Geoffrey’s blond head popped up from the whist table. “A proposition? For me?”
Daniel grinned, knowing the young man was about to dissolve into a quivering mass of youthful excitement. “I’ve a colleague at St. Bartholomew’s who collects odd anatomical artifacts. Two-headed infants, that sort of thing. He keeps them in his office.”
“Gor!” Geoffrey nearly knocked over his chair in his effort to reach Daniel’s side. “You are taking me to see a two-headed baby?”
“Among other things. You see, this particular doctor assisted during Napoleon’s postmortem at Saint Helena, and he retained a pertinent . . . er . . . piece of the man’s anatomy, so to speak.” He cleared his throat. “The ladies of the French court were rumored to think it most impressive, but perhaps you could be the judge of that.”
Geoffrey’s blue eyes widened. “He’s got Napoleon’s prick? In a jar?”
“Geoffrey.” Clare’s voice was little better than a tangled knot. “I scarcely think—”
“Actually,” Daniel said, breaking off her protest with an apologetic grin, “young Geoffrey is nearly correct. It isn’t in a jar, though. It’s more of a mummified piece. My colleague invited us to come and have a look. You’ll need your mother’s permission, of course.”
Clare shook her head. “She’s still asleep.”
“But, a chance for me to see Napoleon’s pizzle is surely worth waking her,” Geoffrey protested, bouncing up and down with excitement.
Lucy sauntered up, a surprising flash of blue ribbon visible amidst the blond tangle of her hair. “You know as well as I do that waking Mother before noon is never a good idea,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m afraid it’s impossible.” She smirked, and waved Geoffrey’s abandoned cards. “Much like your chances of winning this trick, I’m afraid.”
Geoffrey turned to Clare, almost pleading now. “Then you can give me permission. Father always says you are in charge when he’s off to the club and mother is indisposed. Oh, please. Don’t say no. I want to go, ever so much.”
Daniel could see the hesitation in her hazel eyes. “But what if something should happen to you?” she protested.
Geoffrey threw up his hands. “Well then, he’s a doctor. And we’re going to a hospital. He’ll know how to patch me up, won’t he?”
The room waited with expectant breath. Clare glanced from her brother, to Daniel, back to her brother again. “If you promise to be back before Mother wakes,” she said reluctantly. “And only if you promise to wear a coat, and not to tell me all the inglorious details.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” He kissed his sister on the cheek and then bounded off to fetch his coat.
“I want to go too,” Lucy’s voice rang out.
An objection rose to Daniel’s lips, given his own ulterior motives in asking Geoffrey on this outing, but Clare had the good sense to beat him to it. “Absolutely not. It is not at all an appropriate venture for a young lady of good breeding.”
Lucy glared at her sister. “But if Geoffrey is permitted to go, I ought to be able to as well.” She crossed her arms, the cards forgotten. “I can wear a pair of Geoffrey’s old pants. I do it all the time, and no one ever guesses I am female.”
“Lucy,” Clare said, sternly now. “You are almost eighteen, and it is time to start acting it. You can dress your hair like a boy’s. You can even act like a boy, climbing trees and playing cards. But you cannot be a boy.”
The younger woman’s color flared, and she threw her cards down on the floor with an angry flourish. “Just because I am a girl, I am not permitted to have any fun?” She whirled and stomped out of the room with clenched fists. Her voice echoed down the hallway. “Someday I will show you. Someday I will show everyone.”
And then the room fell quiet to all but Daniel’s own faint chuckle, and Miss Westmore’s nearly audible displeasure.
AS HE SAT down on the sofa and pulled her injured ankle into his lap, Clare sucked in a breath in anticipation of the pain. She was surprised to find the sting of it had lessened since her last encounter with the doctor. “Well, that didn’t go well,” she mumbled.
“Better than I expected, truth be told.” He began to unwind the cloth. “Your siblings have abandoned us, it seems. Would you like to ring for a maid, to ensure some propriety?”
