My Favorite Countess (19 page)
Read My Favorite Countess Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
“As you wish, Lady Randolph.”
He ushered her back to the hallway and led her to the stairs that would take them out to the central courtyard. His anger was matched by the return of his black mood. Despite his long-held determination that he would never allow a woman to affect him like this, he knew it would take a very long time to forget her. She had ripped the wound open again. It would take much work and self-discipline to stanch the bleeding.
A familiar voice called out from behind them. “Blackmore! Hold up, man.”
Hell!
It was Wardrop, a fellow physician at the hospital and one of his oldest friends. On any other day John would have been glad to see him, but the last thing he wanted to do was explain Bathsheba's presence. Wardrop fancied himself a ladies' man, and he could never resist a beautiful womanâeven one ready to bolt out the front door. If his friend showed the slightest inclination to flirt, John had little doubt he would be forced to knock him senseless.
Wardrop hurried up to them, a wide grin splitting his face as he barely managed not to ogle Bathsheba. She didn't respond with her usual flirtatious charm, but instead moved closer to John and slipped her gloved hand around his bicep. Astonished, he tucked her against his side.
“Blackmore, you old devil,” cried Wardrop. “Haven't seen you in days. I was just about to ask where you'd been keeping yourself, but I think I know the answer to that question.”
“Lady Randolph, may I present Dr. James Wardrop, a colleague of mine and a lecturer at Bart's. Wardrop, the Countess of Randolph.”
Only an idiot would ignore the warning in his voice. Wardrop wasn't an idiot, but he clearly had no intention of allowing John to frighten him off.
Instead, he gave Bathsheba a deep, flourishing bow, looking the perfect idiot.
“Lady Randolph,” Wardrop purred in what he mistakenly thought was a seductive voice, “to what do we poor souls owe the honor of your presence? I assure you that Bart's has never had its humble halls graced by a beauty as radiant as yours.”
John snorted in disgust, but looked uneasily at Bathsheba. Surely she wouldn't fall for such drivel.
“Dr. Wardrop,” she answered in a chilly, off-putting voice. “It's a pleasure to meet any colleague of Dr. Blackmore's.”
When Wardrop tried to snatch up her free hand to bow over it, she evaded him, clamping her fingers around John's arm. The other man looked disconcerted, and John barely managed to hold back a laugh.
“I'm escorting Lady Randolph on a tour of the hospital,” he said.
“That's a waste of an afternoon. Why the deuce would you want to do that? Begging her ladyship's pardon,” Wardrop added hastily.
Bathsheba regally inclined her head. “Dr. Blackmore has asked me to consider serving on the Board of Governors. Naturally, I wanted to see the facility before taking on such a commitment.”
Wardrop's mouth gaped open for a moment before he recovered. “Really? Have you, ah, mentioned this to Abernethy, Blackmore?”
“I intend to speak to him later today,” John replied.
“Hate to inform you, old chap, but don't think that will be necessary. Have a look behind you.”
John glanced over his shoulder. Abernethy strode down the hall, fixing them in his sights. As usual, he looked ready to pitch a fit.
“Just remembered something I must do,” muttered Wardrop. “Lady Randolph, pleasure. Hope to see you again.” And then he was gone, practically running out the front door in his haste to escape.
Bathsheba gazed after him, a puzzled frown on her face. “What an odd man.”
“Just one of many here at Bart's, my lady. Prepare yourself to meet our head surgeon and chief oddity, Dr. John Abernethy.”
She gave him a shrewd glance and then turned to meet the enemy in the trenches.
Abernethy steamed up to them. “Blackmore, what are you doing escorting ladies through the hospital in the middle of the day? Not at all proper. Very disrupting to our routine. I expect a full accounting from you immediately.”
John raised a brow. “Would you prefer I escort them in the middle of the night, Dr. Abernethy?”
Bathsheba pinched his armâhard.
“Dr. Abernethy, I am the Countess of Randolph,” she said, exerting every ounce of her considerable aristocratic charm. “Dr. Blackmore has been kind enough to take me on a tour of your wonderful hospital. I can't tell you how impressed I am. Everything is so clean, so well organized. And your patients, I think, must receive the best care in London.”
