Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works (7 page)

“You have a clinic for poor women?” she asked in astonishment. “Whatever brought you to that work? When I think of it, isn’t your focus on women and their unique complaints unusual?” The failure of her body and the weakness that continually threatened to keep her from life devastated her. She knew that other women must feel the same. She had never met a man who understood.

“Sisters.” He peeked around and smiled benignly. “Six of them, all older. I watched them grow up, marry, have babies. They always forgot about me when they talked. Female complaints were familiar to me before my teens.”

“Is that why you became a physician?” Georgiana had never heard anything like it.

“Quite! Pleased my father to no end when I became a physician. I would probably still be dispensing physics in Bath to the rich old ladies as my father wished but for some chance events.”

“Would that have been terrible?”

Peabody’s cheerful countenance dimmed. “Perhaps not, but I came to see it wasn’t enough. My oldest sister never recovered from the birth of her fifth child. She wasted away, but they went on having them.”

Others waste away
, she thought,
but at least Peabody’s sisters had children to show for their womanhood
. Georgiana had only her work.

“She and the seventh died the same day,” he continued sadly.

“How horrible!”

“Angered me, I can tell you that. Hated feeling helpless. Soon after, fortune led me to Mr. Forester and the work he does in Edinburgh.”

Georgiana could respect a man possessed by his work; she knew that feeling well. Her work gave her the courage to come here.

Peabody knew his business. He interjected questions into his chatter, and she answered them.

“Are your courses regular?” he asked. “How much bleeding precisely? How long does it last?” She told him with little fuss.

“Have you ever born a child or had relations with a man?” Those questions silenced her. And yet there was no judgment in his voice, only concern.

A voice deep inside her wanted to wail, “No, and I never will!” She looked at him in distress and saw nothing but compassion. Humiliation passed.

“No.” The whisper came from deep inside her. “No husband, no lover, no children.” There never would be. Her failure was complete.

Peabody ignored the dejected droop of her shoulders. He outlined a course of treatment with brisk common sense and warm encouragement. She could improve. She certainly would. He insisted upon it. He buoyed Georgiana along on the waves of his certitude.

Morose thoughts walked with her down the ugly stone stairway, where the smells of dirt, damp, and camphor emanated from the walls. Her faced burned hot at the memory of the things she told him, things she had told no one else. No one. Not even Andrew.

She knew it was ridiculous to think of him now. His earnest young face, the face that didn’t come back from Waterloo, danced in her mind. She might have confided in that person, but she could never confide in the man he was now.

She stepped gracefully around one more landing and forgot to breathe. As if conjured by her thoughts, he stood silhouetted against the sunny entry arch, one foot poised indecisively on the bottom step, an ebony cape across his shoulders. Beneath disheveled hair, black as the clothes he wore, Mallet stared back through golden rims.

In the depths of her despair, his sudden appearance horrified her. She wailed inwardly.
Why does the blasted man have to plague me now?

Four days of pain laid Andrew in his bed, unable to walk or even stand, after his foolish walk to Green Street and even more idiotic attempt to stand by his promise to Mrs. Potter.
Damn Georgiana Hayden anyway.

The pain—and Harley’s impudent badgering—finally forced him to surrender. He ruffled through the references that Glenaire sent to him via the ever-helpful Jamie Heyworth until he found the only one in Cambridge. Two days later he waited to be carried to an appointment with Edwin Peabody. He waited with little patience and less cheer.

“Where is the damn chair?” Andrew disliked the old fashioned display of a sedan chair, but that mode of conveyance damaged his pride less than being lifted into a carriage.

“The damn chair is waiting at the corner.” Harley handed him his staff and hat. Four doors to the corner was agony enough. He faced the sedan with loathing.

“Mind the step,” Harley warned.

“I see the bloody step. I don’t need help.”

Andrew pulled his hand free with a violent yank and half fell into the sedan. He swallowed pain-induced nausea, sank against the unyielding seat, and grimaced as the chair was lifted unevenly by its four corners. Travel proceeded slowly but smoothly enough; a carriage from the public livery would have been worse. After a half hour of teeth-gritting pain, the bearers lowered the chair to the ground with a bump.

“None of yer nonsense. Take my hand.” Harley reached in and pulled him to his feet. He was too weak to object.

