Prince Charming of Harley Street / The Heart Doctor and the Baby

By

By

www.millsandboon.co.uk

By

www.millsandboon.co.uk

^*
The Brides of Penhally Bay

For Stewart—

Thanks for the idea and, as always, your help and support.

R
OSE
whistled under her breath as she glanced around the reception area in the doctor’s surgery. It was nothing like anything she had seen before. Instead of the usual hard plastic chairs, dog-eared magazines and dusty flower arrangements, there were deep leather armchairs, piles of glossy magazines and elaborate—she would even go as far to say ostentatious—flower arrangements. She sneezed as the pollen from the heavily scented lilies drifted up her nostrils. They were going to have to go. Otherwise she would spend her days behind the burled oak desk that was her station with a streaming nose.

Grabbing a tissue from the heavily disguised box on her table, she blew her nose loudly and pulled the list Mrs Smythe Jones, the receptionist—no, sorry, make that personal assistant—had left for her.

The writing was neat but cramped and Rose had to peer at the closely written words to decipher them.

It was Dr Cavendish’s schedule for the week, and it didn’t look very onerous. Apart from seeing patients three mornings a week, there were two afternoons blocked off for home visits. That was it. Nothing else, unless he had a hospital commitment that wasn’t noted on the schedule. It
seemed that Dr Cavendish must be winding down, possibly getting close to retirement. A vision of an elderly man with silver hair, an aristocratic nose and possibly a pince-nez popped into Rose’s head.

Apart from the schedule Mrs Smythe Jones had also helpfully detailed Dr Cavendish’s likes and dislikes. Apparently these included a cup of coffee from the cafetière—not instant—black, no sugar, served in a china cup and saucer which Rose would find in the cupboard above the sink in the kitchen in the back, and a biscuit, plain digestive, in the cupboard to the left of the one holding the cups. Patients were also to be offered tea—loose tea only, served in a teapot—on a tray, bottom-right cupboard, coffee, or bottled water, sparkling or still, from the fridge.

Looking at the schedule, it seemed that the first patient, an L. S. Hilton, wasn’t due to arrive until 9.30. Plenty of time for Rose to have a good look around in advance. The cleaner, who had let Rose in a few minutes earlier, had disappeared, although she could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner coming from somewhere further back.

There appeared to be two consulting rooms. Each of them bigger than most sitting rooms Rose had ever been in and almost identical to each other. There was the usual examination couch and screen, a sink, a desk and two armchairs, as well as a two-seater sofa in the corner by the window. There were landscapes on the wall, traditional in one of the rooms but modern brightly painted ones in the other, slightly out of sync with the antique furnishings of the room.

Rose stepped across to study the pictures more closely. Whoever had painted them had a sure eye and a love of colour. Like the pictures in the other room, these were also
landscapes, but that’s where the similarity stopped. Unlike the sedate country images next door, these were painted in sure, bold brushstrokes and depicted wild, stormy scenes which spoke to Rose of passion and loss. Whoever had picked them for the wall was someone with unconventional taste.

A polite cough behind her made her whirl around. Standing by the door was a man in his late twenties dressed formally in a suit and tie with black shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. He had light brown hair that was worn slightly too long and fell across his forehead. His face was narrow, his nose straight, and startling green eyes were framed by dark brows. But it was his mouth that caught Rose’s attention. It was wide and turned up at the corners as if this was a mouth that was used to laughing.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘You must be here to see the doctor. I didn’t hear you come in.’ For the life of her she couldn’t remember the name of the first patient, only that it reminded her of a famous hotel chain.

‘And you are?’ The words were softly spoken with just the merest hint of bemusement.

‘I’m Rose Taylor, the temporary receptionist.’ She stepped back towards the door but the man stayed where he was, blocking her path.

‘Where’s Tiggy?’ he asked. ‘I mean Mrs Smythe Jones.’

‘Mrs Smythe Jones is on leave. Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat in the waiting room, I’ll just get your notes out.’

‘Take a seat? In the waiting room? My notes.’ The smile widened. ‘I see. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of coffee while I’m waiting?’

‘Of course,’ Rose replied smoothly. ‘I’ll just pop the kettle on.’

