The Marquess of Secrets (The Hornsby Brothers Book 3)

by Karyn Gerrard

  Harrison frowned. Blast it all, why couldn’t he do both? Damn society and their snobbish ways. Granted, Sir William Gull, Baronet, was a Physician-in-Ordinary to Queen Victoria, but he came from a modest, lower class background and made a baronet on his ability to treat the Prince of Wales for typhoid fever. However, no one born of the peerage served as a physician in any capacity that he was aware of. Perhaps he could be the first.

  “Yes, it is indeed a dismal state of affairs. Regardless, you will accompany me to the ball. You’re respectable enough. Besides, you will be there as my guest. In between dances with eligible young ladies, we can assess the aristocracy and decide who would be amenable to supporting a charity clinic. After breakfast, Gillis can fit you for one of my suits. We have similar builds; it will not take much to alter it.”

  Sam scoffed. “When is this blasted event?”

  “Barely a week away. Next Friday evening. After the fitting, we will discuss this clinic idea further before I depart for Westminster for the afternoon session. When I head to Gransford Manor in three and a half weeks time for the weddings, I will broach the subject with Father.” Harrison reached for an iced bun from the nearby platter.

  “Do give my best to your brothers,” Sam offered as he took another bite of ham. The two of them were making short work of the breakfast food.

  Harrison nodded. “I will. Only family in attendance. Spence insisted.”

  “I surmised as much.” Sam continued to eat heartily. In between bites, he said, “Are you going to terminus tonight?”

  “Yes. Only for a couple of hours.” For more than anything, he wished to see the mysterious young lady again. Hear her story. Assist her in any way he could. No woman had caught his attention like this before.

  She even invaded his dreams last night, erotic doings to be sure, but also invaded the deeper parts of his heart, stoking his protective instincts to unknown levels. Damned unsettling, but also caused him to feel more alive than in years. Caution was in order. He had a plan worked out for his future, and it didn’t include a downtrodden woman no matter how she appealed.

  Chapter 5

  After a humiliating inspection for “crawlers,” as Sister Monica called them, her meal, and sleeping on and off throughout the day, Lydia could claim to feel marginally better, though the rattle in her chest was still obvious. Her muscles and joints ached terribly and the fever lingered, though at the end of the five days, she would be past the worst of it.

  Then what to do? Where to go? How much to reveal to the well-meaning nun and the mysterious Dr. Damian? How could she place her trust in anyone ever again? Sitting upright on her pallet, the blanket about her shoulders, she opened her bundle. Within were a few personal items she managed to gather before her late-night flight from the shabby rooms she shared with Huntsford. A silver hairbrush, originally her mother’s, along with a silver butterfly hair comb. Lydia ran her fingers along her treasures.

  In truth, she may have to sell them in order to start over, but what would they be worth? A mere couple of pounds if she was lucky. Also inside the bundle were a couple of starched blouses, a scarf, and a chemise, which she refused to wear as long as she was homeless.

  As soon as she pulled out the book, Republic by Plato, tears welled up. It belonged to her schoolmaster father. He’d encouraged her to pursue a career in nursing.

  “My dear girl, you must make your own way in the world. I will not be here forever, then what will become of you? Learn all you can, read, absorb knowledge, only then will you gain wisdom.”

  A lot of good it did her. Where was the wisdom when she needed it the most? All her father’s lessons, gentle guidance, and sage advice was all for naught. She hugged the book tight to her chest, allowing the indulgence of a few tears.

  “Miss Best?”

  Oh, Lord. It’s him.

  No mistaking the smooth-as-silk, masculine tones. Quickly swiping away the tears, she stuffed the book and other items in her bundle and pushed it behind her.

  “Dr. Damian.”

  He lowered to his haunches. “Are you in distress?”

  Having him this close afforded her a better look at his stunning eyes. Long black lashes spiked out from his lids. It could mean his hair was black, but not necessarily. The dark lashes only enhanced the silver-gray of the pupil. How unique and attractive.

  “No more than anyone else here.” It was then Lydia realized he said the name she gave the nun. Which also meant the woman told him everything.

