Hoping that Lady Jocelyn was well-bred enough to do that much, Sally said, “I’ll visit again later.” She bent to kiss his forehead, then left.
Hugh Morgan was approaching the blue room. “Her ladyship has assigned me to be the major’s servant,” he said ingenuously. “It’s a real honor.”
“I’m sure you will suit him very well.” As Sally left, she felt unwilling amusement at the perfect poetic justice Lady Jocelyn had visited on Morgan, the accidental instrument for bringing the major to these hallowed precincts. Caring for a gravely injured man would not be easy. Luckily, the footman seemed like a kind, conscientious young man. David would be in good hands.
Now to find the mad Scot at St. Bartholomew’s.
It took Jocelyn a good half-hour to calm down. When her appalling sister-in-law arrived, she’d been admiring the flowers Candover had sent that morning. The note read only Until September, and was signed with a boldly scrawled C.
Holding the note and remembering that wordless but potent interchange between them, she’d been lost in dreams. Perhaps in the enigmatic duke she would find what she had always sought, and never dared believe she would find.
Then that unspeakable female had blundered in with her threats and her emotional blackmail. Except for Sally Lancaster’s vivid green eyes, there was no resemblance to David, who was a gentleman to the core.
Jocelyn’s mouth curved involuntarily as she remembered her remark about buying the major with gold. Aunt Laura would have gone into a spasm if she had heard her niece say anything so unforgivably vulgar, but Sally Lancaster had a genius for bringing out the worst in Jocelyn’s nature.
Jocelyn sighed, her amusement gone, and absently scratched between Isis’s ears. How could she have thought getting involved with someone’s life and death would be simple? She would rather not think of the major’s imminent death, and she certainly had not intended to witness it, but that could not be avoided now.
Whenever she thought of David Lancaster, she wanted to cry. It was like a candle going out, reducing the amount of light in the world.
She pulled her mind back to practical considerations. Fortunately Morgan had welcomed the opportunity to serve the major. The footman had a good heart and a steady hand, and Jocelyn had heard from Marie that he aspired to be a valet. Now he could get some real experience.
Summoning the butler again, she said, “Order two wagon loads of straw and have it spread on the street outside. Make sure that it’s layered thickly—I don’t want Major Lancaster disturbed by the sound of traffic. Also, tell Cook to prepare food suitable for an invalid.” If the major could be induced to eat.
After Dudley left, she ordered herself to be more patient with Sally Lancaster, since it would be impossible to avoid her sister-in-law entirely. Sally’s irritability was understandable given that she was devoted to her brother and had no one else to care about. With her looks and disposition, she probably never would again.
Jocelyn did not even bother feeling guilty for the uncharitable thought.
Sally had believed that the York had inured her to hospitals, but St. Bartholomew’s seemed ten times as crowded and twenty times as noisy. It had been founded in the Middle Ages by monks and appeared not to have been cleaned since. Bart’s treated many of London’s indigent and a clamorous, odorous lot they were.
Nonetheless, the hospital trained some of the country’s best surgeons. As she passed through endless crowded wards, she supposed that was because the surgeons had so many patients to practice on.
It took half an hour of walking and asking questions to locate anyone who knew anything about Ian Kinlock. At first she was told that he wasn’t in the hospital because “this was ’is day for the swells.” Another listener chimed in that he’d seen the doctor ’imself that very day.
Another half hour of searching brought her to the dingy little room where Kinlock was alleged to be found after he’d done his day’s work in the cutting ward. She settled down to wait on an uncomfortable wooden chair. A jumble of books, papers, and anatomical sketches covered the top of the battered desk and bookcase, with more tottering in stacks on the floor. Brilliant Kinlock might be, but neat he definitely wasn’t.
After an hour of increasing boredom, Sally’s basic fondness for order asserted itself, and she began to straighten the books and papers. A small, grubby towel that had fallen behind the desk was pressed into service as a dust rag. Remembering how her scholarly father had felt about people who rearranged his books, she took great care not to shift anything to a new location. Nonetheless, simply squaring up the piles neatly and removing the dust did wonders for the appearance of the office.
After tidying the desk, she started on the bookcase, working from top to bottom. On a cluttered middle shelf, her fingers brushed what felt like a china mug. She pulled it out and found herself holding a hollow-eyed, grinning human skull. She gasped and hastily replaced the ghastly relic, rather proud that she hadn’t dropped it from shock.
An impatient voice with a definite Scots burr growled from the doorway, “That skull belonged to the last person fool enough to meddle with my office. Are you trying to become a mate to it?”
Sally jumped and spun around, making a sound regrettably close to a squeak. The owner of the voice was a man of middle height with massive shoulders and a blood-splashed smock. His bushy dark brows provided a strong contrast to a thick shock of white hair and added impressively to a scowl that was already first class.
“I … I didn’t actually move anything from its place,” she stammered. “You’re Ian Kinlock, the surgeon?”
“Aye. Now get the hell out of my office.” He dropped into the desk chair, unlocked one of his drawers, and pulled out a bottle of what looked like whiskey. Ignoring his visitor, he uncorked the bottle, took a long, long draft, and slumped against the chair back with his eyes closed.
When Sally approached, she realized that he was younger than she had first thought, certainly under forty. The hair might be prematurely white, but the lines in his face were from exhaustion, not age, and the compact body had the lean fitness of a man in his prime. “Dr. Kinlock?”
His lids barely lifted to reveal weary blue eyes. “You’re still here? Out. Now.” He took another pull of whiskey.
“Dr. Kinlock, I want you to examine my brother.”
He sighed, then said with an elaborate show of patience, “Miss Whatever-the-devil-your-name is, I have seen over fifty patients today, performed six operations, and just lost two patients in a row under the knife. If your brother was Prinny himself, I would not see him. Especially if he were Prinny. For the third and last time, get out, or I will throw you out.”
He ran a tired hand through his white hair, adding a smudge of blood to its disarray. Despite his profanity, there was a forceful intelligence about him, and Sally felt a breath of hope. Even more determined to get him to David as soon as possible, she said, “My brother was wounded at Waterloo. He’s paralyzed from the waist down, in constant pain, and wasting away like a wraith.”
Kinlock’s eyes showed only a bare flicker of acknowledgment. “With that kind of injury, he’s a dead man. For miracles, try St. Bartholomew’s church across the street.”
Sally caught his gaze with her own. “Didn’t you take an oath, Doctor? To help those who are suffering?”
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