Shadows seemed to gather around him that had nothing to do with the fact that Molly drew the curtains closed against the spring afternoon.
“Your Grace,” Longhurst said, leading Imogen into the room. “Might Nurse Pritchard persuade you to take your tea, or broth if you prefer?”
Unable to breathe, Imogen stared in slack-jawed stupefaction.
Trenwyth’s eyes flicked over her and fixed back onto Longhurst. He’d considered her only for the time it took a grain of sand to pass through an hourglass, but it was enough to set Imogen’s limbs to trembling. Not for the reasons she predicted either. Those eyes, once so full of assessing wit, predatory confidence, and not a little pain, were now only strident wells of immeasurable nothingness.
“Why would she?” His dry voice resembled a growl, but lacked an iota of inflection.
“Why, indeed?” Fowler muttered from where he stood over the duke, his arms crossed in what Imogen translated to be a rather defensive stance.
She winced, but stood her ground, unable to tear her eyes away from the dear sight of him. Alive. Awake. His left arm, still heavily bandaged, was secured to his chest with a sling draped from his wide shoulder. He had regained some color beneath his chapped and weather-beaten skin.
He was battered, bruised, and still every bit as beautiful as she remembered.
“Nurse Pritchard is the reason you’re alive,” Longhurst informed him.
“Hardly!” Fowler unfolded his arms, his hands falling to clench at his sides.
“She, alone, diagnosed you,” Longhurst reasoned. “We all thought you had typhus. She fought for you. For your survival. And won, obviously.”
Trenwyth’s head swiveled on his neck with almost unnatural slowness until he’d speared her with a glare that froze the blood in her veins. “Did she?”
It wasn’t gratitude that arranged his features, but accusation.
Longhurst’s regard, in contrast, glowed with uncharacteristic warmth. “She is to be commended,” he murmured.
No one said a thing for an uncomfortably long time.
Conscious of her drab uniform and the severe knot of hair beneath her cap, Imogen smoothed her apron as she stepped forward, trying again to catch Trenwyth’s eye. “If the tea isn’t to your liking, I could bring you another—”
“I want nothing from you,” Trenwyth said shortly without looking at her. “I despise tea. I’ll take coffee.”
Stung, Imogen stepped back. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected.
“Stimulants are not recommended for recent surgery patients,” Longhurst informed him. “Perhaps in time—”
“Where is my man?” Trenwyth’s cold copper eyes searched the faces of all those gathered in his room. All but hers.
“Who?” Fowler asked.
“Sean O’Mara, my valet, did he return from…?” For a moment the duke looked confused, then resolute as though he’d remembered something, until the shadows and spite settled back around him like a cloak. “Is he alive?” he asked tightly.
“He’ll be sent for straightaway, Your Grace.” Longhurst bowed to him, watching him intently. “He’s now employed with Scotland Yard under Sir Carlton Morley. In the meantime, allow Nurse Pritchard to administer your opiate tincture. For the pain in your wrist.”
Trenwyth’s lip curled back from his teeth in a cruel sneer. “That plain-faced twit won’t come near me, and neither will you, sawbones.”
“Beg your pardon?” Longhurst said in a way that made it clear that pardon wasn’t being begged, but demanded.
“You won’t drug my wits from me, not when I’ve just regained them.” The duke met Longhurst’s challenging gaze with dark censure.
“But your arm,” Imogen couldn’t stop herself from protesting. “The pain will be unimaginable once the Laudanum we’ve already administered completely wears off. Worse than it is now. You’ll want to take all precaution against it.” It must be pain causing him to act like this. For he was not the Trenwyth she remembered.
His eyes were slivers of disdain when he looked at her again. “I don’t have to imagine what it’ll be like. Think you I’m afraid of pain?”
Imogen pictured the many scars and wounds that, even now, turned his entire topography into a map of torment. Of course, after being through so much, how could he possibly remain unchanged?
