Page 51 of Again, Scoundrel

First, his reputation was worse than he’d realized, and Somerville’s suggestions were more than just advice. They were a necessity if he was to become a man of business. He had to show his face at events and let the world know he’d stopped drinking.

Second, a show of support by the Marquess would be monumentally helpful in getting him back into the good graces, and therefore the pockets, of London’s gentlemen.

Third, he had begun counting items off in his mind, as Violet did in conversation.

And finally, he was more eagerly looking forward to next Thursday, the day they would try out the medical clinic idea at Nowhere, than he wanted to admit. This long week he’d thought of little but his business plan and Violet. But he wouldn’t see her, wouldn’t court her, until he had his funding in hand.

He would deserve her, no matter what it took. It was a promise he’d made to himself that he planned to keep.

Violet climbed into Esmee’s carriage on Thursday with her nerves at a fever pitch. Her fingertips pushed into the soft velvet of the carriage seat as she rode to Covent Garden.

It had been a week of highs and lows. She was thrilled that today was the first day of their medical clinic at Nowhere. She’d been in London for over a month, and she had not practiced medicine once except for that unfortunate incident with Miss Jenson at the Waverly Ball.

Her fingers itched to get started; her mind whirled at the possibilities of what the day would bring. She’d missed this feeling, the heady mix of excitement and nerves and fear she always felt before a day of work. She imagined this was how soldiers felt before they went into battle, with no idea what the day would bring and only prayer that they had the skill to handle it.

On the other hand, she had not seen, nor heard from, Alistair Crawford once since their moments of intimacy the week prior. Every day, as callers and cards and flowers came for Catherine, she waited hopefully, but not once were those offerings for her. He’d disappeared from her, just as he’d always done before.

She was at once disappointed, embarrassed, and angry. The pendulum had swung again, and this time, she thought, it had swung too far. Every time his mercurial moods made him turn from her, it hurt a little more. But now they had been intimate—truly intimate. His finger had been inside her. When he ignored her now, it was crushing, no matter how much she wished otherwise.

No more.

There would be no next time. Even as she articulated the thought, she was aware it wasn’t the first time she’d made the declaration. But this time, she meant it. This time, she’d shield herself—heart, body, and mind—from whatever strange things Alistair Crawford did to them.

Violet alighted from Esmee’s carriage in front of Nowhere, and the door opened without her having to knock. Esmee again stood at its entrance.

“I hope you’re ready,” she said. “We’ve a crowd.”

Violet swallowed back the nervousness that had been making itself known in her belly and held her head high.

“I’m ready.”

She followed Esmee down the long, dark corridor and into the bar that was packed wall to wall with those in need of medical attention.

Violet stared for just a moment, gathering her wits. The patients were all crowded together, those who might be carrying spreadable diseases like diphtheria and influenza side by side with those who needed their bones set or cuts sewn.

“Oh, no,” Violet whispered.

“Is it too many?” Esmee asked. “I didn’t realize so many would come.”

“No,” Violet said. “But we’ll need help. And organization. Send a note to anyone you can think of with a degree of common sense and a pair of capable hands and get them down here right away. As soon as possible, Esmee.”

Then Violet put her head down and began to work. She cataloged each patient by age, degree of malady, and pain encountered, and she cordoned off those she suspected to be contagious in different rooms.

She began with the most serious cases, setting bones and sewing stitches, and then moved on to the new mothers, telling them they must eat to keep up their strength and should not give all available food to their husband and children.

“For what,” she asked, “would their family do without them?”

“And what,” a voice asked, startling her out of her concentration, “do you plan to eat?”

Violet looked up, although she knew who it was already. Her body could always sense Alistair’s presence. He was standing in front of her, slipping a hot buttered roll into her hand.

“I apologize for being late,” he said. “I stopped for refreshments.”

“Thank you. But you aren’t late. Esmee would barely have had time to reach you.”

“I didn’t come because Esmee called.” Alistair stepped closer to her. “I came for you. I’ve been planning on it all week.”

The words were warm and whispered and lit up the vertebrae in Violet’s spine.