“Enough,” he said, leaning on his staff. He closed his eyes and fought back dizziness for several long breaths.

Harley’s hand darted out when he took one step forward, but Andrew shook it off. “Enough,” he repeated.

He mustered his dignity and entered the building under his own steam, determined to walk in upright only to let loose a string of curses. Everywhere he looked there was a barrier, from the raised threshold to the uneven flagstone floor. He took two steps before letting loose another colorful string of curses at the realization that Mr. Peabody’s premises were above stairs. He was faced with the choice between a painful climb and the humiliation of being carried.

Harley’s obvious intention to carry him goaded him forward, and he lifted one foot to the step only to recoil before an even greater problem staring down at him from the landing and smelling of lilacs and honey.

“Damn it to hell.” Georgiana’s eyes burned so intensely he expected them to bore holes in his face. He squeezed his eyes to shut the pity he saw there. It was more than a man should have to bear.

The scent of lilac moved closer on the rustle of soft muslin and a deep, sensual voice said, “You may well wish me to perdition, sir, but surely our relationship hasn’t come to such a pass that you condemn me to that place without some greeting.”

He opened his eyes and blinked twice. Fate played foul jokes with his life and left him helpless.

“I see there is no pretense of not
knowing me this time,” she went on without waiting. “We have become dinner companions, if not
yet friends.” She held her mouth at a wry angle, her chin high. She expected a response.
God, but she is beautiful.
His body responded, whether he willed it or not.

Andrew dipped his head in the shadow of a bow. “Lady Georgiana, no”—his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper—”no pretense at all.” He spat the last four words in a staccato rhythm and watched her expression soften. She looked at him as if she cared. He hated that more than her pestering ways.

“As much as I might wish to tarry, I am afraid I have business to conduct just now.” He gestured up the stairs with his eyes and cane.

“Ah, business.” Sadness and amusement moved across her expressive face and fit comfortably together. “I won’t keep you from it. However,”—she paused and looked in his eyes, demanding his full attention; he had no choice but to give it—”given your admitted lapse of manners in the past and the abrupt end to Mrs. Potter’s dinner, I think perhaps you owe me some compensation.”

He could think of no possible response to that.

“Dinner, Mr. Mallet. You appear to be out and about again. You will have dinner with me tomorrow night. The Rose Arbor at the foot of Regent Street isn’t exactly up to the standards of London, but they serve a pleasant dinner. It sits near Parker’s Piece. Shall we say six o’clock?” The imperious words came out in a rush.

A slight but clearly visible flush that rose from her neck to touch her cheeks belied her confidence. No lady ordered a gentleman to sup with her, not
even a Hayden. When he hesitated, she snapped, “It is perfectly respectable, and I will be chaperoned. You needn’t fear that you will be compromised for goodness sake!”

He shook his head to stop a laugh and nodded in surrender. He would dine with her—if he could. He knew that she would try to solicit his help over dinner. He would refuse, and that would be the end of it.

“I will dine with you, Lady Georgiana.”

“Tomorrow night?”

If she believes that to be possible, I must have masked my condition better than I thought.
“Certainly.” He nodded.
Move on before I collapse, Georgiana. I will deal with you later.

She smiled tightly. “Until then, Mr. Mallet.”

Andrew labored up the first step while she passed. She looked for a moment as if she wanted to assist him, but he glared, without yielding, into her troubled blue eyes. He could see her accept just how unwelcome it would be and pull back.

A moment later she was gone, and his shoulders sagged. “Harley,” he whispered.

“I know. I’ve got ye.”

Chapter 8

Once again he didn’t come. Only a fool would have expected him to.

John, the footman, arrived with the news just as her maid, frustrated by her mistress’s uncharacteristic indecision about what dress to wear for a simple dinner, dissolved into tears. Georgiana waved the maid away, snatched the note, and stalked about the small chamber in her dressing gown. This time he wouldn’t come.

“He regrets? What does that mean? Who brought this? Does he wait for a reply?”

“His man, my lady. The man seemed somewhat anxious to return. I might catch him below stairs if—”

“Hurry! Stop him. I wish to speak with him. Go, man. Hurry!”

Georgiana tossed her dressing gown aside.