When she came back from the kitchen, carrying a tray and trying not to feel too much like a waitress, he was sitting in her chair, leaning back with his arms behind his neck and his long legs propped on her desk.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said as politely as she could manage through gritted teeth. ‘I think we agreed you’d take a seat in the waiting room.’ He was beginning to annoy her. The way he was behaving as if he owned the place. However, on her first day she didn’t want to cause a fuss. She needed this job. It paid well, extremely well paid, in fact, and the hours were flexible enough to give her time to help look after Dad. Perhaps this was the way all Harley Street patients behaved. How was she to know? Nevertheless, it was unacceptably rude of him to put her in this position. What if Dr Cavendish walked in to find she had allowed a patient to take over her desk? She couldn’t imagine him being best pleased.

The man jumped to his feet and took the tray from her hands. ‘Please let me,’ he said, laying the tray down on the desk. He looked at the single cup and saucer and raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘What about you? Aren’t you joining me?’

Rose forced a polite smile. ‘No, thanks.’ She slid behind her desk before he could reclaim her chair. ‘Now, what did you say your name was?’

‘Jonathan.’ He stretched out a hand. ‘Jonathan Cavendish.’

‘You’re related to Dr Cavendish?’

The smile grew wider. ‘I
am
Dr Cavendish.’

Rose was aware her mouth had fallen open. She quickly closed it.

‘But you’re young,’ she protested, feeling her cheeks grow warm. What an imbecilic thing to say.

He looked puzzled. ‘Twenty-seven, since you ask. How old are you?’ He leaned towards her and lazy eyes swept over her. ‘No, don’t tell me. Twenty-five?’

‘Twenty-six, actually,’ Rose conceded reluctantly. He was laughing at her, making her flustered. And she didn’t do flustered. ‘My name’s Rose Taylor. The agency sent me over. To fill in until your usual receptionist returns.’

‘Where did you say Mrs Smythe Jones was? I’m sure she didn’t say anything about going on holiday.’

‘I don’t think it was a holiday.’ Didn’t this man know anything about the woman who worked for him? ‘She had an emergency to do with her sister apparently. She called the agency on Friday, to ask for a temp.’

Jonathan frowned. ‘I knew her sister hadn’t been well. I was away this weekend, skiing. Couldn’t get a signal on my phone—you know how it is.’ He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. ‘Still no message. I’ll phone her later, after I’ve seen my patients.’ He snapped the phone shut.

‘Okay, so now we’ve that sorted, let’s move on. Who’s the first patient?’

Rose was still reeling from the discovery that this man was the doctor. Where was the elderly silver-haired man of her imagination? She was rapidly trying to process this new information. But it wasn’t making any kind of sense.

As if he’d read her mind, Jonathan said, ‘There is another Dr Cavendish, my uncle. But he retired last year. I took over the practice from him.’

Still confused, Rose studied the list in front of her. ‘You have three patients this morning.’ Only three! And each of them had been given half-hour slots. Half-hour slots! In
the practice where she normally worked, the patients were lucky to get ten minutes with the overworked and harassed medical team. Either Dr Cavendish wasn’t very good and no one wanted to come and see him, or he didn’t like to work too hard. But it was none of her business how he ran his practice. ‘And then you have a couple of home visits this afternoon. That’s all Mrs Smythe Jones has marked down for you, unless there’s another list somewhere?’ Come to think of it, perhaps that was the answer?

She glanced around the desk. No, apart from this ornate leather-bound appointment book there was nothing else with information on it. Her eyes came to rest on the computer. That was it. There must be a computerised patient list. She stopped herself from smacking her head at her stupidity. Of course there would be a full list on the computer! The patients Mrs Smythe Jones had marked down in her neat hand must be additions.

Rose smiled apologetically at Jonathan, who was waiting patiently for a response, and booted up the hard drive. There had to be a password here somewhere.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she apologised as the computer hummed into life. ‘That must be the add-on list. As soon as I can get into the clinic on the computer, I’ll be able to tell you who else is down for your clinic.’

The half-smile was back. ‘You won’t find anything on there. Mrs Smythe Jones doesn’t believe in computers, I’m afraid. She uses it for letters, but that’s it. The list you have in front of you is it.’ He stood and straightened his already immaculately tied tie. ‘Three patients sounds about right.’ He held out his hand for the book. ‘When the first patient arrives, just press this buzzer here.’ He leaned back over the desk and Rose caught the scent of expensive aftershave.
He straightened and pointed to a set of oak filing cabinets. ‘Notes are in there. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Vicki, my nurse, should be in shortly—she’ll keep you right.’ Without waiting for a reply, he retreated into the consulting room and closed the door behind him.

