The Lady in the Tower Page 3

  “Well, of course they wouldn’t know. They were there to learn, weren’t they?”

  Her reply was to fold her generous mouth into a mulish line.

  He waited for her to continue but she instead became focused on her hands, which she gripped together in her lap. Something about the way she sat there, stiff and aloof, walled off in her tower of ill-perceived certainty and misconceptions, dared him to storm her walls.

  He never backed away from a challenge. “Let me see if I have this correct. You learned healing skills from your father, but due to your gender, you knew you’d never have the opportunity to attend the College. So, you apprenticed with him, and he allowed it, despite it being illegal—”

  “Which is grossly unfair!”

  “—despite the law, and now that he’s gone, you have been carrying out his teachings.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I help where and when I can. That’s not beyond the law.” She shot him a hard look. “You may not think me a capable healer – indeed, I know what you think of my skills in that area – but I am good at what I do.”

  He spread his hands. “I never said otherwise.”

  “You say it with every condescending look you send my way. When Albert—” Her voice broke, but after a scant second, she said in a calmer, icy tone. “Neither you, nor his family, would allow me a chance to complete a treatment.”

  “Because it was not your place.”

  She bristled. “Place? You mean because I’m female.”

  “Not at all. Granted, that would be more than enough for others, but that was not my reason.” He hesitated, then offered softly, “You were unfit for the case because you were his wife.” He leaned forward and placed a hand on her knee. It was a bold move, but suddenly, he was desperate for her attention, for her to hear him. “No physician, man or woman, should attempt to treat someone they love. You cannot think clearly. No one can.”

  “I could!” She twisted the strap of the satchel around her hand. He wondered if she was even aware she did it. “And I was succeeding, too, until you came in.”

  “Oh?” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “You were finding an answer to Lord Kilkenny’s illness?”

  “Yes! I mean, no. But I was at least trying.”

  “I know you were,” he said gravely. “Too hard.”

  Her eyes grew wet. “I was only. . . I spent so many hours looking through my father’s texts. Perhaps I—”

  “Exactly. You were distraught. And understandably so. Lady Kilkenny, one of the horrible aspects of this profession is that sometimes, no matter what we do, patients die. It is a hard fact of the profession, and not a lesson one wishes to learn while tending a member of one’s own family.” He’d merely guessed that her father had tried to shelter her from that knowledge, and he could tell from the way her brows knit together that he was right. She’d never been in a situation to care for a patient only to lose them despite everything. For himself, he knew all too well. He’d lost too many to count in Belgium.

  He saw her fighting tears and handed her his linen handkerchief. Quietly, he said, “That, what you’re feeling now, is why one doesn’t treat family. You’re too close to see the reality in front of you. Hope does many things, but it doesn’t cure.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief. “I suppose that’s a valid concern.”

  “There are other reasons, too. What if Lord Kilkenny had died under your care, and there you were, your husband’s sole heir? It could have been construed as suspicious.”

  “No one who knew us would ever think such a thing.”

  She looked so lost when she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, that he laid his hand over hers. “Jane, you did the most important thing you could have done for your husband: you kept him comfortable until he passed. There was nothing more to be done.”

  As if to punctuate his words, they hit another rut in the road, hard. The carriage jerked and bounced. Jane went stark white. It was only then he noticed the sheen of perspiration on her forehead. “Are you ill?”

  She shook her head no, then lurched to the door. “Stop the carriage.”

  “Are you—”

  “Stopthecarriage!”

  “Sam!” he called, and knocked on the roof. His driver drew up sharply, the matched bays whickering in protest. Jane was out the door before Richard could blink. He had to follow a bit slower, the dull pain in his right calf sharpening as soon as he stepped down. He looked about to see Jane a few paces away on the pavement, leaning heavily against a lamppost.

  With the help of his cane, he walked as quickly as he could to her side. When he reached her, he pressed his fingers to the smooth skin below her jaw, measuring her pulse. She was too distracted to notice. He counted the accelerated beats, her skin warm and soft.

