Earl of Oakhurst

by Madeline Martin

  “Forgive me.” She backed up to put space between them and recognized the man as Mr. Garrison.

  He smiled and his eyes crinkled with kindness. “Don’t trouble yourself over it, Lady Oakhurst.”

  She tilted her head. “I thought you would be rather consumed with the man’s leg.”

  Mr. Garrison shook his head. “Dr. Bailey is seeing to his surgery.”

  A chill descended on Penelope’s heart. “Dr. Bailey?”

  He nodded. “Have a pleasant evening, Lady Oakhurst.” He inclined his head respectfully and went on his way down the hall, whistling a small tune to himself.

  Penelope stood stock-still for a moment. She should not force her way into a room where an amputation was being performed. Really, she ought to head downstairs where James was already no doubt waiting for her.

  But worry nipped at the back of her mind as she once more recalled the man with the gangrenous toe. He’d been too young, too healthy to die from the shock of losing so small an appendage. It was then she noted an eerie silence around her. The man with the leg had stopped crying out.

  That final comprehension made up her mind for her. She turned in the opposite direction of the stairs that would lead toward the exit of St. Thomas’s and instead made her way toward the rooms used for amputation.

  The first few doors revealed empty rooms. The third, however, displayed the man with the mangled leg stretched out on a bed. A metal framed device lay over his face with a hose affixed to it.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Dr. Bailey demanded angrily from the other side of the room.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Penelope countered, indicating the patient. “Is this why your patients are dying after simple procedures?”

  The man on the bed did move. She made her way closer.

  “That’s enough.” Dr. Bailey strode toward her, his gait clipped. “Leave at once.”

  Penelope didn’t leave. She wouldn’t. Not this time. “Is he dead?” she demanded.

  “He’s been exposed to high levels of carbon dioxide and is in a state of sleep so deep that he will not feel the pain of his limb being removed.”

  “So deep that he may die,” she surmised.

  Dr. Bailey narrowed his eyes.

  “Like the man yesterday with the gangrenous toe.” She lifted her chin. “What you are doing lacks ethics and morality. You are sacrificing lives that need not be lost.”

  “I am advancing our knowledge of medicine,” he hissed.

  She shook her head. “You are killing healthy patients. I’m reporting you to Dr. Cooper. The Medical and Chirurgical Society will put an end to this madness.” She went for the door with purpose.

  And did not get very far.

  Pain exploded at the side of her head and the world spun about for one dizzying moment before she found the ground rising up to meet her. She tried to scramble to her feet, but a strong arm grabbed her by the waist and tugged her backward.

  Panic pierced through the haze of her mind.

  Struggle.

  Fight.

  And fight she did. With arms and legs flailing, feet kicking. But the arm locked around her remained in place. Like iron.

  “Calm yourself, Lady Oakhurst,” Dr. Bailey said smoothly into her ear.

  He readjusted his grip on her and she managed to get one arm free. She slammed her fist back with all the strength she had and experienced the satisfaction of it meeting something incredibly hard. Agony splintered through her fingers and Dr. Bailey grunted in apparent pain.

  His hold on her tightened, squeezing. Hurting.

  Her thoughts flitted about errantly despite the danger of the situation. It made concentrating difficult and left her with a heaviness to her limbs. She gritted her teeth.

  It was a symptom of having been struck hard in the head. Logically, she knew that. She’d seen it before in patients. Now with such addled confusion, she understood what they endured.

  Dr. Bailey pushed something toward her face. Penelope’s heart ceased for one terrifying moment. The metal-framed mask. White, thick paper lined the inside of it. She jerked her head to the side in an effort to avoid it pressing against her.

  The movement made the thoughts swim about in her mind, as though her brain were floating wildly about in her skull. It took only that one brief moment, that hesitation as she acknowledged the intense discomfort, for him to crush the mask against her face.

  Air rushed toward her and suddenly she could not breathe. She gasped, panting, trying to draw in whatever she could. Her damaged mind ached in hollow throbs.

