Skimming his fingers along the open pages of the journal, Ryan pointed to a segment of the text. “Now, looking at this,” he continued, “it appears as though your father referred to Dr. Clemens as Mr. Clemens when he added the initials at the end of his entry, perhaps in the hopes that nobody would make the connection.”
“What are the other initials again?” Mary asked as she glanced down at her father’s carefully written notes.
“Well, LT and SB seem to stand out quite a bit. In fact, each of them is mentioned about forty times.”
“Good heavens, that is a lot. Do you suppose. . .” Mary stared at Ryan as if she suffered from amnesia and had just recalled her own name. “At the Glendale ball, when Woodbridge introduced me to Clemens, there was another gentleman there, a Sir Boswick, I believe.”
“I think you mean Sir Bosworth,” Ryan said, folding his arms on the top of the table and turning his head to look directly at her.
“Yes, that is right. Well, your father mentioned that he was involved in quite a scandal a few years back—something about a malpractice suit. Apparently, the whole thing was hushed up, and he eventually regained his reputation, but do you suppose that he might be the SB to whom my father is referring?”
“It is possible, I suppose, though I would have a difficult time believing it. I know the man quite well; he is a good friend of the family’s. To think that he might have—”
“Ryan,” Mary told him calmly as she cut him off, “Clemens seems equally unlikely, and yet we already know that he caused the death of at least two patients through his own negligence. We do not know enough about the rest of the patients that died at his hands, though I doubt my father would have mentioned them unless he was just as responsible for those. So we are looking for men who have gone to great lengths to hide their mistakes. They are not going to stand out among the crowd, I’m afraid.”
“I believe you are right,” Ryan said and sighed. “As for LT and VR, I am not sure who they might be; nothing really comes to mind. And then, of course, there is MH, who pops up just a couple of times. . .I”
“Oh, no,” Mary gasped, looking suddenly quite ill. “Let me see that.”
Ryan passed her the journal and watched while Mary flipped back a few pages. Her index finger skimmed the writing until she found the date she was looking for. She read the entry in silence before sinking back against her chair. “It’s Helmsley,” she whispered on a breath of defeat. “MH is Mr. Helmsley, my father’s closest friend. How could he. . .”
Ryan watched as her eyes began to glisten. He understood her feeling of betrayal, for she had known the man her whole life. “They were like brothers,” Mary whispered. “I always thought he was a good physician, but. . .”
She glanced at the open page of her father’s journal. “I remember the argument that he and my father once had about that very case.” She nodded toward the book. “My father insisted that Jack was to blame for that man’s death, a farmer who lost his leg after having it crushed beneath an overturned cart. Jack denied it, of course. He claimed that he did everything he could and that the farmer’s family was to blame for not alerting him when the wound became infected. I just cannot believe that he might have had something to do with my father’s death.”
“Perhaps he didn’t,” Ryan told her in an attempt to offer comfort. “His initials only appear a few times when compared to the others, and you must not forget, you told me yourself that when Lady Arlington needed help, he called for you because he recognized his own limitations. It is possible that he has learned his lesson and has nothing to do with the threats against you.”
“I’m not so sure,” Mary muttered, her voice more miserable than ever. “But you can be quite certain that I intend to find out. Don’t forget that I was repeatedly warned against continuing my practice—that I was told not to follow in my father’s footsteps. Helmsley is the only physician I can think of who knew that I performed a cesarean on Lady Arlington. He cannot be trusted.”
“Then don’t trust him. But you still ought to consider the other names, because someone like Sir Bosworth, for instance, who, as unlikely as it seems, apparently caused an astonishing amount of fatalities, would have much more reason to see the journals destroyed. And let us not forget Mr. Clemens and whoever VR and LT might be.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Mary muttered.
She appeared to be considering something. “Do you know—I promised Lord Woodbridge that I would have him over for tea one day. He is the master of the Royal College of Surgeons; perhaps he can shed some light on who the rest of these men are.”
“I think that might be a very good idea. In the meantime, I shall have a word with my father and Percy. With a little luck, all of this will be resolved within the next few days.”
A short while later, as clouds obscured the afternoon sun, a large carriage pulled into a clearing just outside Gerrards Cross, drawn by four great horses. A gentleman wearing a black greatcoat got out, his booted feet leaving imprints in the spongy wet grass. Placing his beaver hat on top of his head, he strode brusquely toward the two men who awaited him.
“Mr. Croyden,” the Raven remarked as he leaned his heavy frame against his cane. “I must say that I was very pleased to hear of your success. Your endeavors, and those of your son, are greatly appreciated.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Alistair replied as he handed over the box containing John Croyden’s precious journals. He cast a nervous glance in his son’s direction.
The tall, sturdy figure of the Messenger responded with a slight frown. His lips were drawn in a tight line, while his coal black eyes met those of the Raven’s. “Unfortunately, one of the journals appears to be missing,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on the man who’d employed him a little over a year ago. He didn’t trust him further than he could throw him, no matter how highly his father spoke of him. The Messenger was no fool: he knew a callous villain when he saw one, and the orders he’d received from him until now spoke of a man who was ruthless enough to stab his own mother in the back. There was no telling what he might do, now that he knew they had failed him.