  Her dark brown lashes fluttered as she clenched her eyes shut.

  “Are you faint?” he asked. “I’ve smelling salts in the—”

  “No!” She rested her forehead against the cold lamp pole, breathing deeply. “Why do men think smelling salts the panacea for all female ills?”

  “They are the prescribed measure.”

  She made a rude noise. “Salts usually make things worse.”

  “Very well, then. Shall I retrieve your oils? I presume you have more in your case?”

  “No. Just leave me. I’ll be fine in a moment. I-I can walk home from here.”

  “Nonsense.” He noted that she held onto the lamp pole as if she might crumple.

  He frowned and slipped an arm about her waist and turned her toward him. She murmured a protest, but leaned against him though she kept one arm about the lamppost as if it were an anchor.

  Richard rested his chin against her soft hair and she grasped his lapel to steady herself, crushing it. His valet would be horrified. “Surely there’s something I can do,” he said.

  “Just . . . stay.”

  He did. But he didn’t like it. The physician in him wanted to aid her, while his male instinct urged him to protect.

  He thought about arguing. After all, she clearly was in some distress. The sight of her upset made him want to do something. That did not include simply standing by her side. It wasn’t enough.

  Presently, though, as her breathing evened out, and her body lost some of its tension, he decided that perhaps just being there could be enough. At least for now.

  Chapter 4

  Jane concentrated first on the icy metal of the lamppost. She’d wrapped her arm about the wrought iron, grateful for its sturdiness and more importantly its absolute, unequivocal stillness. Contrasting sharply to the coolness on her left side stood the warmth of Thornton on her right. She released his lapel and opened her hand to press her palm flat against his chest. Heat soaked through the layers of his clothing, sparking something inside her. Awareness of him eclipsed all thought and it was some time before she realized that, comfortable as this was, she could hardly stay here all day.

  But now she had to remove herself from this situation and she had no idea how to do so and keep her dignity. She couldn’t decide which was more humiliating: the fact that she’d nearly retched all over him and his well-sprung landau, or that he’d honed right in on her sense of guilt about Albert’s death. She’d never considered the idea that she shouldn’t have gotten involved in the diagnosis of family, but now that he’d explained his thoughts, she had to admit that he made sense. Which made her feel all the worse.

  Thornton stepped even closer, his warm arm tightening about her waist and scattering her thoughts. Everything about him—his physical presence, his heat, his intelligence—impinged on her senses. She wasn’t sure she liked it, or him.

  He bent closer, his cheek nearly brushing hers. She wondered if his whiskers—

  His loud sniff broke the spell. “Have you been drinking?”

  She stiffened, her gaze flying to his. “A spot of brandy, nothing—”

  “Good God, no wonder you’re ill.”

  That settled it. She
didn’t like him, after all, which was a relief. She pulled away. “Don’t be absurd. I barely had a swallow before I left for the duchess’s.”

  His expression was fraught with disbelief.

  “Oh! You—must you perpetuate in drawing the wrong conclusions?”

  “Perpetuate? To my recollection, I’ve yet to draw any wrong conclusion, my

  la—”

  “I prefer ‘physician,’ thank you.” A blatant lie since she’d never had much interest in titles, but he need not know that.

  “Oh, I’m sure. And what medical college did you attend again?”

  She cast him a look of pure loathing, only to realize that her hand was still splayed over his chest. She moved away from him and claimed a mild victory when she saw how she’d wrinkled his lapel. Let his valet steam that! Would serve him right. Moving her head carefully, she looked around. They’d stopped in a narrow side street, the buildings much closer together. “Where are we?”

  He glanced around. “Near Covent Garden I believe.”

  Much farther than she would have liked, but so be it. She relinquished her hold on the lamppost and was relieved to feel steady on her own feet. “Excellent. A good walk will be just the thing. Thank you for the ride, Sir Richard. I bid you good afternoon.” She turned and walked down the sidewalk.

