“I’m not certain yet.” At least it was honest. If she continued to think about the doctor, she’d burn to death from blushes. Yet that was more acceptable—and fun—than becoming the storm of her namesake and unleashing her ire upon them. Words once said could never be unsaid. Oh, dear God, I think I’m beginning to understand Cousin Andrew a bit more. And he wasn’t the ogre she’d once thought. “I need more time to wrap my head around things.” Least of all what that kiss with Royce meant yesterday when she’d returned his overtures with enthusiasm.
“That’s understandable.” He sat back while the carriage drew to a stop at the curb. “Perhaps you’ll snag a man’s notice tonight in that gown.” The grin he flashed didn’t set her at ease. “I’m sure the duke has invited friends who are high on the instep.”
She snorted. “Leave off, William. I already have much on my mind and don’t need to worry about men with titles.”
No matter what, she would never find herself serious over one of them.
*
Isobel didn’t knowwhat to expect when she entered the duke’s drawing room, but the powerful aroma of death wasn’t one of them. Immediately, her eyes watered, and in some haste, she fished her handkerchief from her reticule. Pressing it to her nose and mouth, she glanced toward the top of the room. Situated before the dormant fireplace was a long wooden table. Atop that piece of furniture was a corpse—she assumed for it was covered with a white sheet. Off to the side was a small occasional table where a battered black bag waited. A group of perhaps fifteen men stood clustered about the table, for the original furniture had been moved to one side of the room to accommodate this most gruesome of activities. Some of them she recognized from previous forays into society; some she’d not seen before. As William had alluded to, there were only two other women present in addition to her—one she assumed was the duchess—and they stood behind the men.
She tightened the fingers of her free hand on William’s arm. “At least the windows are open,” she whispered. Not only that, but the French-paned doors that led to a small terrace outside had been thrown open too. The murmur of excited talking covered her words, but the bulk of the men held handkerchiefs to their noses too. That putrid smell permeated everything.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to remove it from my nose.
“Indeed.” His lower jaw hung slightly open. Ah, so that was how he’d learned to tolerate such a gruesome thing; he breathed through his mouth. “I thought I saw a parlor down the corridor as we were escorted in. If you find the need to escape, you can go there and wait for me.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, but I’m not a shrinking violet.” For the moment, she had no intentions of removing herself, especially not since she’d seen the doctor yet. And she did so wish to impress him with her bravery during this event.
“Thank you all for coming.”
Everyone in the room turned as the Duke of Titterbury came into the room. Royce followed. Though the older, balding duke was dressed in the requisite dark evening clothes as if this night were an ordinary social engagement, the doctor was in a state of undress that would normally have him tossed from polite society. His jacket was missing, along with a waistcoat. He wore a muslin apron over his remaining clothing. It covered his chest and hung to his knees, and the sleeves of his lawn shirt had been rolled up to the elbow.
“Oh!” Isobel nearly forgot how to breathe as she stared at the naked expanse of his forearms. Red hair lay sprinkled over the pale skin, as did a smattering of freckles. Despite the fact that he made his living as a physician, those forearms weren’t weak. Did the rest of his form possess the same lean, banked power? His appearance spoke of quiet strength and a man who wasn’t afraid of physical labor.
At her side, William snorted. “Out of all the people in attendance this night, I assumed you wouldn’t be the one shocked,” he whispered. “I’d imagine the doctor doesn’t wish to sully his clothing with entrails.”
“Do shut up, Wills.” Then her attention went to the duke. He stood to one side of the table with the sheet-covered corpse while Royce paused near what she assumed were the feet.
“I’m glad to see a good crowd tonight. This is Doctor Marsden. He’ll be conducting tonight’s entertainment, and I’m sure we’ll all find it the height of interesting.”
Isobel huffed and added in a barely audible voice to her brother. “I don’t know that cutting a dead body open is entertainment, but then, the machinations of the ton have already struck me as offensive.” When she glanced at the doctor, their gazes connected. His lit with pleasure and she couldn’t help but offer a smile. Immediately, some of her ire concerning the world she lived in faded.
Then he looked away to assess the guests, and she was able to draw a breath again. “Good evening. Thank you for coming.” He made certain to include everyone in his attention. “The Duke of Titterbury has requested that I perform a cadaver exam for you this evening, so if there’s no objections, I’d like to get to it straightaway. As you have probably noticed, the smell isn’t the most pleasant, and every moment we delay means the body decays all the faster. Already, this fellow is a week past death.”
“The floor is yours, Doctor,” the duke said. “I look forward to your findings.” He came around to stand at the rear of the crowd next to his wife.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Without ceremony, he slipped the sheet from what was indeed a corpse, and one that had seen better days. The man was completely nude except from a length of linen that had been draped over his privates. In places his skin sagged. His face was sunken and hollow.
Murmurs of shock and surprise filtered through the room.
“Oh, my,” she uttered in a barely audible whisper.
Beside her, William chuckled. “Didn’t you want scandal? Allowing you entry tonight is quite that, and if Andrew ever discovers I allowed it, we’ll both feel his wrath.”
Isobel shook her head. “I won’t tell him.” She swallowed a few times in rapid succession to keep the urge to cast up her accounts at bay.
“It’s rather ghastly to gaze upon the dead, but this is the state we’re all headed toward.” Royce cleared his throat. “His Grace has persuaded the Royal College of Surgeons to release into my custody this man whose name was Horace Smythe.” As he spoke, he pulled what looked to be a thin knife from the bag along with a pair of silver tongs, similar to what someone would use for sugar cubes but longer and thinner. He laid both instruments on top of the cloth on the body. “Whether it’s his real name or a false moniker, we’ll never know, but he was convicted of murder and then put to death a week past. He had a long history of violent crimes.”
A murmur of interest went through the assembled crowd. One of the men clapped a hand to his mouth and hurried from the room with a decidedly green tinge to his face.
From his bag, Royce removed a stack of folded rags. Though it appeared they’d been freshly laundered and ironed with crisp edges, they were stained, and Isobel shuddered to think upon what made those stains. “What I aim to do tonight is determine not only his cause of death—England has many ways to put down convicted murderers—but also discover what sort of health he might have enjoyed in life and perhaps provide you with a better understanding of anatomy.”
Another wave of murmurs went through the assembled company. Isobel rose up on her toes in an effort to better see. When that didn’t accomplish much since she was short, she left William to stand off to one side of the knot of men. In this way she could observe but stand further away… as well as watch Royce to full advantage. In profile she was able to appreciate his form as well as the tight curve of his bottom, showed to advantage in the trousers without being covered by a jacket’s tails.
“Let’s begin.” Royce donned a thin pair of kid gloves. “As you can see, there are obvious signs this man was strangled—hung.” He moved to the corpse’s head. “There is bruising here.” As he drew a finger along a purpled line that went across the throat, he used his other hand to pry open one of the body’s eyes. “And there is petechiae—or red spots—in the eyes.” He gestured to the face. “Further examination shows swollen lips. These are sure signs of strangulation.”
A part of her wished she could see what he did, but from her vantage point she couldn’t. How fascinating he did the exam without flinching or horror.