  “Everyone knew you didn’t want to get married,” Dr. Bailey whispered in her ear. “And opium is so accessible in the hospital. Many people fall prey to it, especially when going through a difficult event in their life. It would be so easy to accidentally take too much to allay the stress of an unwanted husband.”

  Darkness dotted Penelope’s vision. She tried to shake her head but did not have the strength for even that.

  James.

  She would never see him again, be held by him again. She would never be able to tell him she loved him. A soft whimper escaped from her throat and the room faded to black.

  12

  MacKenzie waited patiently for Penelope near the entrance of the hospital where the smells were less offensive. Penelope might be able to overlook the smells associated with her passion, but James was still keenly aware of the sickly-sweet odors of illness, exacerbated by windows shuttered against the cold. All of this was overlaid with the sharpness of vinegar.

  A woman bustling by paused and regarded him. “Lord Oakhurst, I presume?” She assessed him with a frank stare.

  “Ye presume correct.” He inclined his head. “Are ye one of my wife’s friends?”

  “Yes, I’m Elizabeth.” Her brow furrowed and created a map of wrinkles suggesting she was older than he had originally assumed. “She said she was leaving nearly half an hour ago.”

  A chill slid down MacKenzie’s spine. “Perhaps she is with a patient?” he asked warily.

  “They were all fine.” Miss Elizabeth cast an anxious glance behind her. “She’d checked on them before leaving.”

  “I need ye to take me to her,” MacKenzie demanded.

  Miss Elizabeth hesitated.

  “She told me she expressed her concerns about Dr. Bailey to ye,” he said in a fierce voice. “If she is missing, she may be in danger.”

  Miss Elizabeth hissed out a breath. “Very well. Come this way.”

  She led him up the stairs at a brisk pace that suggested his assumption was correct: she too found Penelope’s delay distressing. Energy pumped through MacKenzie’s veins as he followed Miss Elizabeth deeper into the hospital.

  “Where is Dr. Bailey?” she demanded of a man she passed.

  The man cast him an odd glance in MacKenzie’s direction and pointed down the hall. “He’s in surgery—”

  If he said anything else, neither MacKenzie nor Miss Elizabeth heard him as they raced in the direction he’d indicated. She pushed open the first door and revealed an empty room. MacKenzie pushed open the second. Nothing.

  He clenched his fist. He hoped to God he was wrong. That Penelope would walk in and laugh at him for his worry.

  Except the twist in his gut told him his concern was not unfounded.

  Miss Elizabeth shoved at the third door and cried out. MacKenzie raced into the room and found exactly what Miss Elizabeth had.

  Penelope lay on the hard floor in a rumpled state, her face pale, her eyes closed, while a tall, slender man leaned over her with a cup at her lips. He started at the intrusion and his stricken expression told MacKenzie everything he needed to know.

  The physician was not helping Penelope. He was hurting her.

  MacKenzie didn’t pause. He didn’t think. His rage took control of him and sent him sailing through the air at the man who meant Penelope harm.

  MacKenzie’s body collided with the physician, sending the smaller man flying off her.r />
  “Ye bastard,” MacKenzie growled. “Why dinna ye fight someone who can defend themselves, aye?” He drew back a fist and slammed it twice into the man’s face: once for Penelope and a second time to knock him unconscious.

  The physician’s body went slack. MacKenzie didn’t even wait to see him fall before turning to his wife.

  Miss Elizabeth sat by her side, holding Penelope’s limp wrist between her hands.

  MacKenzie’s heart stopped. Penelope was too still. Her face too drained of color.

  “Is she…?”

  “She’s alive,” Miss Elizabeth said. “But her pulse is weak.” She lifted the cup Dr. Bailey had dropped on the floor and sniffed. “Laudanum. A fair amount by my estimation. Enough to kill her.”

  MacKenzie tensed.

  “There’s a considerable amount on the ground.” Miss Elizabeth pushed to her feet. “I’ll send for a physician to tend to Lady Oakhurst, summon the Runners for Dr. Bailey and get a surgeon to see to this poor blighter here.” She nodded to the man on the table in the center of the room. A white sheet lay over the man up to his chest, the bottom of which MacKenzie could now see was stained crimson with blood.

