Hello Stranger

by Lisa Kleypas

  “Just resting it,” Garrett had said in a small voice. The Duke of Kingston, one of the most powerful and influential men in England, owned a gaming club and had run it himself in his younger years. He was not the worst draw poker player in the world, and had almost certainly used the game as a pretext to funnel money into her father’s empty pockets.

  Her discomfort over having imposed on the Challon family’s generosity was quickly forgotten in the joy of returning to the clinic and having patients to see again. Her first day back began with a bit of much needed fence-mending with Dr. Havelock, who approached her with a hesitancy that wasn’t at all like him.

  “Can you forgive me?” was the first thing he had asked.

  Garrett had given him a radiant smile. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said simply, and caught him thoroughly off guard with a spontaneous embrace.

  “This is most unprofessional,” he grumbled, but he hadn’t pulled away.

  “I will always want your honesty,” Garrett had said, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “I knew at the time you were trying to do what was right for me. I didn’t agree with your position, but I certainly understood it. And you weren’t wrong. It’s just that I had some unexpected luck, as well as a patient who was as tough as whit leather.”

  “It was a mistake for me to underestimate your skill.” Havelock had given her a rare, fond glance as she pulled back. “I won’t do so again. And yes, your young man is an uncommonly durable fellow.” His snowy brows had lifted as he had asked with a touch of waggish anticipation, “Will he be stopping by the clinic to pay a call? I’d like to ask him a question or two about his intentions toward you.”

  Garrett had laughed. “I’m sure he will when he’s able. However, he’s already warned me that he will be much occupied for the next few days.”

  “Yes,” Havelock had said, sobering, “These are tumultuous times, with scandal and upheaval in both the Home Office and the Metropolitan Force. And your Mr. Ransom seems to be a key figure in all of it. He’s gained renown in a remarkably short period of time. I fear his days of wandering through London unrecognized are over.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Garrett had murmured, rather stunned by the notion. Ethan was so accustomed to absolute privacy and freedom—now he was coping with his altered circumstances.

  She had no opportunity to ask him, however. During the next two weeks, Ethan didn’t come to see her even once. A note arrived almost daily, consisting of a few hasty sentences scrawled on a correspondence card. Sometimes the note was accompanied by a fresh flower posy or a basket of violets. Garrett was obliged to hunt through newspaper reports to track his daily whereabouts. The Times had shocked the nation with a series of articles concerning the illegal private detective force that had been operating out of the Home Office. Ethan was constantly on the move as his participation was required in multiple investigations and confidential meetings.

  It was bad enough for Jenkyn to have been implicated in unauthorized intelligence gathering. But when it was reported that he had been cooking up entrapment plots and conspiring with violent radicals and known criminals—all to destroy the prospect of Home Rule for the Irish—it caused a public furor. Jenkyn and his secret operation was disbanded, and most of his active officers had been placed under arrest.

  Soon the missing shipment of explosives from Le Havre was recovered, and its disappearance was conclusively linked to special agents employed by the Home Office. The resignation of Lord Tatham, the Home Secretary, soon followed. Both houses of Parliament appointed investigating committees and scheduled hearings to learn the extent of the corruption in the Home Office.

  Heads were rolling. Fred Felbrigg was forced to resign and submit to investigation for alleged illegal actions and procedures. Meanwhile, the Metropolitan Police fell into disarray. It was recognized that a significant reorganization of the entire force was required, although no one seemed to have any good ideas on how to proceed.

  All that mattered to Garrett was Ethan’s welfare. He’d been plunged into a whirlwind of activity ever since he had returned from Hampshire, when he should have been resting. Had it interfered with the healing process? Was he eating properly? Garrett had no choice but to bury herself in her work and wait patiently.

  On the fourteenth day, after Garrett had seen her last patient of the day, she stood at the counter in her surgery and made notes, when there came an unexpected knock at the surgery door.