  “All is not lost, Miss Best. In seeking out help, you have taken the first step on the road to recovery. I’m not only speaking of your health. Would you mind if we sat on this nearby bench?” He stood and held out a gloved hand. With a huff, she slipped her hand in his and was immediately engulfed with a bolt of comforting warmth. He assisted her in getting to her feet, and when he released her hand, she immediately missed his touch.

  Once seated, he turned slightly to face her. “I wish to examine the needle marks on your arm. Would you permit me?”

  Blast it all.

  Ashamed, she tore off her wool coat and jacket and pushed up the sleeve of her blouse. Holding her arm face up, she looked away, not wanting to see the look of censure in his eyes.

  With a gentle touch, he ran his gloved fingers along the scarring. “These are not recent. How long ago?”

  Lydia gulped. “More than three months.”

  “Opium or cocaine?”

  “A mixture of both, I imagine.”

  “Toxic and dangerous. Did you become addicted?”

  Lydia met his gaze. There was no judgment anywhere in his eyes, only concern. When was the last time someone worried for her? “No. I don’t crave it.”

  His fingers continued to explore the bumps. “The skin was torn during the injecting, did you do this or did someone else?”

  Dr. Damian wandered too close to the truth. No matter his conciliatory tone; she would not reveal the depths of her debauched relationship with Huntsford to anyone. Abruptly, she yanked her arm away and pulled the sleeve down to cover the scars.

  “It’s in the past, one I would rather forget.” A coughing fit overtook her, and she brought up phlegm in her hand. How mortifying.

  But the doctor did not react, merely pulled out a cloth from his apron pocket, clasped her hand, and wiped it. “Yellow,” he murmured. “A sign of an infection. But you know that; do you not, Miss Best?”

  “Only because my mother died of consumption, Doctor,” she replied firmly.

  He folded the cloth and tucked it away. “How long ago?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Sister Monica mentioned since your father passed you’ve been alone and have run out of money. Would you be adverse to a job?”

  Oh, why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone? She was an ungrateful piece of baggage. Lydia was in no position to turn down assistance. Not at this stage. It is why she came here after all. Well, she came for the medical assistance. Might as well accept the help.

  “Doing what?” she sniffled. The doctor handed her another cloth and she wiped her runny nose.

  “When you’ve recovered, we could try and procure a position in a shop. Or perhaps a companion to a lady.”

  Companion? Slave more like. Lydia could not be choosy. Being a companion meant she would be off the street, hidden away. “The way I look?”

  “One step at a time, Miss Best. You must recover first. We have donations of second-hand clothes. There may be something that will suffice for an interview. We not only give aid medically and physically, we also try and assist those who wish it, another chance to rejoin society in whatever capacity.” Dr. Damian stood. “Yes. I believe working as a companion would be suitable for a young lady such as yourself. You are well-spoken, educated, have experience caring for someone who was ill.”

  A young lady such as yourself.

  Well. She was put in her place. Servant. But judging by the kindness she read in the doctor’s eyes, it was obvious he meant no insult.


  “You’ve had your dinner?” he asked.

  Lydia nodded, pulling the blanket closer about her shoulders.

  “Then I will instruct Sister Monica to bring you elderflower water with two drops of laudanum. The elderflower will ease your sore throat, the laudanum will help you relax and sleep.” He paused. “You’ve no issues with laudanum?”

  Did he think her a drug fiend? Annoyance made her bristle, but considering the marks on her arm, what else was the man to think? “No issues.”

  “Very well. Rest. I will check on you tomorrow.”

  Dr. Damian barely stepped away from her when a clamor rose nearby. A man yelled, “Coppers! Leg it or they’ll take ye away!”

  Police? Here?

  Panic settled deep inside her, causing her skin to prickle. Grabbing her bundle, Lydia stood as did others who could manage it. Dr. Damian strode toward a man in a bowler hat wearing an outrageous plaid suit. He stood near one of the nuns. Lydia inched closer to hear what the commotion was about.

