“Why on earth would a newly married couple need a chaperon?” Andrew grinned. “If you aren’t present, their acquaintance may progress to the point where they decide to stay married.”
She frowned. “Perhaps. But I’m afraid the outrageous way Jocelyn used David may have given him a disgust of her.”
Her husband’s thick brows arched. “You think your niece is outrageous? Is this the same Lady Laura Kendal who begged me to carry her off to Gretna Green when her father refused my suit?”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t ever tell Jocelyn that! I’ve spent years presenting myself as a pattern card of propriety, and she would never let me forget it if she knew how impetuous I had been.” Her eyes gleamed. “Though if my father hadn’t relented, it would have been Scotland if I’d had to abduct you myself.”
Their gazes caught and held for a moment of deep intimacy. For more than twenty years of military life, their marriage had survived and flourished. Together they had danced at balls in Portuguese palaces and dined on scrawny Spanish chickens in mud-floored huts. Alone, she had sometimes waited in wrenching fear to learn if her husband still lived. Once she had defended herself and her small sons from bandits with a pistol held in two shaking hands.
It had all been very exciting, but she was ready for a new phase of life. With peace, there would be time for lazy breakfasts and long rides across the Kentish hills. And when the boys married and produced grandchildren she fully expected to spoil them shamelessly. Andrew, bless him, would spoil them even more.
Pulling her fond thoughts back to the matter at hand, she observed, “It certainly would be nice if Jocelyn and David fell in love with each other. She needs a man who won’t try to change her, but won’t let her walk over him, either.”
“You may take it from me,” the colonel said as he rose and came to stand behind her chair, “that David Lancaster is half in love with her already.”
He wrapped his arms around Laura’s waist and began to nibble delicately on her earlobe. “The Kendal women are absolutely irresistible to military men. It will take another twenty years for Jocelyn to become as beautiful as her aunt, but she’s pretty enough to capture young Lancaster. I just hope she doesn’t break his heart. He’s not the sort to love lightly.”
His hand slid sensuously down the silk of her wrapper, coming to rest on one breast. “Now, shall we stop talking about your tiresome niece?”
Laura laughed and turned her face up to her husband’s. “Tiresome?” she said teasingly. “But you have always been very fond of Jocelyn.”
“I find her distinctly unwelcome at the moment.” He accepted her offered lips, murmuring, “Remind me where we left off last night.”
Laura decided that Andrew was quite right: Jocelyn had no need for a chaperon. She and Major Lancaster could work out their situation in their own way.
Her aunt had better things to do.
Chapter 17
Having seen Ian Kinlock’s office at St. Bartholomew’s hospital, Sally wasn’t surprised to arrive at his private consulting rooms on Harley Street and find the reception room disorganized. She hadn’t expected utter chaos, though.
She halted in the doorway, unnerved. The benches that lined the walls were filled to overflowing with waiting patients. Children crawled across the floor, a pair of boys lounged on the battered desk, and two men were arguing loudly about who was to see the surgeon next.
Swallowing hard at the smell of inadequately washed humanity, she asked the nearest patient, a vastly pregnant woman with an infant at her side, “These are Dr. Kinlock’s consulting rooms?”
The woman nodded as if too tired for speech.
Sally’s gaze scanned the reception area. “Is his clinic always like this?”
“On his charity days, aye. ’Tis quieter other days.”
Sally had brought a picnic basket in hopes of another meal with Ian, but clearly he wouldn’t be free any time soon. She was debating whether to leave when the voices of the two arguing men rose to shouts. Fists were clenched, and a fight seemed imminent.
Not wanting to think what a brawl might do to the women and children packed into the crowded room, she set her jaw and moved forward. “I beg your pardon,” she said in freezing accents. “If you insist on behaving like barbarians, go outside.”
Both men swung around in surprise. The taller, a burly laborer, said belligerently, “ ‘E says his wife is to see the surgeon next, but I’m in greater need. See?” He thrust a bloody, crudely bandaged hand at Sally.