  Good God. What the devil had the physician been doing?

  “Don’t move her,” Miss Elizabeth cautioned as she quit the room.

  MacKenzie sank to his knees at Penelope’s side and called her name softly, but she didn’t respond. He lifted her hand, tucking it gently within his own. Her fingers were cold. As they always were.

  Except instead of the endearing thought tugging a smile to his lips as endearing thoughts of Penelope often did, this one caused a knot of emotion in the back of his throat.

  He wanted her at the hospital every day so he could listen to each of her new adventures and what she had learned. He wanted her nights and her days and the quiet breakfasts they shared.

  He smoothed a lock of hair from Penelope’s brow. His fingers came away smeared with blood. A second glance confirmed she was bleeding from near her temple.

  His heartbeat came faster. Harder.

  Had Miss Elizabeth seen the blood? Had she known Penelope had been struck? Did that change anything?

  MacKenzie might not have a curiosity for medicinal knowledge like Penelope, but he knew a good knock to the head could kill a man. Or a woman.

  He shook his head and drew in a shaky breath. “Penelope, please.”

  She didn’t respond. Penelope. His wife. The one he was certain he wouldn’t love. And he’d squandered the time they had spent together with lies to himself.

  “I love ye,” he whispered in a choked voice. “Please, Penelope…please wake up.”

  Heat prickled at his eyes and nose, but he didn’t care. Not even when several men rushed into the room with Miss Elizabeth behind them. Two lifted the stretcher of the man under the bloody sheet. Two more who were thick with muscle went to Dr. Bailey whose groans indicated he was waking, and one knelt at Penelope’s other side.

  “She’s bleeding.” MacKenzie indicated the blood at the side of her head. “She was struck.” His voice was thick with emotion.

  The surgeon at Penelope’s side hummed in a sound of acknowledgement and put a small horn to her chest. The man placed the attached tubes into his ears, nodded and lifted each of her eyelids in turn, examining her eyes.

  Miss Elizabeth went to the side of the bed where Dr. Bailey’s contraption of a barrel, jars and tubes was still assembled. “What the devil is this?”

  The surgeon looked up from Penelope. “I’ll examine it in a moment.” He turned his attention to MacKenzie. “Take her home. She’s more at risk here than in her own bed due to contagion. Summon a private physician at once to see if there is more that he can do for her than I can.”

  MacKenzie gathered Penelope into his arms, desperate to get her from St. Thomas’s hospital, away from the odors of illness and vinegar. He wanted her to have a proper physician, anyone that might give him some bloody answers and make sure Penelope would be safe.

  She was slack in his arms. Like a doll. Unresponsive. She didn’t move when he took her to the carriage, or when she was later placed into her bed.

  MacKenzie had once thought the stretch of hours between their second kiss and the ball ending the night that they’d consummated their marriage had been interminable. And yet that time was nothing compared to the wait for the physician to finally arrive.

  Penelope’s head ached. Not in one specific spot, but throughout, as though her mind had been stuffed full of cotton. She concentrated through the pain to seek the primary spot of discomfort, to identify what she could do to alleviate the hollow, throbbing sensation.

  Yes. There. At her temple.

  She slowly opened her eyes as she reached for the spot.

  “Dinna touch it.” The familiar voice was filled with affection.

  She slid her gaze to the side of the bed and there he was. James MacKenzie, the handsomest peer in all of London, possessing the most roguish smile. But he wasn’t smiling now. He was leaning toward her with his brow furrowed in seriousness. He hadn’t shaved in a while and a hint of a beard shadowed his hard jaw.

  “What is it?” Penelope asked.

  He frowned. “Do ye no’ remember?”

  She frowned as well. Did she remember what? She took in her surroundings, recognizing at once that she was in her own chamber, the sheets of her bed soft and luxurious beneath her. But what had happened before?

  A name rose in her mind, followed by the chill of recollection.