  “Doctor,” came Eliza’s voice through the paneling. “There’s one more patient for you to see.”

  Garrett frowned, setting down her pen. “I didn’t schedule anyone.”

  After a pause, Eliza said, “It’s an emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?”

  Silence.

  Garrett’s nerves went hot and cold, and her pulse began to rampage. She forced herself to walk to the door, when every impulse screamed for her to sprint. With great care, she turned the handle of the door and opened it.

  There was Ethan, bigger than life, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb and smiling down at her. A rush of elation made her dizzy. He was even more handsome than she remembered, more breathtaking, more everything.

  “Garrett,” he said softly, as if her name were a word for a dozen different lovely things, and she had to stiffen her knees to keep from melting right in front of him.

  Two weeks, and not even one short visit, she reminded herself sternly.

  “I don’t have time for another patient,” she told him, her brows rushing down.

  “’Tis a serious affliction I have,” he said somberly.

  “Oh?”

  “The old tiblin bone is actin’ up again.”

  She had to gnaw furiously on the insides of her cheeks and clear her throat to keep from laughing. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take care of that yourself,” she managed to say.

  “It needs professional attention.”

  Folding her arms across her chest, she regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I’ve waited and worried for two weeks, and then you appear without a word of warning, wanting me to—”

  “No, no, acushla,” Ethan said softly, his blue eyes drinking her in. “All I want is to be near you. I’ve missed you so, darlin’. I’m fair ravished in love for you.” One of his big hands gripped the side of the door frame. “Let me in,” he whispered.

  Yearning caught inside her like fire to tinder. She opened the door more widely, and stepped back on ramshackle legs.

  Ethan crossed the threshold, closed the door with his foot, and pinned her against the paneling. Before she could draw breath, his mouth closed over hers, and he kissed her with the craving of years and dark, aching dreams. She moaned softly, arching against him, lost in the feel of his strength all around her. He cupped the side of her face in his hand, stroking her gently.

  “I’ve wanted you every minute,” he whispered, brushing his lips over hers in satiny touches. He drew back to stare down at her with a smile glowing in his eyes. “But I’ve been helping to disassemble the Metropolitan Police, fix the broken parts, and put it all back together again. And testifying before two committees, and discussing new job prospects . . .” He bent to kiss an exposed part of her throat, his mouth hot and searching.

  “I suppose those are good excuses,” Garrett said grudgingly, and sought his lips again. After another deep, exquisite kiss, she opened her eyes and asked hazily, “What job prospects?”

  He touched his nose to hers. “They want to appoint me as assistant commissioner. I would organize a new investigation department with different sections, and the supervisor of each section would report directly to me.”

  Garrett looked up at him in wonder.

  “I would also have my own handpicked force of twelve detectives, to train and supervise as I see fit.” He paused and laughed unsteadily. “I don’t know if I’ll be any damned good at it. They only offered it to me because half of Felbrigg’s supervisors have resigned, and the rest are in jail.”
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  “You’ll be exceptional at it,” Garrett said. “The question is, do you want to?”

  “I do,” he confessed with a slightly crooked grin, the dimple she adored appearing in his cheek. “I’d have to keep to more regular hours. And the offer comes with a fine house in Eaton Square and a direct telegraph line to Scotland Yard. After some negotiation, I made them throw in a phaeton and pair of matched horses for my wife.”

  “For your wife,” Garrett repeated, her stomach filling with butterflies.

  Ethan nodded, reaching into his pocket. “I’m not going to do this the conventional way,” he warned, and she laughed breathlessly.

  “That’s perfect, then.”

  He pressed something smooth and metallic into the palm of her hand. She looked down and saw a whistle cast in silver, strung on a glinting, glimmering silver chain. Noticing there was something engraved on it, she looked more closely.