“ ‘E can wait his turn, like the rest of us,” the other man retorted. “Me wife was here first.”
Other voices rose, either contributing opinions or stating claims for precedence. So much for the quiet evening Sally had hoped for. Repressing a sigh, she stalked to the desk and deposited her basket behind it. “Off,” she ordered the sprawling boys.
One elbowed the other, snickering. She fixed him with a glare that could freeze an errant schoolboy in his tracks at thirty paces. “Must I repeat myself?”
The boys exchanged alarmed glances, then scrambled from the desk. Still standing, Sally announced to the room, “As an associate of Dr. Kinlock’s, I shall determine when patients see him. Does anyone here have a true emergency? That is, an injury or condition that might cause death if treatment is delayed?”
The laborer started to lift his hand, then let it drop when Sally’s gimlet gaze touched him. Patients shuffled and mumbled, but no one claimed an emergency.
“Very well.” Her glance scanned the room. “Who arrived here first?”
Several people tried to speak at once with conflicting claims.
“Silence!” Despite her small size, Sally had learned to control a group by sheer force of personality in her early days of teaching in a school. Quiet descended instantly.
“This surgery will run much more smoothly if everyone cooperates,” Sally said in a steely voice. “Dr. Kinlock is generously offering his skill and time. You are not entitled to try his patience as well. Is that understood?”
Heads nodded. It was understood.
“I will make a list of the order in which you arrived,” she continued. “Who has been waiting the longest?”
After a pause, a frail old woman shyly raised her hand. Sally suspected that she had been waiting while more aggressive patients pushed their way ahead of her. Finding a sheet of paper in the desk, she wrote the woman’s name down.
She was just finishing the listing of patients when the door to the inner office opened. A woman came out, holding the hand of a boy with his arm in a sling. Behind them was Ian, face tired. “Who’s next?” he said gruffly.
“I am, sir,” the elderly lady said in a whispery voice
As she rose to enter the office, Ian’s gaze swept the waiting room. His jaw dropped. He must not be used to finding such a well-behaved group.
Then he saw Sally, and enlightenment dawned. “Miss Lancaster. I’m so glad you could help out today.” His words were formal, but his eyes glowed with amusement and appreciation.
She would walk across Wales barefoot to gain such approval. “I’m sorry that I didn’t arrive earlier, Doctor. However, everything is under control now.”
“So I can see.” Eyes twinkling, he took the old woman’s arm and gently helped her into his office.
Thinking it might be useful, Sally began questioning patients about what had brought them to the surgery. She soon learned that half the people present were merely accompanying someone who needed treatment. Others had minor problems that could be solved with common sense, or perhaps a listening ear. For example, there was the young mother who explained tearfully how much work an infant was, and how she worried she weren’t takin’ care of her babby right.
Sally held the baby and listened sympathetically before assuring the girl that her child was plump and beautiful and obviously well cared for, so her mama must be doing a fine job. Cheered, the mother decided that the baby’s occasional cough was no great matter and left without seeing the doctor.
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The surgery passed with surprising swiftness. As the crowd thinned out, Sally explored the desk and discovered a ledger book in a lower drawer, along with scraps of paper with names and sums jotted on them. She was not surprised to see that Ian’s accounts were in grave disarray.
She was trying to make sense of the figures when the last patient left the surgery. Ian appeared in the doorway and leaned against the frame, his arms folded across his chest. “I’m through early tonight. How the devil did you manage to thin the herd?”
“Not everyone really needed a doctor. Some people just need to be listened to for a bit.” She leaned back in her chair, stretching tight muscles. “How have you managed to survive without an assistant?”
“I had one, but he left. I haven’t had time to find another.” He looked hopeful. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in the position? No, I suppose not.”