  “Dr. Bailey,” she said through numb lips.

  James nodded and reached for her hand.

  She let him enfold her fingers against the heat of his large palm. “Oh, James,” she whispered. “He has been experimenting on patients. It’s why he wanted me gone from the hospital. I had walked in on him that day and had no idea.”

  “He attacked ye,” James said, his tone hard. “He hit ye on the head, then poisoned ye with carbon dioxide, then tried to kill ye with an excess of laudanum.”

  Penelope tensed, suddenly recalling everything. The need to breathe, the fear of death looming over her. The fear she might never see James again.

  His eyes watered and the muscles of his jaw clenched. “I thought ye were dead, Penelope.”

  She tightened her grip on his hand. In truth, she had thought she would die too. Before she could tell him—

  “I love ye, Penelope.” His voice caught and her heart soared.

  He lowered his head, as though he couldn’t bear to meet her gaze. “I dinna want a marriage with love before, I know. It wasn’t planned. I dinna count on how I would feel about ye. I know that this deviates from our original agreement, but—”

  “James—”

  “Ye dinna need to say anything,” he rushed. “I dinna expect anything in return.”

  “I love you.”

  “When I almost lost ye…” His head snapped up and he met her gaze with one of bewilderment. “What did ye say?”

  Penelope touched his face with her free hand and the whiskers along his jaw prickled against her palm. Everything inside of her was warm and happy, as though all of her were internally glowing.

  “I said, ‘I love you.’” Her voice caught with emotion. “I never thought I could love someone other than my family, as though my heart was in some way broken, only functioning with purpose. I’m certain that sounds strange, but I never realized I could feel such emotion for someone else.” She swept her thumb over his jaw. “Until you.”

  “That doesna sound strange to me.” He released her hand and held her face. “When I was a lad, I remember my da telling me about Helen of Troy.”

  Penelope felt herself smile in anticipation for another bit of information about Greece’s rich history. “Helen of Troy?”

  He studied her as he spoke. “The face that launched a thousand ships and set the Trojan War into motion. I have often wondered how a woman’s beauty, how the depth of care for her, could cause men to go to such lengths.�
�� His lips brushed hers. “I know now.”

  Penelope smiled at the most beautiful compliment she had ever received.

  “So, ye see, my claim to love is just as strange, if not more so.” James winked at her.

  She nestled closer to him. “I love your knowledge of history and how you don’t mind me prattling on about my studies. I love how there’s a cultured air to you, as well as a dangerous one.”

  He grinned like a rogue and she completely melted.

  “I love ye, Penelope MacKenzie. A woman whose beauty is only surpassed by her intelligence.”

  “You do know how to compliment a woman.” She smiled up at her husband.

  “Only the deserving ones.”

  Penelope lifted a brow.

  “Meaning, ye and Gemma.” His confession was so sheepish, Penelope couldn’t help but give a small laugh. She winced slightly at the pounding in her head, exacerbated by conversation and her laughter.

  James stroked the uninjured side of her head with soothing fingers. Penelope closed her eyes to the sensation. “That feels heavenly.”

  “Lie back and let me do it until ye fall asleep.” His tone was velvety with temptation.

  “I don’t want to go to sleep,” Penelope said. It was her turn to look sheepishly up at him. “I don’t want you to go.”

  He settled into the bed beside her. “Then I’ll stay right here at yer side.”

  Penelope snuggled closer to him as his fingers continued to play gently through her hair. The caress was calming. And she was so very tired still, her mind thick with the persistent ache of everything she had endured from Dr. Bailey’s attack.

  And as she started to fall asleep, James spoke once more, “I’ll be here always, my love.”

  13

  Penelope had celebrated Christmases through her life, of course, but never had a feast been thrown with such extravagance as the one James and his grandmother had orchestrated.

  It had been done to get Penelope’s mind off Dr. Bailey’s trial. She knew this and appreciated it greatly. The doctor had been denounced in the medical texts circulating London, not only for the dozens of deaths he had been responsible for with his testing, but also his attack on Penelope.