  “Lady Kilkenny, you cannot walk about the streets tipsy.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “Of all the nerve!” She marched back to him, tempted to kick his oh-so-fashionable walking stick out from under him. “I’m not tipsy.”

  He lifted a supercilious brow. “Very well. Half-tipsy.”

  She poked a finger at his very large, solid chest. “Not half.” Poke. “Not one-third.” Poke. “Not even a quarter.”

  He seized her hand, the enveloping heat a sharp contrast to the cold. “Then what other explanation do you have to offer for your faintness? I can think of no other.”

  “I suffer from motion sickness!”

  “Ah.”

  Just that. “Ah.” She wanted to smack him. Instead, she managed to grind out, “Good day, sir,” and turned back down the street.

  His cane tap, tap-ed as he followed. “Lady Kilkenny, please . . . I was wrong to suppose you were drunk.”

  She didn’t answer, but marched on.

  “I suppose you want an apology.”

  Or his death. One or the other. Over her shoulder, she said, “The walk will do me good.” And being away from him would do her even better.

  “Hold!” His voice from close behind her made her jump. “You’re going the wrong direction if you’re headed to Mayfair.”

  She stopped, heat flooding her face. Could the day get any worse? Dutifully, she turned around. His face remained blank, a bit perhaps too blank. If he was laughing at her, he was smart enough to hide it.

  “After you.” He motioned for her to proceed, and she did so with as much dignity as she could muster.

  As she walked back up the street, she realized his handkerchief was still balled in her fist. The linen had fared almost as ill as his lapel and was sadly crumpled. Which is how I feel right now. She bit back a sigh and slipped the linen into her coat pocket.

  As she reached him, Thornton gestured for his coachman to follow, and then he fell into step with her, his black lacquer cane tapping upon the walk. Many gentlemen carried such, but he didn’t casually twirl or flit it, as one might with an umbrella, or as she’d seen many dandies do about Town. It was an odd affectation. Thornton was many things, but a dandy was hardly one of them. Besides, he seemed to be leaning upon it.

  Interesting. Jane measured his walk: Right hand clenched about cane’s head. Slight hesitation in forward momentum. Right knee stiff. Definite limp.

  She stopped walking. How could she not have seen it? But then she hadn’t seen him walk until now for he’d already been standing when she’d entered the morning room, and he’d left before she was finished. Afterward, he’d followed her to the carriage, and so she’d lost another opportunity to observe him. And just now, she’d been too concerned with her own queasy stomach and damaged pride to notice anything else. She took a breath. “Sir Thornton, I apologize.”

  He sent her a hard glance. “For which incident?”

  Oh, dear, did he have a list? She supposed she could not fault him if he did, but all she said was, “Your leg. If you’d said something I—”

  “It’s fine.” Small lines formed at the corner of his mouth. She couldn’t tell if they were from pain, annoyance, or both.

  “But if I’d known, I never would have suggested—”

  “It’s. Fine. Now, shall we finish our walk?”

  She bit her lip. Should she insist they return to the carriage? That would certainly improve his current physical state, but she suspected it would hurt his pride. “How did it happen?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Jane blinked at the metaphorically slammed door in her face. “It does to me.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Why?”

  Why indeed? She had no answer, except that she wanted—no, she needed to know.

  “Come, Lady Kilkenny. We waste time.” He walked on, leaving her no choice but to follow him.

  They turned a corner and were instantly in a busy thoroughfare filled with shoppers, hawkers and conveyances of all kinds. Thornton ignored the crowd they now threaded through, until a soot-covered hawker brushed past, his foot catching on Thornton’s cane. For a heartrending moment, she thought he might fall, but he regained his balance and sent the man a withering look before he limped on.

  That was it for Jane. She halted in her tracks, grasping his coat sleeve as she did so. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, but I’m developing a blister on my heel.” She twisted her left foot as if it pained her. “I must prevail upon you once again for transport. I hope you don’t mind.”