“Mary, dry your tears. It wasn’t your fault.” She grabbed the nearest dress as she spoke and pulled it over her head. “Do me up quickly. Truly, it wasn’t your fault. There’s a good girl.”

Five minutes later she opened the door to the public salon and found Charles Harley, impatient to be gone.

“I understand that you need to return to your master, but I wish you to clarify.”

“It ain’t my place to clarify,” the sullen little man snarled.

“What nonsense is this?” She waved the note in the air. “What does he mean by ‘I regret that I am unable to keep our engagement’?”

Harley clamped his jaws shut.

“He prays his ‘change of circumstances’ doesn’t cause me hardship. What circumstances? What is the nature of these circumstances, Mr. Harley, is it?”

Harley’s sullen face and his determined answer, “Not for me to say,” revealed nothing.

Georgiana stood very still. The authority she mustered would have made her mother proud. “Of course not,” Georgiana said, “and it is to your credit that you know it. I last saw Mr. Mallet on his way to a surgeon’s premises. He is an old family friend about whom I am understandably concerned.”

Stony silence.

“Come, come, man. Sooner told, sooner over. If you wish to get back to Mr. Mallet soon I suggest you answer my questions.” She raised her Hayden shoulders and glared down her aristocratic nose.

He shook his head wryly.

He was laughing.
Cheeky creature!

“He isn’t well. Told you before. Leg bothers him awful most of the time. That surgeon may do him good in time, but yesterday he just wore him out. Had to be carried back in the sedan chair, and he hates it.”

The man looked her in the eyes while he spoke.
What kind of servant makes eye contact? Not a well-trained one.
Georgiana could see truth in Harley’s eyes, though, and loyalty to Andrew. She could also see the moment he came to a decision.

“The surgeon thinks he can fix the problem somewhat. He may never walk without th’ limp, but he can get some of the pressure off ‘the nerves’ as he calls it. There’s still metal shot in the hip he says, and it has to come out. Won’t be pretty, but if he can survive the surgery …”

He said those last words deliberately, eyes locked on hers. Georgiana paled but held her ground.

“If he survives, he’ll be able to walk about without coming to grief every time. He’s to stay off it until day after tomorrow.”

“Mr. Peabody is the surgeon?”

Harley nodded.

That much relieved her. “He will do surgery in two days?”

Another nod.

Georgiana caught her lip between her teeth. Peabody’s presence reassured her, but Harley’s words didn’t.
If he survives the surgery—
“Won’t take help,” Harley broke in. “Likely to shy if you try it. Won’t take help from his friends in London.”

“No, I don’t expect he would.” She realized that Richard knew but chose not to tell her. Her thoughts raced.

“You may tell Mr. Mallet that I accept his gracious apology and will expect him to keep his word at a later date.”

Harley took a half step. Her hand darted out to keep him from leaving. “He doesn’t need to know he’s being helped,” she said. “You will tell me when he needs something—anything at all.” Empresses gave orders with less command.

Harley’s impudence didn’t hide his shrewdness. He weighed her words. “Oh, yes, Milady, that I will.” By the time he left, Lady Georgiana knew every detail of the proposed operation.

“You will most certainly keep me informed, Mr. Harley, whether you wish to or not,” she said to the empty room. “We will make sure Mr. Mallet gets the best of care and then, Mr. Mallet, oh yes, then you and I will do business.”

“
Cheeky bastard,” Andrew grumbled under his breath. He glared at Harley.

He kept one servant and that one reluctantly. Andrew knew Harley to be strong, capable, and loyal, but the man didn't know his place. Harley did what he pleased. In the three weeks since the hellish procedure in Peabody’s surgery, Harley became a miracle worker as well. “Cheeky bastard,” Andrew repeated.

Peabody deemed Andrew’s own house, with its bedroom above stairs, inadequate for recuperation, so Harley found rented space on the first level of a private home very close to Magdalene College and, more importantly, Peabody’s premises.

Peabody ordered round-the-clock care for several days, so Harley found two excellent women and a kindly lad to help him.

Since boredom threatened to make Mallet unbearable, Harley brought reading matter but was unable to explain how he found books and journals so well suited to Mallet’s interests.