“Now you’re worried about propriety?” Clare felt herself flush, given that her injured foot was lodged dangerously close to his pertinent piece of anatomy, her bare toes pointing like an arrow toward the center of his lap. But from her position on the couch, she couldn’t reach the bellpull. Besides, she preferred to take this rare moment of privacy to unsheathe her frustration. “You really shouldn’t encourage Geoffrey like this. And Lucy will sulk for the rest of the day.”
Daniel laid the bandage to one side and took a long, assessing look at her ankle. “Your sister is old enough to handle the disappointment, I should think. And Geoffrey would scarcely be the first person on earth to see this particular artifact. The doctor in possession of it shows it to anyone with the stomach for it.”
“If it was only Napoleon’s stomach, I wouldn’t have the same objections,” Clare retorted. She tossed her chin toward the window, where rivulets of water streamed down. “And it’s raining. You couldn’t have waited for a nicer day?”
She feared her unspoken accusation was clear in the hurt pitch of her voice.
And how can you leave me here?
He probed her foot, testing the integrity of the many bones he claimed lurked beneath the surface. Even she could see the swelling was markedly reduced, and the color had shifted from an angry red to more of a mixed purple and yellow. “I imagine you’ve noticed your brother is no longer a child, Clare.”
She suffered the twinge of conscience that came as her name fell from his lips, no matter the fact she’d given him permission to use it. She should not have done so. He was a doctor, paid by her family. She was the daughter of a viscount, and she’d not yet even invited Mr. Alban to use her given name, though he was a future duke.
But it was a little too late to go back to a place where such things made sense.
“He’s a young man, and growing rapidly,” Daniel went on, his fingers against her skin a painful reminder of his proximity. “You mentioned the other day that your father was frequently absent, and that Geoffrey might have a need of a proper gentleman to speak to. I thought this might provide an opportunity for that conversation, and a good reminder of how to conduct himself in public.”
Clare glanced down at the book still sitting in her lap, mollified by his logic. “I see.” Her fingers knotted over the embossed lettering. “Then I suppose I should thank you. You are going to a good deal of trouble on my brother’s behalf.”
“It’s no trouble.” He shrugged. “A little distraction, a little instruction, and I predict young Geoffrey will soon be on his way to something more promising than Newgate.” He set her foot back down on the stool. “You are fortunate in that I don’t think anything is broken. Is the pain improved?”
“A bit,” she admitted.
“A consequence of resting it properly and keeping it bandaged, I should imagine. I think we can adjust your sentence down to a total of three weeks of strict rest. A little care, and I predict you’ll be back out on the dance floor in no time.”
“Three weeks?” Clare wallowed in an instinctive denial. She’d barely survived the three days since his last visit. It was a lifetime sentence, particularly at the start of such a promising Season. Not even the London Times had been able to buoy her spirits this morning, mocking her with news of the city she was being denied.
Three weeks wasn’t just a poor idea: it was nigh on impossible.
She would go mad with boredom first.
Her mind raced through various alternatives as Daniel began to rewrap her foot, his hands strong and swift as they wound the cloth around and around. Every circle of the bandage felt like a noose tightening about her sanity. “Is there nothing I can do that ma
y speed healing?” she asked, almost desperate enough to call in Dr. Bashings. “The bandage seems to have helped. Surely there is more I could do.”
He pinned the binding back in place. “Time is your friend, in this case. You want to be sure you’ve healed properly, or else you’ll risk injuring it again. It’s vulnerable in the weeks after the initial injury, and you’re likely to reinjure it, to worse effect.”
He placed her foot carefully back on the stool. “I’ll return to check on you, of course. Say, next Tuesday again? Until then, all you can do is keep it elevated, and keep your mind off of things with Cousin Bette.” He rose from the sofa and fished a hand in his pocket, drawing out a paper-wrapped item. He passed it solemnly to her. “And this may help pass the time as well.”
Clare accepted the package, still stunned by the man’s declaration of three weeks of purgatory. The waxed paper edges fell away to reveal a paper box, and inside, a delicate bit of marzipan, whimsical fruit shapes in shades of red and purple nearly the same color as her foot.
