The Lady in the Tower (6 page)

Disquiet
settled over Jane. “I don’t think that would be—”

“Yes,” Kat
continued. “A physician would be just the thing. Someone who would approach the
subject in an entirely different matter altogether, and offer you that new
perspective.”

Catherine
nodded once, as if the matter were now settled. “If you asked, I’m sure Richard
would offer you his aid.”

Jane caught
Catherine’s use of his given name; no longer was he Sir Richard
or even
Doctor. Now he was simply Richard.
When did that happen?
“Catherine,
when did you last see Richard?”

“Yesterday. He
admitted that he quite admired your ability in dealing with that street
urchin.”

“Yesterday.
That’s interesting, for he hasn’t bothered to show his face here. I asked him
to keep me informed on the progress of our patient, and oh yes, he sent two
notes –
ridiculously
short notes – but nothing more than
that.”

 Catherine
and Kat exchanged glances. “Perhaps he’s been busy,” Kat offered.

“I’m sure he
has been,” Jane managed. The bounder! He couldn’t bother to stop and see
her—to keep her informed of Toby’s progress, of course—yet he’d
made time to see Catherine, who wasn’t even his patient, but hers!

Or . . . Her
gaze narrowed on her friend. Maybe Thornton had called on Catherine for another
reason? A twinge of something Jane was loath to name flicked through her. Was
Catherine more than a patient to Thornton? Even as the thought formed, she
dismissed it.

The duchess
sighed. “Don’t look like that! He only called because I asked him to.”

“You—But
why?”

“Because I’d
heard about this urchin, you know. Everyone is talking about it, and I wished
to hear what happened directly from the horse’s mouth, and you’ve made no
effort to say anything, so—” Catherine shrugged. “I sent a note to Sir
Richard and asked him to come by.”

“And he came?
Just like that?”

“Well . . .”
Catherine twisted one of her rings about her finger. “He
might
have thought I was ill. The note was a bit vague.”

“Ah.” Well,
that explained it, then. Despite herself, a rush of relief made her sigh.

Kat leaned
forward. “You weren’t jealous, were you?”

“Don’t be
ridiculous.” She forced a laugh, but rubbed at the headache that had started
behind her eyes. “You should have just sent for me; I would have told you
everything.”

“Yes, but we
knew you were working on your presentation,” Catherine said. “Are you
finished?”

“Sadly, I’m
not even close.”

They chatted a
bit longer, and soon the duchess rose gracefully to her feet. “I’m afraid we
must be on our way. I’m introducing Katelyn to the Ross family. They have two
daughters on the verge of coming out and have expressed an interest in having
their portraits done.”

“She’s hoping
I secure more commissions. So am I, truth
be
told.”
Kat grimaced. “If I’m to keep Lilly, then I’ll need funds to hire a barrister
should Amelia try to win her from me.”

Catherine
lifted a dark blonde brow, every inch a duchess. “Your mother in-law is of no
import. Have I not told you to leave the matter to me?”   

Kat smiled.
“And I appreciate it, really I do. But you don’t know how crazy Amelia can be.”

“
Nyet
,
she does not know how crazy
I
can be.”

Smiling, Jane
saw them to the door. After they’d left, Jane was left feeling lower than when
they’d arrived. She sighed. There was nothing for it, but to return to her desk
and the blank pages that mocked her.

Meanwhile,
outside on the portico, the duchess and Katelyn shared a look. “What do you
think?” Kat asked.

“Interesting.
Very interesting.”

“Will she ask
him to help with her presentation?”

“I’ve no idea,
but I think we planted the idea, which is all we can do.” The duchess glanced
back at the townhouse. “Now, we must let the tarot lead the way.”

“The tarot.”
Kat gave her friend a speculative look. “What card did the deck choose for
Jane?”

“I cannot say,
for it is hers and not ours.”

“Can you at
least tell me what it portends?”

The duchess
smiled and led the way down the walk. “That, my dear, is for Jane to find out.”

*  * * * *

Luncheon was
long since finished; the correspondence read and answered. Late afternoon light
marched inexorably across the library floor, and still Jane was no closer to
finishing than when she’d started early that morning. The pages, woefully
blank, stared back at her, almost daring her to put ink to the emptiness.
Setting her jaw, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and . . . nothing but a glob
of black ink splotched the page. Disgusted, she threw down the pen, scattering
a bit more ink in a fine spray of dots.

This shouldn’t
be so difficult. Her point was simple enough: bend the surgical needle along a
fifteen-degree curve to allow for easier suturing with lesser trauma to the
patient. She’d tried different angles herself, working to find a balance
between efficiency, ease of use and impact to the patient’s flesh. Granted, a
pig’s skin wasn’t precisely the same as a person’s, but it was near enough to
make no difference to her experiments.

She smiled to
herself. If Richard Thornton could see the number of hogsheads she’d practiced
her suturing technique on over the past years, he’d be shocked. Not that he
ever would find out, of course. Her father had suggested use of the swine at
first, since women weren’t allowed to cut on cadavers at the Royal College. But
it took practice to truly master the technique, and so he’d suggested using
porcine heads instead. Though gruesome, it had worked beautifully.

Over the
years, they’d ordered so many whole hogs from the butcher that Mrs. Simms came
to believe that the family had a penchant for pork dishes. Through that time,
Jane and her father had eaten pork pies, ham steaks,
rashers
of bacon, pork loins, blood pudding and sausages so much that the smell of
cooked pork even now made her a bit queasy. And late at night, when the staff
was asleep, Jane would practice her skill with her needle, always under her
father’s watchful eye.

It had all
been worth it, too. Even Sir Richard had to admit her skill, a simple statement
she treasured far more than she should.

