Emma Cadbury was cursed with a beauty that no effort on her part could diminish. That beauty, that perfectly symmetrical arrangement of features, had only caused her misery, pain and disaster. She’d been forced to become a whore, and she’d spent five years servicing strangers until the woman who’d entrapped her died and Emma took her job. As the youngest madam in England she no longer had to endure the pawings of men, and she’d been gloriously, happily celibate ever since. She had every expectation that pleasant state would last the rest of her life, at least if she had anything to say about it.
Her one regret was her loss at a chance of children. She was a born nurturer, and she expended that energy on her patients, on the never-ending supply of soiled doves looking for a new life, and on her friend Melisande’s babies. She’d just delivered Melisande’s second in three years—not that Melisande had needed much help. She was made for having babies, sailing through pregnancies with no trace of morning sickness or unexpected tears, and her labor and deliveries were fast and efficient. Considering that her panicked, overprotective husband had lost his first two wives in pregnancy and each time he’d expressly forbidden Melisande to get pregnant, this was a Very Good Thing.
Emma threw her drab cloak over her shoulders, ready to face the cool night air. She could feel the crackle of paper in her pocket: her formal invitation to the christening of Melisande’s daughter, and she was looking forward to it. Days of being coddled, the chance to check in on the doves at the Dower House near Starlings Manor, would enable her to return to the hospital rested and refreshed and ready. Ready to deal with Mr. Fenrush’s haughty superiority and attempts at sabotage, to deal with the myriad of indignities heaped on her by his sycophantic followers.
In truth, she would have given a great deal to apply her impressive medical skills elsewhere. On the battlefield men wouldn’t be so picky. Had she been present in the Afghan War, she might have been able to treat the injuries of Melisande’s brother-in-law, Brandon, at the time they happened, instead of leaving him with a ruined face, a weak leg, and the need to disappear into alcohol and opium.
She would never have me Brandon Rohan had he not ended up in the ward of the charity hospital she’d been working in, and it had taken her a long time to recognize the connection between her best friend and the desperately wounded soldier who had no memory of his own name. She’d been foolish, letting down her guard, but then he’d disappeared, which she counted a blessing.
She had little use for men, but Brandon Rohan had been unlike any other. Broken as he was, his wry smile, the beautiful unmarred side of his face, his strong hands had made her think of things that should have shamed her. She wouldn’t have called it desire—that was not for the likes of her—but she had found herself wondering what it would feel like to be in bed with him instead of servicing a wheezing old man or a vicious young rake.
She knew that pleasure in the act of copulation, much less joy, was impossible for someone like her, but she thought of him sometimes and wondered what could have happened if life had been different. Before she had fallen from grace she’d been a solidly middle-class country girl, far beneath his touch. Still, Brandon was a younger son of a marquess, and t
he Rohans were notorious with their refusal to follow the dictates of society. Anything could have been possible.
Not any longer.
She refused think about it. Well, hardly more than the rare occasion when her defenses were down and her spirits were in the doldrums. Even good, sweet country girls didn’t marry aristocrats. She was content to know he was now safe and happy, far away in the Highlands, and no longer her concern.
She let herself out the back door into the cold, gloomy streets near the London docks. Mr. Fenrush had barred her from using the front door in case anyone suspected she might have a more active job than rolling bandages. The power wielded by Benedick, Melisande’s husband, was impressive, but it would never do to overestimate the amount of tolerance in the medical establishment. There was only so much an impressive donation could buy.
Emma moved down the back streets, her head down, unworried. She carried a pig sticker with her, and most of the denizens of the area knew who she was and kept a respectful distance. She was both one of them and a step above, and she was generally left in peace. If some drunken gentleman happened to wander off the beaten path and think she was fair game, she either disabused him of the notion or one of the locals would take care of it.
It wasn’t a long walk to her lodgings, for London neighborhoods were a confused mass of slums, the bourgeoisie, and the upper classes, and when you turned the corner you never knew what you might find. The shabby house in Dosset Street was clean enough, and a short walk along the docks to the hospital, and that was all she needed.
Viscount Rohan and his lady were still offended that she refused to stay in their mansion on Bury Street, but she’d been adamant. Someone had to keep an extra sharp eye on the girls of the Dovecote, and Emma’s lodgings were just a short walk away from there as well. That excuse had gone up in flames, but she still had no intention of leaving her neat rooms. She’d already accepted more help than made her comfortable—on this she would hold firm.
The streets were busier than she expected. It was autumn, darkness was coming early, and she pulled her hood over her dark hair, threading her way through the crowds. This area was busiest at night, and she had no illusions as to how most people made their living. She had done more than her share of sewing people up, administering tonics, seeing to the dying. She helped anyone who came to her house, be they thieves, river pirates, whores, or runaways. Her path home led her down by the river, and the water was her guide when she didn’t want to look up and show her face. She was hurrying by, trying not to identify what was floating in its malodorous waters, when someone in the throng brushed up against her.