  Whenever you want me

  “Garrett Gibson,” she heard him say, “you’ve a rare skill at healing—I’m living proof of that. But if you don’t marry me, you’ll have my broken heart to mend. Either way, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, as I love you too much to be without you. Will you be my wife?”

  Garrett looked up at him through bright, blurred eyes, too overwhelmed with joy to summon a single word.

  She soon made the discovery that it was hard to blow a whistle when you were smiling.

  But she managed it anyway.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Friends,

  Although all my books are a labor of love, this one is especially close to my heart because it was inspired by a magnificent real-life woman, Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson. Against great opposition, she earned a medical degree at the Sorbonne in 1870. In 1873, she managed to become the first licensed female physician in Britain. The British Medical Association promptly changed its rules afterward to prevent any other women from joining for the next twenty years. Dr. Anderson went on to co-found the first hospital staffed by women and became the first dean of a British medical school. She was also active in the women’s suffrage movement and became the first female mayor and magistrate in England, serving in the splendid town of Aldeburgh.

  The Thames was so contaminated by sewage and industrial chemicals in Victorian times that tens of thousands of London residents were killed by cholera. In 1878, a pleasure steamship called the Princess Alice collided with another boat and sank. Over six hundred passengers died, with many of the deaths blamed, not on drowning, but asphyxiation. According to an account of the time, the Thames water was “hissing like soda water with baneful gasses.” In modern times, the Thames has been transformed into the cleanest major river that runs through a major city in the world and is teeming with fish and wildlife.

  Although the conspiracy plot in Hello Stranger is, of course, fictional, there really was a secret and unauthorized team of agents, supervised by Edward George Jenkinson. He ran clandestine operations from the Home Office, often competing with Scotland Yard. Jenkinson was dismissed in 1887 and his force was replaced by the official “Special Irish Branch.”

  As someone who gets a little weak-kneed at the sight of blood, it wasn’t always easy to research various aspects of Garrett’s work, but it was always fascinating. The history of blood transfusions was especially interesting. Early recorded attempts at transfusion used sheep or cows’ blood, transfused into human patients. The experiments didn’t go well, to put it mildly, and the practice was banned for about 150 years. Scientists and doctors began working on the problem again in the 1800s, with varying results. Then in 1901, Dr. Karl Landsteiner of Austria discovered the three human blood groups—A B, and O—and found that you couldn’t mix blood from incompatible individuals. Until then, successful blood transfusions depended on whether you were lucky enough to receiving blood from a compatible donor.

  Thank you, as always, for your encouragement and kindness—you make my job a joy!

  —Lisa

  Garrett’s Refreshing Lemon Ice

  Some people are surprised to learn that ices, sorbets, and ice creams were served at afternoon teas or soirees in the Victoria era. Ices were actually popularized in England back in the mid-1700s by French and Italian confectioners who had settled in London. A wonderful variety of flavors was available, such as elderflower, pineapple, apricot, rosewater, pistachio, and even brown bread ice! Here is a simple and easy recipe for Dr. Garrett Gibson’s favorite: lemon ice.

  Ingredients

  6 lemons (or 1/2 cup lemon juice)

  1 orange (or 1/4 cup orange juice)

  2 cups water

  2 cups sugar

  Directions

  Zest one of the lemons (only the yellow part of the rind, the white is bitter).

  Squeeze the juice out of the orange and lemons.

  Mix water and sugar, and simmer until sugar is completely dissolved.

  Add lemon zest, lemon juice, and orange juice.

  Pour into a metal pan (loaf pan worked well for us).

  Place in freezer and stir it with a fork every half hour, for about three hours, or until lemon ice has a heavy, slushy texture that you can scoop out.

  Note: If you don’t care about historical accuracy, replace one of the cups of sugar with Karo syrup—it makes the texture of the ice much smoother.

  An Excerpt from Devil’s Daughter

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next novel in the Ravenel series

  Phoebe had never met West Ravenel, but she knew one thing for certain: He was a mean, rotten bully. She had known it since the age of eight, when her best friend, Henry, started writing to her from boarding school.