“No, Your Grace, but perhaps something topical? I could—”
“You’ve done enough. Get out.”
Longhurst took a protective step toward her, his brows drawn down with mystification. “Your Grace?”
“Everyone. Out.” The teacup William had returned to his tray shattered on the wall above her head, showering her with lukewarm droplets. “Get me O’Mara,” Trenwyth roared, upsetting his tray with one powerful swipe.
Molly shrieked and fled to the hall.
As Longhurst and William surged forward to subdue the furious duke, Fowler grabbed a speechless Imogen by her elbow and dragged her into the hall.
“Pack your things, Miss Pritchard, you no longer work for St. Margaret’s Royal Hospital.”
Still too stunned for words, she blinked dumbly up into the bags drooping from Fowler’s bitter eyes for a moment too long. “But … what have I done?”
“You are being dismissed for gross insubordination.” His s’s protracted like that of a viper as though he took reptilian pleasure in the words.
“You mean with the duke?”
“You were told to leave it alone, to leave him alone, and you deliberately went behind my back and convinced Longhurst to perform a procedure without my permission.”
“But he survived because of that,” she argued.
“Doesn’t matter, what if the next patient dies because you now think that since you were right the once, you know more than the attending physicians? The London medical community is already afflicted with too many angels of death, Nurse Pritchard, we don’t need one more.”
He referred, of course, to the nurses who often euthanized their terminally or chronically ill patients. Some called them angels. Others called them murderers.
She was neither.
“Please, Dr. Fowler,” she begged. “I’ve never done anything like that. This is the first and—I promise—the only time I’ve ever disobeyed an order. I won’t do it again. I swear. Just don’t let me go. I have a family to support.”
“You should have thought of them before you made a fool of me.” He released her roughly and she stumbled. “Molly, fetch me all the orderlies and nurses on the floor. We’ll need help subduing Trenwyth, and someone will need to escort Miss Pritchard off the premises.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Molly cast her an unpleasant look as she scrambled to comply.
Imogen’s eyes latched onto Lord Anstruther’s door down the hall. “Can I at least be permitted to say good-bye to—”
“You will be permitted to do what you like, Miss Pritchard, so long as it’s not on these premises.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to plead for mercy. “Before you ask, don’t even consider requesting references, as none will be forthcoming. Good day to you, Miss Pritchard.” He substituted “miss” for “nurse,” making it clear that it was no longer her title.
Oh God, nothing had at all gone as she’d hoped or as she’d feared. Her greatest fear should not have been that Trenwyth remembered her.
It should have been that he’d not recognize her at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Imogen didn’t remember that she’d abandoned her things in her cupboard at the hospital until halfway through her shift at the Bare Kitten. She couldn’t even recall who’d escorted her out. She’d barely felt the chill of the misting rain until she’d wandered the streets for an hour. Incredulity had given way to numbness, and then despair. She couldn’t bring herself to return home. Couldn’t watch her mother try to keep the house and cook the meals and do the shopping on rheumatic knees that no longer wanted to work. Couldn’t watch her sister, dear, pretty Isobel, try to make herself loo
k presentable for school and tell her that she might just have to go to the factory instead. She couldn’t face her failure in their eyes. She’d saved the life of a wealthy, ungrateful duke and, in doing so, lost the only income that kept them afloat. It amazed her how short a distance it was from St. Margaret’s in the West End to the Bare Kitten on St. James’s Street, and yet, how they seemed to occupy separate worlds.
Her world was only this now, Imogen thought as she looked around the dingy opulence of the place she loathed. Sweeping rubbish and a broken glass from the disgusting floor, she did her very best not to resent everyone and everything. Her father, for leaving them in this diminished position. Her sister for being younger and innocent and in need of protection. Her mother for being feeble and ill and reliant upon her. Dr. Fowler for his irrational ego and damnable pride. Trenwyth for making love to her. For making her care for him. For not recognizing her.