When he was not eating
well, improved food and tempting dishes appeared. When he wished for fruit, there were oranges in winter from someone’s succession houses.

Andrew confronted him only once. “You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve done all this yourself, and in our budget.”

Harley did his best to look affronted.

“You were given explicit orders not to accept help from the Marquess of Glenaire.”

Harley swore convincingly. “Never spoke to the Marquess. I know my orders.”

Andrew could think of no other explanation.
Damn Richard for corrupting my servant.
Powerless in his weakness, he let it drop.

Andrew endured the regime for two weeks before he exploded during Mr. Peabody’s daily visit. “You can’t expect me to get better here. Let me at least take to my own bed.”

It took another week and Andrew’s promise to stay in bed to convince Mr. Peabody to move him.

“You don’t need me every day. Healing nicely. Stay down until I tell you and you can go.”

Harley arrived with a well-sprung carriage, its plush interior converted to an ingeniously constructed bed. Andrew sunk into the mattress without questioning the source of his miraculous conveyance.

He endured a blessedly brief, if not pain-free, journey home. The carriage bounced down the cobbles of Little Saint Mary’s Lane and rattled to a welcome stop.

“You may tell Glenaire that we used his damned help well at least,” Andrew spat at Harley when he yanked open the door.

“Told you, I never took help from the Marquess, just like you ordered.” Harley spoke while he unbuckled the pallet, avoiding his master’s eyes.

Questions that sprang to Andrew’s lips died in discomfort and confusion when two young men reached in to lift his pallet out. They handed him down, turned, and carried him head first through the narrow door to his house.

A bustle of activity greeted him. Strange servants carried
linen and porcelain jars up the stairs. Noises and the delicious smell of food baking emanated from his kitchen. “Harley, he growled, “Who—” A woman walked toward him from the kitchen.

“Bloody hell,” he swore.

“Quite,” the woman said. Lady Georgiana stared back at him, assessing his condition.

Her eyes slid over his face and down his chest. They rendered him incapable of breath or speech. He could only gape at her eyes, her stunning body, and the expression on her strong, intelligent face.

She leaned over to examine the dressings on his leg.

“Damn!” He pulled at the sheet and belatedly covered his lower body. He felt pale, weak, and disheveled with travel. He hated being seen like that.

Her eyes returned to his, but she didn’t speak. He spared her the trouble. “Have you applied some new cosmetic to your nose, my lady? White powder covers it.”

She put her hand to her face without breaking eye contact, puzzlement in her expressive eyes.

He began to laugh. “Now you’ve done it. Your cheeks are covered.” She looked down at her hands and smiled.

“Flour. I didn’t know flour was so difficult to manage.”

“What is Lady Georgiana Hayden doing with flour in my kitchen?”

“Tarts. Raspberry. I couldn’t risk losing the best French chef in Cambridgeshire by ordering him to your little kitchen. I came myself.”

He could only laugh.

“Do you think I’m not capable?” She stretched her shoulders upward in outrage.

“Oh, I believe you’re capable of a great many things.” Pain returned and fogged his sight. He shut his eyes in resignation. “Now remove yourself and your little army from my house.”

A sharp command sounded, and he felt himself lifted to the stairs. A voice at his side broke through his discomfort.

“Told you I weren’t taking help from the Marquess.”

Andrew Mallet never looked so vulnerable or so pale. He had never looked lovelier to her. When he laughed at her, the sound of it resonated inside her; the sensation created a flicker of warmth.

When he looked at her, she melted inside and the warmth began to spread throughout her body. His eyes said more than most men’s words, at least they did to her. He was tired. He hated being carried. He didn’t want to see her, and he particularly hated having her see him as an invalid.

Georgiana took a moment to realize their conversation exhausted the last of his energy. She vented her frustration with herself on the servants, barking orders to get Mr. Mallet above stairs to his rest.

Before she could move, his long-fingered hand gripped hers and brought her to a sudden, silent stop. She couldn’t have spoken to save her life. His melodic baritone voice, whispered through cracked lips, broke into her hypnotic state. “Go home, Georgiana. Leave me.”

Deflated, she stood back and watched her servants lift and carry him, grim-faced, step by step. Harley spoke to him, something impudent no doubt, but Andrew made no reply.