The old bastard stared at her, taken aback. He wasn't used to being interrupted in mid-tirade. “Er, thank you, my lady. We pride ourselves on a well-run institution. Nothing but the best for our patients.”
Obviously thinking he'd paid her enough attention, he directed a scowl at John. “If I had known her ladyship was in the building, I would have been happy to escort her on a tour. It was remiss of you, Blackmore, very remiss, not to bring her to my office first.”
“Lady Randolph is mulling over the idea of taking a seat on the Board of Governors,” John said, ignoring Abernethy's complaint. The man cordially hated him, and nothing John ever said or did would change that.
“Yes,” interjected Bathsheba. “I surprised Dr. Blackmore by stopping in unexpectedly. You may be sure, my dear Dr. Abernethy, that the next time I come to the hospital I will seek you out first thing.”
She flashed him one of her dimples, and Abernethy could do nothing but clear his throat.
“Very good, my lady. I'll let you get on with your business. Blackmore,” he said, directing another scowl his way. “When her ladyship has departed, I need to see you in my office.”
He spun on his heel and marched back the way he came.
“I see what you mean,” murmured Bathsheba. “That man is almost as rude as I am.”
“My lady,” John responded in a dry voice, “even you could never hope to compete with the great Abernethy. Why, he once banished the Duke of Wellington from his office. He told England's hero he had to wait his turn, like all the other patients.”
Bathsheba burst into laughterâa full-throated, husky sound that sent a shot of warmth into his chest. The barrier between them collapsed into dust. He stood grinning at her like an idiot.
“You'd better not keep him waiting any longer than you have to,” she said. “And I'm sure I've taken you away from your duties for much longer than I should have.”
“Not at all. It was my pleasure,” he murmured, studying her face. Her complexion was still too pale for his liking.
He skimmed the tips of his fingers over her cheek.
Ah!
Now that brought the color back.
Ah!
Now that brought the color back.
“Bathsheba, I'm sorry if you found the ward distressing. I was a fool for taking you there.”
Her eyes grew soft as moss. She reached out as if to touch his chest, then drew her hand back.
“No, John. I should apologize to you.”
When he murmured a dissent, she shook her head vigorously.
“I'm a coward, you see. I hate anything to do with sickness. It terrifies me. I can't explain it, but something came over me back there in the ward.” She flushed, looking ashamed. “I . . . I wanted to run. Just looking at those women made me . . .”
“No, don't,” he said, his heart wrenching with guilt. “You don't owe me an explanation.”
She carried on as if she hadn't heard him. “I've been like this since I was a child, perhaps because my mother was always sick. That's my first memory of herâin bed with some illness or other. I don't know what. My father never wanted to talk about it.”
“How old were you when she died?”
A shadow crossed her face. “Fourteen. She died in Baden-Baden. My father had sent her to a spa, with Boland to nurse her, hoping it would make her well.” She looked away and shrugged. “It didn't.”
“I'm sorry,” he said quietly.
Her mouth twisted, as if she had tasted something bitter. She finally looked up to meet his gaze.
“God, I detest being maudlin. You must think me a child.” She spoke lightly, as if trying to make a joke of it.
He raised her gloved hand to his mouth and gave it a brief kiss. “I suspect you know exactly how I think about you, and it has nothing to do with children.”
She gave a delicate snort and shook her head. “You have a knack for saying just the right thing at the right time, my dear sir. Now, I mustn't keep you from Dr. Abernethy a moment longer. He seemed quite eager to speak with you.”
John took her arm and escorted her into the central courtyard, heading across the packed dirt toward the North Gate.
“Since I'm sure whatever he has to say to me won't be pleasant,” he said, “I'm more than happy to delay our meeting.”
Her brow wrinkled with concern. “I hope my visit won't cause you any trouble.”
“I'm sure it's something else entirely,” he said, pleased that she worried about him.
They passed through the gate and out into the dusty street. A liveried footman, lounging against the side of an elegant town coach, sprang to attention as soon as he spotted them. He let the steps to Bathsheba's carriage down, and John took her slender hand to help her in. She hesitated before stepping up.
“I'm very happy we had the chance to speak.” She gave him an enchanting half-smile, looking almost shy as she gazed up into his face.
