a few minutes.

  What would happen if he approached her again? Could he interest her enough to learn why she had seemed so removed from the crowd last night?

  With a start, Sam realized he’d already made his way back to the seamstress shop. Shaking his head at his own distraction, he decided to leave Lady Disdain to the great mysteries of life. He had no idea who she was and—he paused midstep. He did have one clue, he realized. He knew that she was related to the girl who’d got herself betrothed at the duke’s party. Pulling open the door, he stepped into the dim interior, sunblind after his walk. Perhaps he would allow himself to rise to his sister’s taunt and actually learn more about the woman in blue. Then again, he thought, as a petite blonde emerged from the back of the shop and dimpled prettily at him, perhaps he would leave Lady Disdain to fate. The shop girl brushed his hand lightly as she took his hat and gloves. The sway of her hips became exaggerated as she showed him back to the large fitting area where his sister was finishing her selections. There were plenty of women in London who did not find him a bit thick in the head and why should he deny them—or himself—the pleasure of their welcoming company?

  Fate did not deliver Lady Disdain to him in the next week, but it did see fit to provide him with her name and an intriguing bit of her history. It was two days before Caroline’s wedding and they were attending the final congratulatory party in honor of she and her fiancée. Caroline was in her element on Trowbridge’s arm and the crowd at the private event was in the palm of her hand, hanging on her every word and laughing at what he knew were her terrible little jokes.

  He propped an elbow on the fireplace mantle of Lord and Lady Wycliff’s large drawing room and smiled at his younger sister. For the first time in a year, he allowed himself to admit how very much he would miss her. Aside from her unnecessary mothering of him, she had been his confidante and friend, using her sisterly status and wry wit to poke fun at him and keep him humble in the most loving way. He would no doubt become an unbearable boor without her to keep him in his place.

  “These events get to be a bit much when you haven’t spent your entire life trained to attend them, don’t they?”

  Jolted out of his reverie, Samuel turned to see Lord Reading holding up the other end of the mantle. Though the two men had not met, Samuel knew his name from the party at which he’d met Lady Disdain. Lord Reading had become betrothed to Lady Disdain’s cousin amidst some kerfuffle.

  Kerfuffle? he thought with a mental chuckle. He’d clearly been in England too long.

  “I’ve found them bearable when I discover the host’s secret stash of whiskey,” Sam said, raising his glass of said libation.

  “It seems reports of American ingenuity are not unfounded,” Reading replied with a grin. “Alex Fitzhugh,” the man said, extending his hand in what was a decidedly informal gesture.

  “Samuel James,” he said, grasping the outstretched hand. “Forgive my American-ness, but aren’t you an earl or something? Don’t you normally introduce yourself by some long title?”

  Fitzhugh laughed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It’s only that I just, er…came into the title recently and I can’t say that it sits comfortably on my head. It’s my father who’s the earl, by the way.”

  Sam frowned. “Again, I invoke my citizenship as an excuse for my ignorance, but aren’t you usually saddled with that title at birth?”

  Fitzhugh’s mouth twisted wryly. “Yes, well, there was a bit of estrangement between my father and I since before I was born.”

  “Forgive me,” Sam said quickly. “Even for an American, I know that was rude to ask.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Fitzhugh said with a wave of his glass.

  “So you find these events a bit much too, I take it?” Before Fitzhugh could answer, Sam rushed on. “Don’t mistake me—I enjoy a good rout as much as anyone, it’s just normally I don’t have to second guess everything I want to say, wondering if it’s considered ‘inappropriate’ for the company. You English have rules for absolutely everything, you know.”

  Fitzhugh laughed again. “This level of society does, at any rate,” he said with a nod at the assemblage of elite guests. “Trust me, you needn’t second guess your words at your common English party either.”

  “Well that’s a damned relief,” Sam said, eliciting a laugh from the other man. “Oh, I suppose at this point I’m supposed to offer my congratulations.”

  Fitzhugh inclined his head, a genuine grin lighting his face. “Thank you. I am most fortunate.”

  “ A love match then? Not one of those, ‘Your land adjoins my land so let’s join forces and bank accounts’ arrangements?”

  “Well our lands do adjoin,” Fitz
hugh said with a frown.