The first patient wasn’t due to arrive for another half an hour. The cleaner came in and picked up the tray from the desk.

‘His Lordship in, then? I’m Gladys by the way,’ she said.

It was getting more confusing by the minute. His Lordship? Who the hell was she referring to? Did she mean Jonathan? In which case, it wasn’t a very respectable way to speak about her boss.

Gladys chuckled. ‘You haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, dearie. Do you? His Lordship? Jonathan? The Honourable Jonathan Cavendish?’

Oh, my word. She was working for aristocracy.

Speechless, Rose could only indicate the closed door of the consulting room with a tip of her head.

‘That’s me, then, luvvie,’ Gladys was shrugging into her coat. ‘I’ll get myself away home. Nurse will be in in a minute. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ta-ra.’

Rose sat at the desk, completely stupefied. When a harassed staff member from the agency had rung her late on Friday afternoon, she’d been only too glad to get a job for the next few weeks. She hadn’t stopped to ask about the practice, and even if she had wanted to, the voice on the other end of the line had made it clear she was in a rush.

‘It’s a minimum of four weeks, more likely five. Harley Street. Please say you can do it. They’re new clients and we really want to keep them on our books. It involves the
usual medical secretary work, plus manning the reception with possibly a bit of chaperoning thrown in. It’ll be a piece of cake for someone with your experience.’

It had sounded right up Rose’s street. Ever since Dad had had a stroke she’d known she would have to put her job in Edinburgh on hold and go and help her mother. Her parents hadn’t wanted her to come home to London, but to Rose there had been no choice. Happily the practice she worked for as a practice nurse had been sympathetic and agreed to give her five weeks’ leave, more if she needed it. The next few weeks would give her time to assess the situation at home and decide whether she should return to London permanently.

Harley Street was a couple of tube journeys away from her parents’ house and meant an hour’s commute at either end of the day, but it was a job and Rose had snatched the opportunity with both hands. Now she was wondering if she’d done the right thing. Then again, she hadn’t much choice. There weren’t that many temping jobs and she needed the money. Whatever reservations she might have about her new boss, the job was perfect.

She sighed and helped herself to another chocolate in the bowl on the desk. She let the rich flavours roll around her mouth. Delicious.

The door opened and an older woman with neatly coiffed hair and a small dog tucked under her arm swept into the room. Rose glanced at her sheet. Could this be L. S. Hilton?

‘Such a naughty boy,’ Mrs Hilton clucked. ‘Snapping at that poor man’s ankles. If you do that again, Mummy will get really angry with you.’ Before Rose could react, she thrust the dog into Rose’s arms. He was wearing a little coat that covered his legs and a scarlet ribbon in the hair on his head. ‘Could you find him some chocolates? He
always gets grumpy when his blood sugar gets low.’ Then she peered at Rose over her spectacles. ‘Oh, I don’t think we’ve met, dear. Where is Tiggy?’ She glanced around the room as if she might find her hiding somewhere.

‘She’s had to go away for a bit,’ Rose said. The dog looked up at her with a distinctly unimpressed air. Rose was worried that he’d take a snap at her and she looked him firmly in the eye. She was used to dogs. Her parents had always had one when she had been growing up. You had to show them who was boss straight away. The dog whimpered and relaxed in her arms. She looked over to the desk for the chocolates. Her cheeks burned as she realised that she’d scoffed the lot. She should have known better than to leave the bowl in a place where her fingers could wander of their own accord. To her huge relief, Mrs Hilton didn’t seem to notice the now empty bowl.

‘Mr Chips likes you,’ Mrs Hilton said approvingly. ‘He doesn’t usually take to strangers. And certainly not when he’s grumpy.’

‘If you could just take a seat, Mrs Hilton, I’ll let the doctor know you’re here. Then I’ll see what I can find for Mr Chips. Can I get you something? A cup of tea, coffee?’

Mrs Hilton sat down on one of the chairs and picked up a magazine. ‘No, thank you. Too much caffeine isn’t good for my arthritis and…’ she eyed Rose severely ‘…don’t you know it’s terribly bad for the skin? Like chocolates.’ Her eyes flickered to the empty bowl and Rose felt her cheeks grow warmer. ‘Although it seems you have good skin. Good girl. Most girls don’t think about their skin until they reach my age and by then it’s far too late to do anything about it. At least—’ her eyes twinkled ‘—without the expertise of a good surgeon.’