“As am I,” he answered. “I hope we have the opportunity to speak again very soon.”
Her dimples came out to play, and John was lost. Any chance of staying clear of her had just evaporated.
She started up the steps and paused again, turning so she could look him directly in the eye.
“Do you like the opera, Doctor?”
“Yes, I'm quite fond of it,” he replied, wondering about the point of her question.
“I'm going to Covent Garden tomorrow night with friends. Kitty Stephens will be singing. I'm sure you would enjoy her performance very much.”
With that leading remark, she stepped into the coach and settled on the padded bench. He reluctantly relinquished her hand.
After he shut the door she leaned out the window, her face suddenly grown serious.
“And you will write to Lady Silverton, won't you?”
“Rest assured, my lady. I'll see to it.”
She bestowed a joyous smile on himâone that struck him with the force of a Scottish galeâand the carriage moved off. He watched as it threaded its way through the busy marketplace before spinning on his heel and retreating to the relative quiet of the hospital courtyard.
As he strode into the North Wing he struggled to wipe the self-satisfied grin off his face. He took the steps to Abernethy's office two at a time, preparing himself for another boring reprimand. But there wasn't a thing his crusty old superior could say or do that would make a dent in his exultant mood.
Bathsheba had come back into his lifeâdeliberately, it appeared. And this time, John had no intention of letting her escape.
Chapter 14
John leaped back to the pavement as an overburdened dray cut in front of him, barely an inch from the toes of his topboots. Silently castigating himself for being an idiot, he actually managed to look this time before crossing Piccadilly. Perhaps he should have taken a hackney to Silverton House after all, but he'd hoped the walk from his town house in Market Lane would help clear the sleep-deprived fog from his brain.
He'd been up all night, he and Roger, attending a relatively easy delivery of a first-time mother. The woman had shrieked all the way through it while her husband cowered in the corner of their bedroom, too terrified to offer one word or touch of comfort to his wife. The birthing was very painfulâas most first labors wereâbut a large portion of the woman's distress had come from fear, and her husband had been useless consoling her. Every time John had tried to step away from the bed the woman clutched his arm, begging him in piteous tones not to leave.
Finally, she safely delivered a baby boy. When Roger presented the child to his father, the man fainted dead away on the floor. It had taken fifteen minutes to revive him, and then another half hour to convince him he wouldn't damage the infant just by holding it. They had only been able to leave near dawn, after Roger managed to rouse a female neighbor to assist the woefully unprepared new parents in their duties.
John turned into the relative quiet of Berkeley Square, slowing his pace as he focused on the task ahead. Taking Lady Silverton on as a patient was not without riskâcertainly for her, but mostly for him, especially after his disturbing encounter with Abernethy yesterday afternoon after Bathsheba left the hospital. Expecting the usual dressing-down for what his superior called unorthodox practices, he had been stunned when Abernethy dropped a crudely written complaint on the surface of his enormous desk, one which charged John with deliberate neglect. It had been brought by O'Neill, the Irishman who had accused him of killing his wife and unborn child.
“I realize it's all a hum,” Abernethy had thundered at him from behind his desk. “But the last thing this hospital needs is accusations from ignorant Irish peasants that we're trying to murder their women.”
John had tried to explain the circumstances of the birth, but his superior had refused to listen and ordered him to stay out of the rookeries.
“The board won't have it, I tell you, and neither will I,” barked Abernethy. “There are reasons why we don't treat these kinds of people, Blackmore, as you very well know. If they need help, they can find it at the poorhouse or at one of the public dispensaries. You bring disrepute onto yourself and to this institution by prowling around the stews at night, associating with criminals and prostitutes. You do it at your own peril. I would strongly advise you to give it up and focus your attention on your duties at Bart's, and on the clients who attend your practice.”
There was no chance John would abandon his work in the East End, but he didn't need another reason for Abernethy to get rid of him. His position at the hospital provided him with the prestige he needed to build a successful practice in Mayfair, and without the money from his wealthy patients he wouldn't be able to help those who needed him most. Other physicians would be happy to replace him at Bart's, and Abernethy would be glad to oblige. He had tried before, but John had enough supporters on the board to stave him offâat least for now. But whatever the consequences, he wouldn't be bullied into abandoning those who needed him most, not even someone like O'Neill.