  Sam felt his neck flush. He liked Fitzhugh and hadn’t meant to be insulting. His irreverent sense of humor tended to run roughshod over any sense of decency. “I’m sorry,” he said, abashed. “I didn’t mean to imply—“

  Fitzhugh burst out laughing. “I’ve no idea where her family’s lands are, to be truthful. I’ve no idea where my father’s estates are either. It is a love match, for which I’m damned grateful.”

  Sam laughed, both in relief and at being neatly ensnared in Fitzhugh’s joke.

  “And is your fiancée here this evening?”

  Sam didn’t consider himself terribly perceptive at reading other men’s emotions, but he sensed a bit of wistfulness in the other man’s voice.

  “No, she runs an aid society in Southwark with her cousin who had need of her tonight.”

  Sam’s ears perked up. Surely the cousin Fitzhugh referred to was Lady Disdain.

  “I believe I met your lady’s cousin the night your betrothal was announced.”

  “You met Miss Draper? You were one of few, then. She kept to herself that night. I suppose she feels even more uncomfortable at these high born events than we do.”

  “Why is that?” Sam asked, refusing to consider just how much he wanted to know.

  “She’s been running her organization for close to five years, I believe. Removed herself entirely from Society to help feed and care for London’s poorest. Not many in her position would do so.”

  Sam mulled that over for a moment as he nursed the last of his whiskey. Lady Disdain—Miss Draper—grew more intriguing. What would cause a lady to undertake such a lifestyle? Clearly Miss Draper bore a bit more investigating. His sister would be delighted. He stared into his empty glass, wondering how he might run into her again.

  “Ah, my father signals he’s ready to leave,” Fitzhugh said. “I suppose I shall see you in a few days at your sister’s wedding.”

  “Oh?” Sam said. He had no idea who was on the guest list as his main contribution to the event was footing the bill.

  Fitzhugh grinned in understanding. “Don’t worry, it will all be over soon.”

  Sam laughed and extended his hand. “I look forward to seeing you then. I’ll supply the secret stash of whiskey.

  “I shall hold you to that,” Fitzhugh said before departing.

  Sam mulled over what he’d learned of Miss Draper and wondered if Reading might be persuaded to arrange a meeting. Otherwise he might be forced to wander the streets of Southwark in hopes of running into her, an idea he suspected would not meet with his sister’s approval.

  Chapter Three

  Sarah ladled the last bit of soup into a bowl and handed it to a young boy with eyes too large for the gaunt angles of his face.

  “Don’t tell anyone I gave you seconds,” she warned. “They’ll think I’m playing favorites.”

  The boy nodded, his large eyes widening in fear.

  “I’m teasing,” she said with a laugh. “Eat up.”

  The boy returned to his table and Sarah dabbed the sweat from her brow with the hem of her voluminous apron. She wished there’d been one more bowl of soup as her stomach growled, but she would never deny a hungry child a second serving, or a third if she could swing it.

  Fumbling beneath her apron, she pulled out the small pin watch she wore. It was the only piece of jewelry she still owned and the only reason she hadn’t yet sold it was that she desperately needed it to help her keep track of her day. Otherwise she was wont to get immersed in a project and forget the three other appointments she’d arranged.

  She had nearly an hour before her meeting with Dr. Kendall—the newest physician to take up residency in The Mint. Most doctors who treated the patients in Southwark did so either because they were freshly out of university and needed some experience, they had new and untested procedures they wanted to try, or their skills were so lacking that only the destitute would consent to treatment.

  Dr. Kendall, however, was in a category of his own. An American by birth, he was trained at the University of Glasgow in Scotland and he was eminently qualified. He clearly had a strong desire to help his fellow man, but Sarah suspected that his residency here in The Mint had more to do with the color of his skin than his desire to treat the ague and set broken bones amongst London’s poorest. Sarah had worked with enough doctors to recognize that Jeremiah Kendall was possessed of a brilliant scientific mind. He should be teaching other doctors and conducting groundbreaking research under the patronage of England’s greatest academic institutes. Instead he was living in a drafty set of rooms, seeing patients in a makeshift surgery at the front of the house. He was the first black man she’d ever met and she’d felt an instant kinship to him as a fellow social outsider.

  Sarah removed her apron and carried the empty soup pot to the back of the room where a woman was scrubbing dishes.

  “I’ll be back in time for the dinner service, Ida. I’m off to meet with Dr. Kendall and see what medicines he’s lacking.”