“And which volume is it that has gone missing, precisely?” the Raven asked them from between clenched teeth.
“The last one, my lord,” Alistair replied with an excessive amount of regret.
The Messenger winced. He hated seeing his father reduced to a sniveling coward before this man. Still, the look of anger that shifted behind the Raven’s murky eyes was far from lost on him. He braced himself for the onslaught he expected, but it never came.
Instead, the Raven merely glared at both of the men before him. “I see,” he finally muttered. “What a pity.”
“My sincere apologies, my lord,” Alistair groveled. “I know how unacceptable this is, but you must not worry; we can easily retrieve the tenth volume for you. Right, Matthew?”
The Messenger said nothing in response to his father’s claims. He merely nodded.
The Raven held up his hand. “That will not be necessary,” he said with mild amusement flickering behind his dark gray eyes. “In fact, I would rather like to thank you for your assistance. You have been most helpful, both of you, but I think it is time for me to take matters into my own hands.”
“But. . .” Alistair sputtered, a look of desperation creeping over his face. “I believe Lady Steepleton trusts me now. She doesn’t think I had anything to do with the theft. I am sure she will let her guard down and—”
“And how do you plan to explain the sudden disappearance of your sarcoma?”
“That. . .that was your idea. . .I merely. . .” His voice trailed off as realization kicked in.
“She is a smart woman, Mr. Croyden. She will hardly be fooled by you forever, you know.” The Raven began walking back toward his carriage, his boots sending a spray of water in all directions as he went. “Sooner or later, she will discover what you have been up to.”
He stepped up and took his seat on the bench, placing the
box beside him as he closed the door, locking it firmly in place. “And once she does,” he told Alistair through the open window, “I have no desire for anything or anyone to lead her back to me.”
A flock of birds in a nearby tree scattered at the sound of the two deafening shots that followed. Matthew and Alistair fell to the ground in quick succession, their bodies pressed firmly into the soggy ground, their startled eyes staring upward toward a heaven that neither man was likely to see.
Returning his pistol to the inside pocket of his coat with slow precision, the Raven tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane. His visit to Gerrards Cross had lasted long enough. It was time for him to return to London.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
* * *
“Lady Stephanie, as delighted as I am for your enthusiasm in regards to this subject, I simply do not think that—”
“Perhaps I did not make myself completely clear,” Stephanie snapped. She took a sharp breath and stared directly at Mr. Dunn. The anxious editor was quickly taking on the likeness of a cornered animal, trapped by a merciless hunter.
“There is a lady out there,” she said and pointed toward the window with a stiff finger, while her lips drew together in a tight line, “who believes that it is perfectly all right to go around cutting people open willy-nilly. Well, I for one will not stand for it.”
Oh, how she’d gloated when she’d discovered that Lady Arlington had undergone surgery at the hands of Lady Steepleton. The information hadn’t been easy to come by, but after seeing Lady Steepleton and Ryan Summersby dance together on the terrace of Richmond House a few weeks earlier, she’d enlisted the help of her maid, offering her a bonus if she could uncover anything unsavory about the marchioness. It had taken both time and patience on her part, not to mention that she’d spent a full week’s allowance on bribes. Apparently, the Warwick servants had been especially reluctant to comply, but the promise of a rather substantial reward had eventually loosened the tongue of one maid. And it had been worth it: this was precisely the sort of juicy detail that would put the presumptuous woman’s name to shame forever. It was a priceless piece of information, the sort with enough meat on it to keep the gossipmongers busy for the remainder of the season.
She’d initially planned only to take Lady Warwick’s and Lady Arlington’s cases to the press, but she’d changed her mind at the last minute and conjured up an additional story. After all, Lady Arlington’s surgery had been a great success, as had Lady Warwick’s, and while these accounts would add the necessary credulity Stephanie needed, they just weren’t dramatic enough.
If a scandal were to ruin Lady Steepleton’s reputation for good, as Stephanie hoped it would, then something a little more shocking, like a failed surgery, would have to be contrived. Besides, it was just a small fib to a man she didn’t even know or care about. While Lord Warwick’s warning had given her pause, she’d eventually decided that the prospect of seeing Lady Steepleton ruined was undoubtedly worth the risk.
Stephanie stopped herself from smirking, a difficult feat when she could practically see the promise of victory staring her straight in the face in the form of a thin, little man with receding hair and a pair of spectacles perched precariously upon his skinny nose.
And once Lady Steepleton had been publically humiliated, it would be impossible for Ryan to continue to associate with her. He’d be forced to cast her aside like a dirty dishcloth, leaving just enough space for Stephanie to swoop in and offer comfort. If she had to fudge the truth a bit in order to add some drama, then so be it. In the end, it was all for a good cause.
She returned her attention to the man in front of her.