  West Ravenel had been a frequent subject of Henry’s letters. He was a big, sarcastic, hardened case of a boy, but his constant misbehavior had been overlooked, as it was in nearly any boarding school of the time. It was seen as inevitable that older boys would dominate and browbeat younger boys, and anyone who dared tell tales would be severely punished.

  Dear Phoebe,

  I thought it would be fun to go to bording school with other boys, but it’s not. There’s a boy named West who always takes my breakfast roll and he’s already the size of an elefant.

  Dear Phoebe,

  Yesterday it was my job to change the candklestiks. West Ravenel sneaked trick candles into my basket and last night one of them went off like a rocket and singed Mr. Farthing’s brows. I got my hand caned for it. Mr. Farthing should have known I wouldn’t have done something so obvyus. West isn’t a bit sorry. He said he can’t help it if the teacher is an idyut.

  Dear Phoebe,

  I drew this picture of West Ravenel for you, so if you ever see him, you’ll know to run away. I’m bad at drawing, which is why he looks like a pirate clown. He also acts like one.

  For four years, West Ravenel had annoyed and plagued poor Henry, Lord Clare, a small and slight boy with a delicate constitution. Eventually Henry’s family had withdrawn him from school and brought him back to live in Heron’s Point, not far from where Phoebe’s family resided. The mild, healthful climate of the coastal resort town, and its famed seawater bathing, had helped to restore Henry’s health and good spirits. To Phoebe’s delight, Henry had visited her home often, and had even studied with her brothers and their tutor. His intelligence, wit, and endearing eccentricities had made him a favorite with the Challon family.

  There had never been a specific moment when Phoebe’s childhood affection for Henry had turned into something new. It had happened gradually, twining all through her like delicate silver vines, blossoming into a jeweled garden, until one day she looked at him and felt a thrill of love.

  She had needed a husband who could also be a friend, and Henry was her best friend in the world. He understood everything about her, just as she did him. They were a perfect match.

  Phoebe had been the first one to broach the subject of marriage. However, she’d been stunned and hurt when Henry had gently tried to dissuade her.

  “You kno
w I can’t be with you forever,” he’d said, wrapping his thin arms around her, twirling his fingers in the loose curls of her red hair. “Someday I’ll fall too ill to be a proper husband or father. To be of any use at all. That wouldn’t be fair to you or the children. Or even to me.”

  “Why are you so resigned?” Phoebe had demanded, frightened by his quiet, fatalistic acceptance of his mysterious ailment. “We’ll find new doctors. We’ll find out whatever it is that’s making you ill, and we’ll find a cure. Why are you giving up the fight before it’s even started?”

  “Phoebe,” he’d said softly, “the fight started long ago. I’ve been tired for most of my life. No matter how much I rest, I scarcely have enough stamina to last through the day.”

  “I have stamina for both of us.” Phoebe had rested her head on his shoulder, trembling with the force of her emotions. “I love you, Henry. Let me take care of you. Let me be with you for however long we’ll have together.”

  “You deserve more.”

  “Do you love me, Henry?”

  His large, soft brown eyes had glistened. “As much as any man has ever loved a woman.”

  “Then what more is there?”

  They had married, the two of them a pair of giggling virgins discovering the mysteries of love with affectionate awkwardness. Their first child, Justin, was a dark-haired and robustly healthy boy who was now four years old.

  Henry had gone into his final decline a year ago, just before the birth of their second son, Stephen.

  In the months of grief and despair that had followed, Phoebe had gone back to live with her family, finding a measure of solace in the loving home of her childhood. But now that the initial year of mourning had passed, it was time to start a new life as a young mother of two boys. A life without Henry. How strange that seemed. She would have to move back to the Clare estate in Essex—which Justin would inherit when he came of age—and she would try to raise her sons the way their beloved father would have wished.