And he'd be damned if an old prig like Abernethy told him how to practice medicine.
Cutting through Charles Street, John arrived a few minutes later in Grosvenor Square. He skirted the park to the northeast side and to Silverton House. A footman led him through the entrance hall and up a marble staircase to a comfortable sitting room decorated in cheerful shades of light blue and yellow, with an assortment of chairs, footstools, and a velvet sofa set near the fireplace. A young woman reclined on itâobviously his prospective patient, given her advanced state of pregnancy. A tall, proud-looking man, dressed in the height of fashion, stood behind the sofa. He frowned as John advanced into the room, moving in front of the marchioness as if to shield her.
Bathsheba was right. The marquess was obviously both jealous and overprotective, and would likely cause John all manner of trouble.
He gave Lord Silverton a correct, if brief, bow. No point in being obsequious. The man would run right over him, given the chance.
“You are Dr. Blackmore?” Lord Silverton's voice was coldly correct.
“I am, my lord. I'm honored to be of service to you and her ladyship.”
If anything, his high and mighty lordship looked even more imperious. He put his hands behind his back, holding his ground as if he had every intention of preventing John from approaching his wife.
“Silverton, do get out of the way,” said a gentle but firm voice from the sofa. “How do you expect Dr. Blackmore to examine me if you act like you're defending the castle keep?”
A reluctant smile crossed the marquess's face, and suddenly he seemed human. He turned and gazed down at his wife, his expression so full of affection that John had to squelch the impulse to excuse himself from the room.
“Now, Meredith, there's no need to get testy,” her husband said in a soothing voice, as if he were speaking to a child.
“I'm not the one being testy. You are. Dr. Blackmore is hardly going to run away with meânot in my condition. Now, please step aside so I might actually have the opportunity to speak to him.”
Silverton reluctantly took his place back behind the sofa, but not before giving John a stern warning look.
Message received, my lord.
Lady Silverton swung her feet down onto the floor. John moved forward to greet her, then came to a halt, stunned as she raised her pewter-gray eyes to his face.
Becky.
She had the same eyes, the same coloring as his sisterâan uncanny resemblance, especially at this late stage of pregnancy.
She had the same eyes, the same coloring as his sisterâan uncanny resemblance, especially at this late stage of pregnancy.
“Is there a problem, Dr. Blackmore?” The challenging tone of Lord Silverton's voice brought him back to his senses. That, and the puzzled look on Lady Silverton's face.
“No, my lord.” He smiled and bowed low over the marchioness's hand. “My lady, it is a great pleasure to meet you. You and your husband must be sure to let me know exactly how I can help you.”
She lit up with a warm, welcoming smile. Though her face was puffy and her body heavily rounded, she was a devastating beauty. But she looked ready to drop with exhaustion. No wonder the marquess acted like a feral dog ready to defend his mate.
She gestured for him to take a seat opposite her. “Thank you for coming, Doctor. I'm so grateful to you and Lady Randolph. She tells me that you're an excellent physician.”
Lord Silverton made a scoffing noise, but after a quick glance his wife ignored him.
John frowned. He had expected some resistance from her husband, but not such hostility. He was missing something, and he didn't think it was simply loyalty on Steele's behalf.
“Lady Randolph is very kind,” he replied in a neutral tone of voice.
“Isn't she, though?” Lord Silverton interjected dryly. “Before we go any further, Doctor, I'd like to know what your experience and qualifications are. You are on staff at St. Bartholomew's, I believe, and I understand you studied in Edinburgh. I would, however, be grateful if you would elaborate for me.”
Lady Silverton rolled her eyes and looked ready to make a cutting remark. John intervened before she had the chance.
“Of course, my lord. I did study under some very fine doctors in Edinburgh. I also have two medical degreesâone from Oxford, and one from Gottingen University in Hanover.” He swiftly outlined his experience, pleased to note that the arrogant marquess began to look reluctantly impressed. Halfway through his recital, Lady Silverton turned and beamed at her husband with smug satisfaction. John resisted the temptation to laugh.