  “Watch yerself, miss. His kind’s been known to attack women sech as yerself.”

  Sarah pressed her lips together to keep from snapping at Ida. Hers was not an uncommon prejudice and Sarah had learned the hard way that she couldn’t argue away such ridiculous thoughts. Instead, even though it galled her to do it, she employed a more subtle attack.

  “Oh Ida! You know Dr. Kendall is a true gentleman. And didn’t he save your daughter-in-law just a fortnight ago?”

  Ida looked skeptical as she dried the large pot. “She might have recovered on her own.”

  Sarah forced herself to take a deep breath. “I’ve seen many people with her same ailment die just like that.” She snapped her fingers in illustration. “Dr. Kendall saved her life. He’s a great physician.

  “You be careful nonetheless,” Ida finished.

  Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Sarah realized this was not a battle she could win in a day, but as she headed out, she vowed to change Ida’s mind about the doctor if it was the last thing she did.

  When she entered his office, Dr. Kendall was working over the wailing and writhing form of a boy of eight or nine whose pregnant mother was trying to hold him still. Sarah rushed over to help and recognized the boy. A quick glance told her Dr. Kendall was trying to extract a shard of glass from the boy’s bare foot.

  “Now Thomas,” she cajoled. “Let the good doctor finish. The more you hold still, the faster he’ll be done.”

  “But it hurts, miss!”

  “Of course it does, but no battle wound worth the retelling has come without a fair bit of pain.”

  The boy’s thrashing ceased for a moment and his mother seized the opportunity to lay awkwardly across his legs, immobilizing them as the doctor cleaned out the wound.

  “Battle wounds?”

  “Yes, of course. An injury such as this is not without its discomfort to be sure, but imagine the glorious and bloody story you’ll have to share with the lads about your bravery.”

  “That’s true,” the boy said, reaching a grubby hand to wipe his nose.

  As the doctor began stitching the wound, Thomas sucked in a great breath preparatory to yelling. But a glance at Sarah who winked conspiratorially made him clench his jaws together and exhale loudly through his nose.

  “Ah yes, stabbed by pirates, I believe,” she said. “After being impaled by the horn of a mysterious sea monster.”

  Sarah kept up her ideas for the glorious feats that led to Seamus’ injury until the doctor finished bandaging his foot.

  “Keep it clean, keep it dry. Try to stay off of it a few days. Where are your shoes? You’ll want to protect those stitches.”

  “I ain’t got no shoes,” Thomas said and his mother added, “It’s summer, no need for shoes.”

  Dr. Kendall frowned, clearly at a loss. Sarah stepped in, speaking to Seamus’ mother. “Get him home as best you can, then come by my place this evening. I’ll find something for him to wear while he heals.”

/>   “Thank you, mum,” Mrs. Sampson said, helping her son hobble out of the room.

  “Where are you going to find him shoes?” the doctor asked.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Sarah confessed with a laugh. “But I have a few hours. Perhaps I can call in a favor.”

  “Well if you’re calling in favors, I could use more laudanum and several days’ supply of linen bandages. I’ve never run through supplies like I do here! Southwark—and The Mint in particular—is not the safest place to live. If you’re not starved, you’re run down by a cart or tackled by a falling down building.”

  “And that is the reason for my visit,” Sarah replied. “I believe I will be able to help with your supply shortage very soon. My cousin Miss Eleanor, whom I think you met only once, has been able to convince the Ladies’ Compassion Society not only to continue our funding, but to increase it.”

  Dr. Kendall looked impressed. “How did she manage that? I thought those ladies were notoriously parsimonious.”

  Sarah grimaced. “You have no idea. But my cousin has surprised us all. She is quite resourceful and not a little bit ruthless when she needs to be.”

  “Has she worked with you long?” he asked, rinsing off his instruments before dropping them in a pot of water on his small stove.

  “About two years, though I suspect that will change now.” Trying to distract herself from that thought, she asked. “Why are you boiling your instruments?”

  “I find a clean scalpel or suture reduces the chance of infection. There is a Hungarian doctor who advocates the use of chlorine to remove bits of illness that may remain on instruments, but as I have to ration bandages and basic medicine, purchasing chlorine is not an option. Boiling them is the closest I can come.” He rinsed his hands and turned back to Sarah, wiping them on a cloth. “Why might Miss Eleanor not continue?”