She stared down at them, frozen in want and horror. “Are these from Lady Austerley as well?”
“No.” His smile was slow and spreading, and not the least bit doctorly. “These are a gift from me.”
Clare looked up at him, aghast. It was a stroke of culinary cruelty. If sweets were her general weakness, marzipan, in particular, was her Achilles’ heel. “I don’t understand what you expect me to do with this.”
Though of course she did.
She held marzipan in her hand, and her mouth was already halfway to watering.
He shrugged. “Eat it, of course.”
“Eat it?”
“For medicinal purposes. I’ve seen the way you care for your siblings. Geoffrey is fortunate to have you, and there is no doubt in my mind that Lucy will one day appreciate your meddling, however much she may resist now. But you need to care for yourself as well. You’re too thin by half. If nothing else, you should use these three weeks of rest to fill out your frame to a more healthful size.” He smiled, the flash of white teeth probably meant to be reassuring. “You could stand to gain a stone, at least.”
Clare was consumed by a twitching irritation in his powers of observation, even as her insecurities scratched to be let off their lead. She felt enough doubt in her slight figure’s ability to capture Mr. Alban’s attention without this man pointing it out. “It is not appropriate for you to comment on my frame,” was all she could think to say, though her brain certainly screamed a more robust denial.
“As your doctor, it is entirely appropriate. It astounds me that young ladies of good breeding starve themselves on purpose, when there are many in England’s rookeries who have no idea where their next meal may come from.”
Clare was struck by the unsettling notion that he was not merely relating something he had read about in a textbook: he had seen these souls. Touched them.
Healed them, perchance. She felt a hesitant stirring of respect.
But then his eyes settled alarmingly on her chest, and narrowed in grim humor instead of admiration. “And it is my firm opinion—my medical opinion, mind you—that you should not be wearing a corset, either. It’s a most unhealthful practice. Hampers the breathing, sometimes to a lethal degree. Worse, it squeezes the organs and contorts the spine. I’ve seen the ill effects on any number of cadavers.”
She gaped up at him, all thoughts of rookeries and respect forgotten. Now the man was comparing her to cadavers? “Have you considered that those patients likely wore the corset to improve an intrinsic deficiency in their posture?” she demanded, fishing about for some sort of logical argument that would keep her corset firmly in place, thank you very much.
A dark brow rose, faintly mocking. His eyes trailed down her torso, then back again, making the fine hairs along the back of her neck prick to rigid attention and her skin ripple with anticipation. Worse, as her body responded to his long, slow slide of a perusal, she felt the answering expansion of her lungs, pressing against the unyielding cage of her corset.
Blast the man to Hades and back, he might be right about the breathing part.
“I see no deficiency in your posture,” he drawled, coming back to her face and settling squarely—inappropriately—on her lips. His teasing eyes danced over hers. “Yet.”
He was deranged. An absolute, raving lunatic. Had the man no notion at all that the very construction of every gown she owned required a corset as a base undergarment?
“Be that as it may, Dr. Merial—”
“Daniel.” He grinned. “As we agreed.”
“Daniel.” Her breath was coming in hard pants now. She pushed the box of marzipan back at him, though her fingers clutched an involuntary protest. She refused to think about what the sweets must have cost him—he had no right to bring her such an extravagant gift, even for medicinal purposes. “While I appreciate the gesture, I cannot accept these.”
He held up a hand, refusing their return. “Well, I cannot accept them back.”
“Oh, you are positively mad,” she huffed in indignation. “I’ve an entire wardrobe of lovely new ball gowns hanging upstairs, currently unused, thanks to your dire prognosis. And I assure you, the future usefulness of those gowns depends on both the retention of my corset and a stern resolve not to eat marzipan!”
That mocking brow rose to a high salute once more. “You would choose to be fashionable over healthful?”
She drew a deep breath, praying for patience.
Only an idiot—or a man—would ask that question.
Chapter 10
A flurry of activity at the drawing room door saved Clare from having to deliver a well-deserved tongue-lashing.