She wondered what she would have replied if the offer had been serious. All in all, she’d had a very satisfying afternoon. Organizing Ian’s patients had given her wonderful opportunities to both act as a tyrant, and to offer good advice. Irresistible.
Reminding herself that she didn’t need to work at all, she said, “I can help out here until you find a new assistant. In fact, I can assist you in the hiring.”
“You’re an angel,” he said fervently. “I shouldn’t question my good fortune, but what brought you here today?”
She gestured at her basket. “I thought I’d bring a cold supper, but I gave the food away. A woman with four children needed it more than you or I.”
“A true angel, as generous as you are capable,” he said softly. He raised a hand and touched her cheek, his strong fingers light as gossamer.
She caught her breath, wondering how a touch could affect every fiber of her being. For a moment they simply gazed at each other, the air between them throbbing with mutual awareness.
Perhaps her heart was too visible in her eyes, because he cleared his throat and his hand dropped. “Allow me to buy you dinner. It’s the least I can do.”
“I expect to be very well fed indeed,” she agreed, proud of how steady her voice was despite that moment of unnerving intimacy.
As she got to her feet, there was one thing she knew for sure: For an instant, at least, Ian Kinlock had truly seen her, and liked what he saw.
Chapter 18
Jocelyn surveyed her breakfast companion. Three weeks after his surgery, David was flourishing, scarcely needing his cane anymore. Another month of serious eating and exercise, and he’d be as good as new.
She grinned as he covertly slipped a piece of ham to Isis, who waited beside his chair with transparent anticipation. After gulping down the tidbit, the cat rubbed shamelessly against his leg. “Cupboard love, Major,” she said with amusement. “She’d love Bonaparte himself if the price was right.”
“I’ve heard the emperor couldn’t stand cats.” David fed Isis another shred of ham. “Clear proof of bad character.”
She laughed. “Aunt Elvira loathes cats.”
They shared an amused glance. The last days had been as peaceful as if the two of them had been stranded on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe. With Aunt Laura in Kent with her husband and most of the members of the beau monde flown from the city, there had been few callers except for Sally and one or two of David’s military friends. David was the best of companions, and Jocelyn enjoyed their long, lazy days, with strolls in the garden, meals in the gazebo, and lively discussions about books and newspaper articles.
As she watched David scratch Isis’s head, she wondered for the first time if he might be finding their life a bit dull. His stay in London had been limited to the hospital and her house. “Would you like to go for a drive today?”
“I’d enjoy that.”
Glad she’d made the suggestion, she said with mock warning, “I will drive my phaeton and shall be most displeased if you clutch your seat and mutter about harebrained female drivers.”
“Anyone who has faced Napoleon’s Imperial Guard is inured to lesser hazards,” he said, amusement glinting in his eyes.
She smiled, enjoying his teasing. She should have adopted a brother years ago.
It was a sunny August day, and a brisk breeze blew away the less pleasant scents of the city as she drove through the park, then south toward the river. They were in the village of Chelsea when she finally drew the phaeton up in front of a livery stable. She gave the major credit for not demanding to know their destination. He was so restful.
“I want to show you my favorite place in the London area,” she explained as an ostler emerged from the livery stable to take the horses.
David swung from the carriage and came around to her side to assist her. She took his hand and was climbing down when a gust of wind wrapped her skirt around her ankles. Losing her balance, she stumbled and fell forward into him.
David caught her before she could even gasp and lowered her so that her feet were safely on the ground. For an instant they were pressed together, her nose against his navy blue coat, which was subtly scented with the lavender it had been stored in.
She was searingly aware of the strength and warmth of his body, the beating of his heart against her cheek. Her mind leaped to the night he had kissed her on the gallery. The memories of his mouth on hers, the feverish heat of his body, were so intense that she feared he might pick them from her mind.
“Were you testing how much I’ve recovered?” he asked, his voice lightly amused in her ear.
She colored and stepped away, embarrassed. “If so, you’ve passed, Major. A few days ago, we’d have both been flat on the ground if I’d stumbled like that.”