And most of all, herself. Because, regardless of everything, this was her fault.
“While you’re down there on your hands and knees, why don’t you clean this with your mouth?” the drunken man who’d broken the glass suggested as he cupped himself lewdly. His companions erupted into hilarity disproportionate to the wit, as a table of drunken men was wont to do.
Imogen stood, her broom in one hand and dustpan in the other. “I’ll get you a new glass,” she offered dryly, trying to avoid the disgusting sight of the spittle studding his beard. She turned away, making for the rubbish bin behind the bar.
“How much for this one, del Toro?” The man slapped her behind as she passed him. “She seems obedient. I like that.”
Del Toro paused from where he enjoyed his imported cigar in the corner. “She’s my serving bird,” he answered easily. “She’s not for sale, Barton. But help yourself to any of my kittens, sir, at a discount since it’s a slow night.”
“Not for sale, everyone’s for sale!” Barton argued. “How much, and I’ll pay it?”
Del Toro’s eyes flickered over her, and he sent her a secret smile that curdled like sour milk in her stomach. “Someone once paid twenty pounds for her.” He blew a perfect ring of smoke. “You can have her for that much.”
“Ha! That’s an entire bargeload of shit, del Toro. She in’nt worth twenty shillings, tits that small.”
“My hand to God.” Del Toro enjoyed his own story with a hearty laugh. “Believe me or don’t.”
“Who was the doffer wot paid it?” Barton challenged.
“Now, Barton, what would your wife think if I went around disclosing my clientele?” Del Toro was without scruples, certainly, but not without savvy. “A man in my business must be discreet.” He gave Imogen a wink, but tossed his head toward the bar in a silent order to get back to work.
Discarding the shards of the glass into the rubbish bin, she stowed the broom and dustpan and returned to fill the odious Mr. Barton another drink.
“I’ll do it, Ginny.” Jeremy Carson flashed that kind, boyish smile of his and, not for the first time, Imogen noted that his cobalt eyes seemed to have witnessed ages. “I’ll deal with your table if you deal with that, though I don’t know that I’m doing you any favors.” He pointed to a puddle of vomit left beneath a table of old and grumbling men who’d decided now was a good time to settle the bill.
Sighing, Ginny decided she’d rather clean up vomit than serve human excrement like Mr. Barton.
“It’s a full moon tonight,” Jeremy mused seriously. “They say it makes people do strange and terrible things. Best watch yourself, Ginny.”
“Thank you, Jeremy.” She mustered a grateful smile, and went in search of a pail.
She spent the night working through her predicament in her head. Rent was due in a week, and she’d not have it. The larder was full—well—as full as it ever was, and they wouldn’t starve if they were careful for at least two weeks. Maybe she could apply for another nursing position at a different hospital. She didn’t have references, but if she wasn’t mistaken, Dr. Longhurst held her in some respect. Perhaps she could convince him to write an unofficial letter of recommendation.
The thought cheered her slightly as she emptied the rubbish bins into the can in the side alley out back. Her arm ached from the strain as she used one to clutch her shawl over her wig to keep the curls from loosening in the rain. All she had to do was wait until Dr. Longhurst finished his shift at St. Margaret’s and catch him as he left. She could even pen the letter for him and persuade him to sign it, and then she wouldn’t have to rely on him to remember—
Rough hands grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and bent her farther forward, forcing her head over the foul-smelling bin.
Imogen cried out, but a big body bent over hers, clapping another hand over her mouth and forcing her to breathe in the stench of the rubbish.
“If you’re not for sale, then I’ll take you for free.” Barton’s breath smelled of cigarettes and gin, an odor foul enough to rival that of the rot beneath her. Fear, disgust, and the stench had bile crawling up the back of Imogen’s throat. She swallowed it and a scream, knowing neither could escape her covered mouth.