  The surrounding crowd buzzed with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. One woman standing next to her said, “Well, that’s it. Mark my words, this place will be shut down and all of us ‘auled off to the nick.”

  Dear God. No.

  Fear gripped Lydia, her insides twisting in a knot.

  “This is Dr. Damian,” the nun declared. “You speak to him.”

  The copper had a weasel face and a long nose. Already Lydia did not like the look of him. “Detective Constable Willis, with the Metropolitan Police. I’m investigating a pharmaceutical theft from St. Thomas Hospital. One of the suspects has done a runner, and I’m checking various places the young lady might be hiding.”

  Lydia’s heart banged against her ribcage in alarm. St. Thomas. It is where she trained. Where she worked—with John Huntsford.

  “Before we go any further, do you have an identification card?” Dr. Damian asked, his tone cold and officious.

  DC Willis handed one over.

  “This says G Division, in King’s Cross. A little off your track?”

  The detective sniffed. “This case has been given top priority, and because of it, all the divisions are taking on this case. We’re seeking a nurse by the name of Lydia Chesterton. Has anyone with that name straggled in here recently? Young and pretty she is, with golden hair. She’s wanted for questioning.”

  Lydia gasped. They were looking for her. Damn Huntsford, he must have gone through with his miserable scheme and pointed the finger at her.

  Dr. Damian handed the card to the copper. “No one with that name here, though who is to say we are given the correct names?”

  “Then you won’t object to me having a look for myself for anyone fitting the description.”

  The crowd grew restless, the murmurs became louder. There were probably more people than her down here hiding from society. Hiding from the law.

  “I do object,” the doctor said. “There are many sick people and young children here and they should not be alarmed in any way.”

  The copper glanced about. “You’re aware this place is illegal? All soup kitchens do is attract vagrants and criminals. They were outlawed for a reason.”

  The doctor crossed his arms. “You would haul in well-meaning nuns, Sisters in Christ, for providing a bowl of stew to the destitute?”

  The detective rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, maybe not the good sisters, but I’d take you in with no hesitation. Legally, I can close this underground charity. And I will, unless you allow me to walk about.”

  Lydia heard enough. Apparently so had others as a few of the men started to shove their way through the crowd.

  “You won’t be takin’ me, copper!” one bellowed as he headed toward the tunnel exit. An old lady was shoved to the ground, and a man threw a punch at one of the people panicking. All hell broke loose. More shoving, yelling, and fisticuffs.

  It turned the detective’s attention as well as the doctor and nun. Lydia used the opportunity to slip away. As she skirted past some empty pallets, she shamelessly grabbed up pieces of bread and an apple with her free hand and broke into a run.

  She didn’t stop running until she was out through the makeshift door and three streets away. Out of breath, Lydia ducked into a dark alley and stood against the wall, hidden in the shadows. Once again she was on her own. It was then she realized the blanket still hung about her shoulders. Staring down at the food in her hand, now she was a thief in reality.

  A desolate sob escaped her throat as she placed the food in her bundle. For a brief moment, she was allowed to hope. To believe that she could start over, be someone else. But now that she knew the police were seeking her, and probably Huntsford was looking for her as well, Lydia had no choice but to head out of London.

  Fatigue washed over her as another coughing fit wracked her body. But not tonight. Feeling her way down the dark alley, she found crates piled up in the corner. Wedging herself in behind them, she curled up against the bricks, pulling the blanket tight about her.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. For a brief moment, people were kind to her. Offered her assistance and compassion. Lydia would never look into those caring and beautiful silver-gray eyes again, and the thought tore her heart in two.

  Chapter 6

  As Harrison spun the Honorable Miss Nicola Westbank about the ballroom, the cloying scent of lilies of the valley filled his nostrils. The girl was no more than eighteen or nineteen, much too young for him. After taking stock of the eligible ladies at this dance, Harrison came to the conclusion that he’d waited far too late to enter the so-called marriage mart.

  Usually a man of his age would pick one this young strictly for breeding purposes. Perhaps a tiny part of him still hoped that love would enter the equation. The thoughts of sharing his life with a simpering, giggling girl made his insides churn.