Geoffrey bounded in, his coat hanging half off his shoulders. “You have some visitors, sis. Wilson was going to bring them in, but I told him I would do it.” He wiggled his hands, pantomiming the act of milking a cow. “Lovely bubbies, the dark-haired one has. Top notch.” He laughed, even as two familiar faces filled the doorway behind him.
“Geoffrey!” Clare gasped. “That is not an appropriate way to announce a guest.”
And how, oh how had she earned the misfortune of being born into this family?
“Oh, I think we can forgo the pleasantries,” Sophie said haughtily as she swept into the room, trailed—as always—by Rose. She briefly eyed Daniel as if he might be a dish of cream before apparently deciding he was a servant and handing her reticule and gloves over to him. “After all, these are scarcely official calling hours.”
With her good foot, Clare kicked the remnants of the newspaper deeper beneath the sofa, then shoved the book Daniel had given her into the crease of the cushion. As an afterthought, she tucked the box of marzipan in her skirt pocket. No, these weren’t calling hours, and it was difficult not to resent the intrusion, especially when she’d had no time to prepare.
Now she would be forced greet her friends properly—although, perhaps “friend” was a bit of a stretch, at least as far as Sophie was concerned.
Yet, despite being outside of regular calling hours, wasn’t their arrival more a blessing than a curse? Even the sight of Sophie’s treacherous smile promised a more interesting day than the one she’d been facing moments before.
“Why have you come so early in the day?” she asked, forcing a smile on her face.
Sophie sat down in the chair opposite the sofa and untied the ribbons of her pink bonnet. “We heard the news about your ankle, of course, and simply had to come and see for ourselves.”
Rose settled on the sofa beside Clare in a sympathetic froth of white lace, though she kept sneaking none-too-subtle peeks in Daniel’s direction. “Is it dreadfully painful?”
Clare willed herself to show no obvious surprise. She’d sent no note to either Sophie or Rose regarding her forced incapacitation. How would they have heard of her ankle? In this circle, lack of knowledge was a definite weakness, and she needed to remember to not bare her throat. Indeed, if only she’d had enough sense to not reveal h
er hopes for Mr. Alban, her friends wouldn’t have that knife to twist in her side, either.
“It is improving every day,” she said evasively. From the corner of her eye she watched as Daniel smirked and then tossed Sophie’s reticule to Geoffrey like a ball. Geoffrey, of course, promptly threw it back. She pulled her eyes away from the spectacle and gave Sophie a terse smile. “I should be up and about shortly.”
“I do hope it doesn’t keep you from attending the opening of the Royal Gallery this Friday,” Sophie purred. Her voice floated on the air, as sweet as marzipan and just as dangerous. She and Rose exchanged amused glances. “Mr. Alban is planning to attend, you know.”
Clare refocused her attention on Sophie. “Am I to presume he mentioned this during the waltz you shared?” she asked, none too sweetly herself.
But Sophie only laughed, fluttering dismissive fingers. “Honestly, it wasn’t as if you were in any condition to dance. I was doing you a favor, dancing with Alban. Why, we talked about you the entire time. He is hoping to see you at the gallery’s opening, you know.”
Hope—that most exhausting of emotions—leaped to attention once more. Clare no longer quite knew what to believe. But no matter the direction of Sophie’s loyalties, the Royal Gallery was an impossibility, given that the opening was in only three days’ time.
She looked up, catching Daniel’s eye. “I’m afraid Dr. Merial says I must have another week of rest,” she sighed dramatically, “but then I should be fine to resume my normal activities.” She met his gaze over Sophie’s head, daring him to contradict her. He glowered at her from across the room, clearly eavesdropping and disapproving of her shortened sentence.
“Another week? And at the start of the Season? Oh, dear, that is a blow.” Sophie patted a gloved hand to her gleaming curls, which, despite the rain outside, had somehow resisted the puff of humidity. “Dr. Merial, did you say? Who is he? I’ve not heard of him.”
Diary of an Accidental Wallflower Page 9