She tried to bite him, to rear back so the bin’s edge wouldn’t cut into the tender flesh of her belly, but he jerked her head to the side so roughly that she feared he’d break her neck should he try it again.
“Struggle and I’ll make you regret it. Scream and I’ll knock you unconscious,” he warned, and began to gather her skirts behind her.
If she didn’t fight him, she’d regret it all her life.
Going limp, she once again swallowed her revulsion and reached into the bin, rummaging frantically until she found what she’d been searching for. A shard of the glass he’d broken earlier.
Palming it, she waited for him to shift in order to undo his trousers. When he did, she jerked her body around and struck at him. The glass cut her too, but she knew she’d found her mark when he grunted and released her. The makeshift weapon caught him in the ribs, beneath his arm. Painful, but not fatal.
Not deep enough.
He struck back then, his sharp fist opening a cut on her lip and collapsing her to the dirty stones of the alley. Explosions of darkness in different shades danced in her periphery, and Imogen clung to consciousness as fervently as she clung to the sharp glass in her hand.
“Even the law knows you cannot rape a whore,” he slurred, bending over her, fist cocked to strike again. “When I’m through, you’ll—”
She didn’t allow him to finish his threat. Lunging forward, she slammed the glass into his neck, right above the clavicle. He screamed then and jerked away, leaving the thick shard of glass in her viselike grip.
Warm blood sprayed her from the wound, until he covered it with his hand, stanching the flow.
Terrified, desperate, Imogen surged past him, hoping to escape.
“Wait!” Barton grabbed for her, his meaty hand twining in her shawl. Yanking back as hard as he could, the shawl came away in his hand.
Dropping the shard of glass, Imogen reached for the door, ready to go for help.
“You’ve killed me,” Barton gasped, as he slumped down against the brick wall. Blood ran down his shirt, his vest. So much blood. “You’ve killed me, you devious cunt.” His voice held no fury, only incredulity.
Imogen knew he was right. If he didn’t get help in minutes, he’d bleed out there in the alleyway. But if she went for help and he didn’t survive, she could hang for his death.
The alley door yanked open, and Jeremy’s light eyes widened as he nearly collided with her.
“Ginny? Good God, what’s happened?” His hand closed over her shoulder, his skinny arms long enough to reach the distance.
“Bitch stuck me,” Barton accused weakly. “Fetch the doctor or I’m done for.”
“Yes, go for help,” Ginny said, though her chest was heaving as though she’d run a league. The knowledge that she was as dead as the man who’d attacked her lit a fire beneath her feet. She had to get away. She had to warn her
family.
Whirling, she wrenched out of Jeremy’s grasp, gathered her skirts and bolted.
“Ginny, wait!” He grabbed for her shoulder again and came away with her dark wig tangled in his fingers. Imogen only looked back once as she fled. She saw Barton, barely conscious, perched against the brick, and Jeremy, staring at the wig in his hands with horrified aversion, as though he’d pulled a limp dead animal from her head.
He looked up at her, confusion and disbelief mingling in his young eyes, and she knew what he saw. Her hair, gold washed with strawberries, her mother would say, tumbling past her shoulders and darkening with moisture.
“Get help,” she cried again, before plunging into the rain-soaked London night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Imogen didn’t stop running until her lungs threatened to burst. The streets were sparsely populated due to the time and the weather, but not deserted. Twice she had to turn down dangerous-looking alleys to avoid a foot patrolman on his beat. Luckily for her, the rain kept most people’s gazes directed at the cobblestones from beneath their hats and umbrellas.
She fought for breath as she took refuge beneath a dark overhang across from the train station. Looking down, she gasped at the sight of so much blood on her hands, not all of it hers. She held them out to the rain, watched and trembled as the storm attempted to clean her open palms, turning the crimson wells into a pink watercolor. The gash in her hand was long but not deep, and had begun to throb now that her all-consuming panic had subsided to a bone-rattling anguish.
She let the wall hold her up for a moment so she could think. So she could breathe.
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