She looked
down at the blank paper before her and began to idly connect the inkblots. Kat
and the duchess had suggested that Jane approach Thornton for assistance with
her article. “I don’t need advice,” she told the blotted paper. “What I need is
inspiration.”

Still, she
couldn’t help but admit that it would help her clarify her thoughts if she
could discuss the contents with someone who knew the subject matter.
Someone like Sir Richard Thornton.

Her thoughts
continued to spin, sharpening the ache that had ebbed and flowed all day behind
her eyes. She was massaging her temples, when a knock sounded at the library
door.
Ah, tea.
“Come in,” she called, grateful for the distraction.

Jennings
opened the door. “Sir Richard Thornton, my lady.”

And suddenly,
there he was
;
large, smiling, and impeccably dressed.
She had to admire the way the cut of his black superfine coat was perfectly
tailored to his tall, broad-shouldered frame. The starkness of his coat made
the white of his linen that much brighter, his gray silk cravat tied simply but
elegantly. She felt rumpled and disheveled by contrast.

She rose to
her feet. “Ah, um, good afternoon.” She came around the desk, noting how the
library somehow seemed smaller with him in the middle of it.

“Good
afternoon.” He cut her a bow, his gaze flickering to her desk. “I apologize for
disturbing you. I can leave if you wish.”

She followed
his gaze to her sheaves of ink-spattered foolscap. “Oh, ah, no, that’s
nothing.” She scooped up the paper and stuffed it unceremoniously in a drawer.
“Just something I’ve been working on.” The paper caught on something as she
jammed it inside. She pushed her hand in the drawer, only to slide something
else out. Before she could catch it, an opened envelope fluttered to the
carpet.

“Allow me.” He
stepped closer to retrieve it, using his cane for balance as he bent. He
offered the envelope to her.

She looked at
it, recognizing the broken seal.
Ah, Catherine’s tarot card.
“Thank
you.” She returned the pesky envelope to the drawer, only then noticing the ink
stains on her fingers. With a mental curse, she felt for the handkerchief in
her pocket and tried to rub the ink away. A futile cause to be sure, made only
more ludicrous by the fact that the handkerchief she used was his. She’d never
had the chance to return it, and the linen had become an odd sort of talisman
for her. But if he should see she still had
it .
 .  . She balled it up quickly and stuffed it back into her dress
pocket.

Turning, she
found him right beside her. He wasn’t crowding her per se, but Jane felt as if
she’d been backed to a wall. The spacious library now seemed cramped and tiny.
Sudden nerves had her shift aside. “H-How is your leg? I think I may have
something that will help the muscle of your calf if you’d be interested.”

Richard found
his gaze locked on her lush lips. Anything else she might have said became
utterly lost upon him, for as soon as she mentioned his calf, all his faculties
seized. Unbidden came the immediate image of her calf, which he could only
imagine would shape to his hand. In his mind’s eye he could see her, almost
feel the warm suppleness of her skin as he slid his hand up her leg to the
petal softness of her inner thigh. Beyond that would she be wet for him
or—

“What do you
think?”

His hand
jerked as if he’d just been slapped. What had she been saying to him?

She looked at
him expectantly. Clearly she awaited an answer of some sort, but he had
absolutely no idea where the conversation had gone. Clearing his throat, he
cast about for something innocuous in way of reply. “Ah, certainly.”

She brightened
and Richard had a terrible feeling that he’d just agreed to something.

His
premonition turned to certainty when she
added,
“We
can try it now, if you’ve time.”

Try what
? Thoughts of her
naked, in his bed, writhing under him came to him in way of answer. Somehow, he
knew that wasn’t what she had in mind, more’s the pity.

When he didn’t
answer immediately, her gaze narrowed. “What’s wrong, Sir Richard? Afraid?”

That rankled.
“Of course not.”

“Excellent.
This way, please.”
She led the way from the room and, with
his curiosity – and other things – aroused
,
he followed
. Perhaps his fantasy of her taking him to her
bed wasn’t so far-fetched. After all, she
was
the Wicked Widow, was she
not? Anticipation warred with an eagerness he hadn’t felt since he’d been a
younger buck. His body was already loping ahead of his brain despite his best
attempts at reining himself in.

But when she
passed the staircase that led to the upper rooms, a bit of his ardor cooled.
Where were they going?

She turned
down a corridor to draw up before a closed door. “I appreciate that you’re
allowing me to do this. Most physicians wouldn’t give it a try.”

“I am not
‘most physicians.’”

She smiled,
her eyes bright. “So I’m learning.”

Something
thumped hard in his chest. God, she was stunning.

“Come along
then.” She opened the door and ushered him into a room free of the usual
accouterments and bric-a-brac. Instead, the room harbored a plain settee, a
stool, an apothecary cabinet and table, and glass cabinets filled with medical
supplies.
Dear God, what did I agree to?

“Please, have
a seat.” She indicated the settee at one end of the room, before moving to a
glass case.

Not sure what
else to do, Richard sat, placing his cane on the cushion beside him. He watched
as she removed a dark brown bottle from the case. “Jane, what exactly are
you—”

She turned and
knelt at his feet. “Let me see where the injury truly is.” Her hands rested on
his knee, then carefully moved down his leg, massaging lightly. Pain sparked at
first, and he grit his teeth against it.

She murmured
an apology, but didn’t stop what she was doing. Slowly, the heat from her hands
seeped like a balm through leather and silk.

He realized
that she was saying something about the ridiculous tightness of his boot. “A
physician ought to know better,” she remonstrated. “No wonder you’re in pain.”
She worked her fingers under the leather. “This must come off.”

“Off? My
boot?”

“I can’t reach
your calf otherwise.”

Had she asked
him to carry this settee upon his back, he couldn’t have said no. “Fine,
although my valet will be horrified if we get thumb prints upon it.”