“Now, I have written an article about a rather unpleasant experience that a close friend of mine recently had to endure at the hands of this. . .this charlatan. You see, this poor woman—Miss Charlotte Hayworth, to be precise—who recently took ill, was under the impression that this woman knew what she was doing. Well, what can I say; she’s a bit naive, I suppose. If she would only have come to me for advice first, I would have strongly advised her to seek proper medical attention.”
Mr. Dunn leaned forward, placing his elbows on his cluttered desk as he stared back at Stephanie from behind his spectacles. “Tell me more about Miss Hayworth’s experience,” he encouraged her.
“Very well, though I do not see why you cannot simply read the article. All the details are there, you know, and I did go to great pains in order to write them down.”
Mr. Dunn exhaled an exasperated gush of air. This woman was clearly of the more spoiled variety. Still, if what she said was true, then he would gladly endure it with as much grace as he was capable of, for it would make a wonderful story. “I understand,” he told her drily. “But I would still appreciate it if you would tell me in your own words.”
Lady Stephanie twisted her mouth as if considering how best to begin. “From what my friend has told me, she began experiencing pain in the lower right side of her abdomen about two weeks ago. This pain quickly accelerated, becoming so severe, in fact, that she could neither sit nor stand. Her mother noticed her discomfort, of course, but since she had little desire to be examined by their family physician in such an intimate place, she merely declared that it was nothing more than her monthly courses giving her trouble.”
“I see,” the Mr. Dunn remarked, trying not to roll his eyes. He was not the sort to blush or stammer at the mention of such things. “So, then what happened?”
“Well, Miss Hayworth had heard from a mutual friend of ours—Lady Arlington, to be precise—that there is a lady who has recently returned from the continent, a woman who is taking it upon herself to perform some minor surgeries for a few ladies in need.”
“Good Lord!” the Mr. Dunn exclaimed, grabbing a piece of paper and dipping his quill in his inkwell. A few globs of the black liquid splattered across his desk, spraying a stack of papers with dark specks. Ignoring it, he began taking notes immediately.
“Lady Arlington, you say? And just what exactly did this. . .lady physician, for lack of a better term. . .what did she do for Lady Arlington, if I might ask?”
“Oh, have you not heard?” Lady Stephanie donned a look of unblemished innocence. “I thought that something as juicy as this would surely have reached your office by now. Judging from your expression, however, I daresay that it has not. Well, sir, let me enlighten you, for it is certainly quite intriguing. You see, she performed a cesarean for Lady Arlington.”
“A what?” The poor editor felt certain that he might expire from the horror of it all.
“You know, when they cut the woman open and—”
“Yes, thank you, I know what it is.” He put his quill down carefully in front of him and straightened his jacket. “But that, Lady Stephanie, is hardly something that one might dismiss as minor surgery.”
“Well, I suppose not.” She tilted her head and delivered a practiced smile. “Lady Arlington was fortunate, you know; her procedure went rather well. As for my friend, however. . .well, after the surgery—”
“And what surgery was that again?” Mr. Dunn scribbled furiously on the piece of paper in front of him.
“How forgetful of me.” Her smile widened marginally to show her brilliant white teeth. “She had her appendix removed.”
The editor’s jaw dropped.
Lady Stephanie nodded to confirm that he’d heard her right. “She tells me it was quite painful. And when it became infected. . .well, she had no other choice but to have another surgeon fix that stupid woman’s mistake. She was so careless, you see. Poor Miss Hayworth is very lucky to still be alive.”
“How awful for her,” Mr. Dunn muttered, for lack of anything better to say.
As difficult as it was for him to believe what the woman before him had just said, the promise of such a scandalous story filling the front page of the newspaper was too great a temptation to pass up. He brushed his misgivings aside.
“Yes, it was rather.” Lady Stephanie’s eyes met h
is in a steady gaze. “So you see, I would very much like to prevent another innocent woman from suffering at this lady’s hands.”
Mr. Dunn nodded with sympathy. “Yes, I can understand that.”
“And that is not all,” she added.
“It is not?”
“Oh, no,” Lady Stephanie said, brushing a bit of lint from her skirt. “She also removed a kidney stone from Lady Warwick.”
Mr. Dunn raked his fingers through his thinning hair as he sank back against his chair with a loud sigh. He wasn’t at all sure how much more of this he could take; it was simply too outrageous.
“You mean the Dowager Countess?” he asked.
“Why, yes. Do you know her?”
Of course he knew her; everybody did.
“I have heard her name mentioned on occasion,” he lied. He made a few more notes before pausing. He’d just realized that he’d missed one very vital detail.
“And what is the name of this lady, the one who seems to think herself a surgeon?”
“Oh, did I not say? Why it is the Marchioness of Steepleton—Lady Steepleton, to be exact.”
Bloody hell!
“And you are quite certain that all of the details you have just given me are accurate? The Mayfair Chronicle does have a name to uphold, and—”
“I completely understand,” she told him. Her gaze drifted toward the window, where raindrops were steadily gathering on the glass. She was silent for a moment before turning her attention back to Mr. Dunn. She told him simply, “You have my word on it.”
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