  His gaze narrowed. “You’ve a blister? So soon?”

  “These shoes are not made for walking.” She held his gaze steadily, noting how sharply blue they were. It took every ounce of will she had not to flinch from his gaze.

  “Hmm. They seem fine to me.”

  Jane lifted a brow. “Are you so well versed in women’s footwear?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she made for the landau. It had been forced by traffic to pull up to the side of the road across from them. She was about to cross the street when a shout startled her.

  “Outtatheway, heya!”

  Thornton pulled her back just before a fast-rolling, high-wheeled curricle raced by. She heard him mutter, “Idiot driver,” under his breath, a moment before she heard a child’s cry and a horse’s terrified whinny.

  Jane found herself pinned to Thornton’s broad chest, his arm tight about her. His aftershave teased her senses with the scent of evergreen and spice. More shouts split the air. A crowd had developed in the street, clogging more traffic. The curricle and its driver were long gone.

  “Jesus,” Thornton breathed.

  “What—?”

  He put her aside, albeit gently, and pushed his way through the crowd. Jane followed, but it wasn’t until she joined him that she realized what had happened. A child, aged perhaps five to six years, lay crumpled in the dirt. Thornton knelt beside the child, but barked at her over his shoulder. “Tell Sam to bring my bag.”

  Jane hurried to the landau. The coachman was already pulling a black bag from under his seat. Jane paused long enough to retrieve her own satchel, before reaching up to the servant. “Sam, I presume? I’ll take that, please.”

  The servant was older, perhaps late forties, with red wavy hair and a bristly mustache. “Aye, miss.”

  She noted he had a starched stiffness to him that said former military. “Sam, please direct traffic away from this spot. I’d hate to have more victims in the street.”

  He saluted and jumped down. Leaving Sam to manage the crowd, she returned to Thornton’s side to hand him his bag, then, heedless of the mud and muck, knelt opposite him, with the child between. Blood from
a head gash seeped down the child’s face, obscuring the features. She opened her own satchel. “The shoulder’s dislocated.”

  Thornton nodded, running his hand down the child’s limbs. “Right arm fractured.”

  Jane brushed matted hair away from the child’s face. Shock had set in, leaving the small visage white and ashen. With the blood and dirt, it was hard to tell the child’s gender. “That wound will need stitching, but not here.”

  “Agreed.” He measured the pulse. “Thready but expected.”

  “Wh-wha’ . . . owww!” The child’s eyes flew open. “What you doin’ t’me? Lemme go!”

  Jane kept a firm hand on the good shoulder. “What’s your name?”

  He moved, a sob torn from him. “T-toby.”

  A boy then. “Toby, you were hit by a curricle.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “Ever’thin’ hurts.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Thornton said. “We can’t do much for the pain right now, not with that head wound.”

  Toby rolled his head back and forth, tears mingling with blood. “It hurts, it hurts. My da’s gonna wallop me good.”

  Jane reached into her satchel to remove a piece of peppermint candy. “Here, Toby. I want you to suck on this, don’t chew it, understand? It will help the pain.”

  Thornton frowned at her but she ignored him. She laid the sweet on the child’s tongue. “Don’t chew or swallow it, now,” she warned. “Just suck on it.”

  Though obviously still in pain, Toby obeyed, his mouth moving as he shifted the candy from one side to the other, the flavor distracting him.

  Quietly, Richard said to her, “I don’t want to move him with that shoulder out of place.”

  “I agree.” Which left them no choice but to relocate it now. They shared a look and Jane nodded. “Toby? I want you to look at me now, do you understand? We’re going to fix you right up, so your father won’t notice what happened. Did you like the candy? Would you like more?” When the child’s wide eyes locked with hers, Jane continued to ramble, doing all she could to keep the boy’s attention centered on her. As she spoke, she carefully slipped her arm under the boy’s thin body to hold him steady against her, careful of the broken arm.