“It’s nice to be able to rescue you this time.” He bent to retrieve his cane, which had fallen when he caught her. “Of course it would have been more impressive to save you from villainous highwaymen, but lacking that, I shall settle for preserving you from a tumble.”
She firmly suppressed her strange reaction to the incident. “We must walk down that road, beside the yellow brick wall.”
“Is this a private estate?” he asked as they started down the road.
“You’ll see.” A few minutes’ walk brought them to the property’s entrance. On one side a brass plate read HORTUS BOTANICUS SOCIETATIS PHARMACEUTICAE LOND. 1686.
“This is the Chelsea Physic Garden,” she explained as she rang the bell. “It’s owned by the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. Herbs and shrubs have been brought here from all over the world so that they can be studied to find new medications.”
The gatekeeper arrived in response to her ring, greeting Jocelyn with easy familiarity. Once they were inside, she guided David toward the river, which bounded one side of the property. “The Physic Garden isn’t open to the public, but an old friend of my father’s is in the Royal Society. He brought us here once. I enjoyed the visit so much that he secured permission for me to come whenever I wish.”
The garden covered perhaps five acres, and the unusual flora made it seem exotically un-English. Together they explored the winding paths, admiring such rarities as the cedars of Lebanon that flanked the water gate on the Thames and the rock garden that had been created from Icelandic stones. Eventually they settled on a bench in the shadow of a statue of Sir Hans Sloane, an early benefactor.
Relaxed again, Jocelyn inhaled the rich scents with pleasure. “Isn’t the Physic Garden wonderful? Many of the plants are found nowhere else in England.”
“I never knew this place existed. Just as Kinlock pushes the boundaries of surgery, the apothecaries are pushing the boundaries of medicine,” David remarked. “I’m not too fond of opium at the moment, but the drug has been a blessing for countless people. Who knows what other wonders might emerge from here to serve mankind?”
She liked that he understood the drama, the romance, of this peaceful garden. His mind worked much like hers did.
He reached down and picked a flower with a cluster of tiny golden blossoms from a large clump b
eside the bench, then turned and tucked it behind her ear. “Your eyes turn this shade of gold when you wear yellow.”
As a tangy herbal scent wafted from the plant, Jocelyn stared at her companion, her heartbeat accelerating strangely. The light brush of his fingers on her ear had started a tingling that spread in all directions. Once again, she could not imagine why she was reacting so strongly to a casual gesture.
What the devil was happening? This was her friend, her honorary brother, not one of her tiresome suitors, and definitely not the man she wanted to marry. She jumped up nervously. “It’s time we were getting back, or we’ll get caught in heavy afternoon traffic, and my horses hate that.”
Together they left the garden. Yesterday she would have casually taken his arm, but not today, when touching was fraught with unexpected hazards.
As the ostler brought her carriage, she asked, “Would you like to drive?”
“Was my longing that obvious?” he asked ruefully. “I’d love to take the reins, if you’re sure you trust me not to ruin their mouths.”
She chuckled with a creditable show of casualness. “I’d be surprised if you turn out to be a ham-handed driver. And if I am wrong, I’ll simply snatch the ribbons back.”
As she expected, he was an excellent whip, effortlessly controlling her horses with a light but firm hold on the reins. She found herself watching his hands. They were large and capable, callused from honest work, not the pale hands of a dandy.
A thin scar ran from his left wrist to his ring finger. She wondered what had created it. A bayonet, perhaps, in a skirmish with a French soldier? That hand had been warm and steady when it held hers during the wedding ceremony.
Till death us do part . . .
She whipped her gaze forward. Her heart pounded as if she’d been running, and would not slow down until she fixed her gaze on the sleek rumps of her horses. Candover had chosen them for her, since females weren’t allowed to attend the sales at Tattersall’s. She liked the fact that the duke listened to her opinions on horseflesh with respect.