“Now,” he said after he had finished, “I need to know a little more about Lady Silverton's situation.” He turned his gaze back on her. “Why don't you tell me what concerns you, my ladyâwhat symptoms most trouble you.”
In a soft but no-nonsense voice, Lady Silverton outlined the difficulties she had been experiencing throughout her pregnancy. Her morning sickness continued to be severe, and she suffered from extreme fatigue with the occasional shortness of breath. John ran a quick, assessing gaze over her body, surprised that so tall and sturdy a woman should be having so much difficulty.
“Do you generally suffer from poor health, my lady?” he asked.
“Never,” she replied. “I've always been as strong as an ox.”
Lord Silverton gave a soft chuckle and stroked her thick, black hair. “My wife is a countrywoman, Dr. Blackmore. You'll find she has a plain manner of speech.”
“Then we shall deal extremely well together, since I also grew up in the country. In any event, plain speaking is always best in medical matters. Lady Silverton, you must never hesitate to tell me exactly what you think, or be afraid to share any of your concerns.” John met the marquess's cool blue gaze. “And you, as well, my lord. You may say anything to me that you think necessary. It is impossible for you to offend me.”
Lord Silverton gave him a narrow-eyed sizing up, then seemed to relax. “I'll hold you to that promise, Doctor.”
The marchioness threw her husband a reproachful glance before giving John an apologetic smile. “You may have noticed that my husband is a trifle overprotective.”
“Not at all, my lady. His behavior seems perfectly rational to me.”
She laughed, and some of the tension left her body.
He ran his gaze over her figure again, noting the size of her belly. “Lady Silverton, how advanced is your pregnancy?”
“According to Dr. Steele, I am two weeks shy of eight months.”
John blinked. She was extraordinarily large for a woman with six weeks before her labor.
She looked at her belly with amused chagrin. “I know. It doesn't seem possible, does it?” She sighed. “Or that I have another six to eight weeks of this.”
Silverton gently stroked her cheek, and she leaned into him for comfort.
“I'd best have a closer look,” John replied. He glanced up at the marquess. “My lord, I should like to give your wife a physical examination. It would be helpful if she were to change into a dressing gown, so that she might be more comfortable.”
Lord Silverton suddenly looked suspicious. “Is that really necessary?”
His wife gave an exasperated huff of breath. “For pity's sake, Doctor, don't ask him. Ask me. I'm the one who has to put up with it.”
“Of course, my lady,” said John, “but for safety's sake, I thought I'd ask your husband first.”
She cast her husband a wry glance. “Very wise. But you mustn't wonder why Lord Silverton is surprised you will conduct a physical examination. You see, Dr. Steele never doesâexcept for feeling my pulse and looking at my tongue.”
John clamped his teeth shut to hold back the retort that sprang to his lips. Of course Steele never examined her. That's why the bloody fool didn't have a clue what was wrong with her.
“Dr. Steele has a great familiarity with your case, my lady,” he said instead. “But I will be able to render a more precise opinion after I examine you.”
With her husband's assistance, Lady Silverton hauled herself to her feet and disappeared into her dressing room. Lord Silverton made no effort to break the silence, and John cordially returned him the favor. After a few uncomfortable but fortunately brief minutes, Lady Silverton returned, a gray satin dressing gown wrapped about her round figure. A maid accompanied her.
“What would you like me to do, Doctor?” she asked.
“Please lie down on the sofa, my lady,” John replied, moving to her side. He helped her get comfortable, swinging her legs up on the soft cushions.
Lord Silverton's face looked set in stone as he glared at him. John had the distinct impression that if he laid a hand on his wife, mayhem might ensue. God only knew what the marquess would do when he put his hand up under the skirts of her dressing gown.
“Oh, Silverton, do please leave the room,” groused her ladyship, clearly at the end of her patience. “I won't have you scowling at me while the doctor is simply trying to help. Grace will stay with me, and I'll have her fetch you once the examination is completed.”
John didn't know how he managed it, but the marquess looked both guilty and mortally offended.
“I wasn't scowling at you, my love,” he said defensively to his wife.
“Well, the effect is equally unpleasant, even if you're not directing your ire at me. I would be most grateful if you would leave my roomânow.” Her voice was stern, but John detected the hint of a smile in her intelligent eyes.
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