She didn’t like being touched, and she had already pulled her cloak more tightly around her when she was bumped again by the milling crowds. And then a third time, hard, and she felt herself falling, flailing, toppling into those dark, cold waters with a scream dying in her throat.
She sank like a stone as the river closed over her head, and for a moment she struggled, panicking, blinded by the murky water and the darkness. Almost immediately, though, her level head took hold, and she kicked, pushing herself upward toward the light, until she broke through, gasping for air.
No one seemed to have noticed she’d fallen, and she struck out, heading toward the dock and the slime-encrusted ladder that led to dry land, thanking God her country upbringing had included swimming. Her shoes were heavy, her skirts even more so, and the water was numbingly cold. By the time she crossed that short distance she was gasping for breath, her limbs leaden.
Her fingers slipped on the mossy wood rungs of the ladder on her first attempt, and she tried to call out for help, but her voice was only a muffled croak that barely reached the scurrying denizens of the docks. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, hauling herself upwards with an unladylike grunt.
It took all her strength to hold on to the ladder, her heavy skirts pulling at her, and she stayed very still, trying to gather her resolve. Gritting her teeth, she climbed another rung, and then another, until her sodden skirts were free of the water. She knew she should unfasten her cloak and let it go, but she was unwilling to admit even that much defeat, so she simply kept moving, gasping for breath, until someone finally noticed.
“There’s a woman down there,” a rough voice called, and suddenly everyone was peering down at her as she clung to the ladder, unable to move any higher. Blessed hands reached down for her, and she was hauled out of her watery grave, pulled to safety as she sprawled on the filthy streets, fighting to catch her breath.
Remembering the unimaginable filth beneath her, she managed to sit up. Her rescuers gathered around her—Becky, who ran the pastry shop, was there, and Jem from the nearby hostelry. For a moment, she thought she saw Collins, one of Mr. Fenrush’s servants, but when she looked again he had disappeared into the crowd. She struggled to her feet with the help of her rescuers and managed a lopsided smile as she thanked them in a hoarse voice.
“Now you come along, dearie,” said Becky. “You need some dry clothes and a warm fire.. .” The woman wrinkled her nose. “And a bath, I’m thinking. I’ll help get you home.”
Emma glanced around her. To her surprise she wasn’t far from her rooms, and she nodded with gratitude. She could have walked it by herself, her wet skirts dragging after her, but for once she was willing to accept help. She had treated Becky several months ago for a woman’s complaint and refused payment, so she could accept this much as a fair trade.
She even managed to inquire after Becky’s health. By the time they reached her front door she was ready to collapse, but she refused any more assistance, gathering her sopping skirts over her arms to keep them from making too big a mess, not caring if she exposed an indecent amount of leg. It wasn’t until she was safe inside her rooms on the first floor that she began to shake.
Holding onto a wall for support, she began to strip off her clothes—her cloak, dress and petticoats, her shoes, until she was just in her chemise and knickers. She leaned her head against the wall, uttered a low curse, and stripped off the rest, until she was completely naked. Her home consisted of two rooms—a parlor and a small bedroom—and she headed toward the back, immeasurably grateful that she always paid for water to be brought. There were two larger ewers, warm from being near the banked fire, and a strong carbolic soap she used to cleanse herself once more—she was a firm believer in cleanliness when it came to medicine, unlike the majority of her colleagues. Even her long hair smelled of the river, and she sighed as she leaned over the basin and scrubbed her scalp. If she lived at the mostly unoccupied Rohan house on Bury Street she could have the luxury of a warm bath—for now she had to clean herself piecemeal. When she was as clean as she could get she drew on a warm, shabby robe and sank into her one comfortable chair, too weary to even stir up the fire. At least she would have a full bath when she arrived at Starlings Manor.
She leaned her head back against the chair. She’d had the devil’s own luck recently—first the fire, now this. She was well overdue for a rest. Until then, she needed a cup of strong tea, some toasted cheese, and the indulgence of the small and very expensive orange she’d bought yesterday. Then she would review her notes for the day, pack for her journey to Starlings, and fall into bed.
Where she would never, absolutely never, dream of Brandon Rohan’s beautiful, ruined face.
Brandon was late, of course. He’d underestimated just how damned uncomfortable more than a week in the saddle would be. He was stronger, better, but it had been a long time since he had ridden such a distance. His thighs were burning, his knee was in agony, his bum ached, and he wanted nothing more than a hot bath before he made himself presentable. His only consolation was that Noonan looked as disgruntled as he felt.
They had no idea he was coming. Starlings Manor was enormous—it could easily swallow up scores of guests, so prior notice wasn’t a necessity, and he hadn’t been certain he was actually going through with it until he approached the front gates. If there were any problems he and Noonan could sleep out under the sky—he done it often enough in the less hospitable climate of Scotland, in rain and snow, and the soft Suffolk air would be far more comfortable.