  Harrison glanced down into the hopeful face of Miss Westbank, who smiled shyly at him. Pretty enough, but she barely spoke. Only flushed in reply to any of his inane utterances. He’d long since run out of small talk. As a result, his mind began to wander as he continued to waltz across the dance floor.

  As he had many times the past five days, he thought of Miss Best and her mysterious disappearance. The fact that she departed while the detective was there spoke of a more serious reason for her homelessness. Was she the woman the detective sought? The physical description certainly fit.

  Why the distraught Miss Best kept entering his thoughts—and his dreams for that matter— puzzled as much as concerned him. Accept it, she’s gone. Harrison wished he’d helped her in the way that she needed. People around him were clapping, so he ceased dancing and did the same. Offering his arm, he quickly escorted the girl to her parents, Viscount and Countess Roland. Once he reached the party, he bowed slightly and turned to leave.

  “One moment if you please, Lord Tennington,” the countess sniffed, “Who is that young man accompanying you?”

  Here we go. “Dr. Samuel Kenward, we attended Cambridge together.”

  “Indeed? I do not recall a family with the name of Kenward.”

  Meaning amongst the aristocrats. It was a struggle to keep his distaste from showing outwardly. “I do not doubt it.” He bowed again hoping to make his escape, but the wretched woman latched onto his arm.

  “I was always of the opinion that the lower classes should know their place, even in these enlightened times.” She gave Harrison a cruel smile. An insult. A direct hit on Sam. God, he despised his own class.

  Her husband, the viscount, cleared his throat and said, “Quite right.”

  “‘Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?’ I am paraphrasing Dickens in case you were not aware,” Harrison replied in a curt tone.

  A woman standing next to the countess tsked. “That reprehensible man. His scandalous stories have ruined modern literature. Subversive claptrap.”

  “While his books are compelling,” Harrison stated, “It is the moral lessons in his tales that resonate. H
e championed reform with regard to economic and social issues. I admired him for it.”

  “If Dickens had his way, there would be no lines between the classes. The very fabric of English life would unravel,” the viscount retorted.

  Well, he would not find any contributors to his charity clinic in this arrogant crowd. Blasted snobs. “I agree with the late author. There is a need for further reform and it is up to us, the wealthy and privileged, to lead by example and exhibit a greater understanding and humanitarianism toward the disadvantaged and vulnerable.”

  A few people standing nearby shifted uncomfortably. The rich did not like to be reminded that outside of these gilded walls people suffered and struggled with life.

  “Oh, come now, my lord,” Lady Roland said. “There are lines between the classes for a reason. For example, allowing them into a social event such as this will spread filth and disease. Of course, I am not speaking of your Cambridge companion.” Again, the countess gave him a smirk befitting a loathsome character in a Dickens novel. “Also, one should not marry into the lower classes either, weakens the blood. Tarnishes the line. Do you not agree my dear marquess?”

  A slam toward his brothers. His entire family. Harrison’s anger flared, and by the startled and fearful reaction of the mousy Miss Westbank, his face must look thunderous.

  “I welcome and approve of my brothers’ choices of a bride, as do my parents, the Duke and Duchess of Gransford. It seems to me many bloodlines amongst the peers have been overbred producing frail simpletons with aggressive tendencies. But then, I am not speaking of anyone here.” Harrison brushed off Lady Roland’s hand and bowed. “If you will excuse me.”

  He turned on his heel and marched away, with Lady Roland’s words, “How dare he?” hanging in the air.

  Enough of this dog and pony show. With a quick visual sweep of the ballroom, he located Sam talking to a young woman on the opposite side of the room. This event with its stifling heat and even more stifling company had lost all interest for him.

  About to head toward Sam, he gaze fell upon Lord Shaftesbury sitting in an overstuffed chair. Good lord, the man was in his eighties, why venture out? The earl was a particular hero of Harrison’s, a reformist and a true progressive. Throughout the past decades the earl oversaw child labor and factory reform as well as education. He should leave the man in peace, but Harrison refused to leave this miserable ball without speaking to at least one peer of worth.