First Comes Scandal

“Your meal …” Martha said weakly. “I could carry it up.”

There was a resounding crash from the kitchen. Martha made an awkward step toward the door just as Nicholas strode back through it, ducking to clear the doorway with a limp boy slung over his shoulder.

“Georgie!” Martha called out in what was clearly concern and surprise.

That stopped Georgie cold. “Excuse me?”

“Georgie,” Martha said, pointing at Nicholas.

“His name is Georgie?” Nicholas asked Martha.

“Me clotheid brother,” Martha said, using the colorful Scottish modifier without a lick of a Scottish accent.

“And his name is Georgie?” Georgie asked Martha.

Martha nodded.

“My name is Georgie,” Georgie said, her palm flattened on her chest.

Martha looked aghast. Whether she was horrified at the prospect of a lady with a man’s name or at a lady suggesting a tavern maid call her by said name—this was unclear.

She also seemed entirely unaware she was making such a dramatic face.

Georgie, on the other hand, suddenly realized she no longer felt even a little bit tired. There was no way Nicholas was going to get out of letting her help this time.

The other Georgie picked that moment to groan.

If Nicholas reacted to the noise, neither Georgie saw it. “Martha,” he said, “your brother is going to be fine. But I can’t fix his arm in the kitchen.”

“Why not?” Martha said, swinging her head around looking for—

Mr. Kipperstrung, who burst through the doorway in an incongruous cloud of flour. “Why not?” he demanded.

Nicholas clenched his teeth, and Georgie could see that he was losing his patience. “Why not here?” she asked cheerfully, swinging her hand across the expanse of the table. When no one responded, she lowered her arm, and less-than-deftly started to sweep the leftover mess from the sour-faced family that Martha hadn’t been able to get to yet.

“Wait,” Nicholas said. He looked surprised when this actually worked, and everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him. He shook his head slightly and then maneuvered Boy-Georgie to the other end of the table.

“What happened?” Georgie asked.

Nicholas gave her a brief glance before turning back to his patient. “He fainted the moment I touched his arm.”

“He tried to tell me it didn’t hurt,” Martha whispered.

“May I have a small pot of hot water and some clean linen?” Nicholas asked the proprietor.

Mr. Kipperstrung stared, mouth agape. “Me, fetch water?”

Nicholas smiled. “Yes, please. If you will.”

“How can I help?” Georgie asked with cheerful eagerness.

“Honestly?” Nicholas asked her.

She nodded.

“Feed me.”

Chapter 18

It was only when Nicholas climbed the stairs to his room at the Alconbury Arms that he realized two full hours had passed.

Georgie had been amazing. Spectacular. True, she’d looked at him as if he might be a lunatic after he’d asked her to feed him, but only for a moment.

Once she’d realized what he was about, she gave him a businesslike nod and turned to the food on the table, ripping off small bits of bread, cheese, and something he hoped was sliced beef. Piece by piece she popped the food into his mouth so that he could keep his hands free to work on Boy-Georgie.

When he’d asked her to take Jameson and go back out to the carriage to hunt for his personal medical supplies she hadn’t balked that he was sending her away from the area, she just did it, then came back and continued to give him food while he assessed the situation and began the initial debridement of the wound.

Georgie had rolled her sleeves up to match his and waited for him to need her. She wiped his brow, helped remove bits of burned skin from the area he was working on, and, when he asked, held the candle closer. She even caught a drip of wax with her bare hand.

But once she’d got involved with tending to the boy’s arm, she’d forgotten to keep up with supper. He’d forgotten, too, but this was typical. Hunger, the passage of time—none of it seemed to interfere with his concentration when he was with a patient. Only his hair falling in his face (which Georgie held back), and the waning of the light (which Georgie fixed with a second candle) interrupted his systematic attention to the boy’s arm.

It was not as simple an endeavor as he’d first thought. The burn was more than a day old, and no one had cleaned it properly. Bits of dirt and dust had embedded themselves in the tender skin, and Nicholas thought it a minor miracle that there was no sign of infection. He worked carefully and methodically—he liked this type of medical care; there was great satisfaction to be had when one could see results as one went along—but it took time, especially when he was trying extra-hard not to cause the boy any more pain.

When he’d finally got it down to just some minor burning at the edges of the main injury, Nicholas looked up from Boy-Georgie’s arm to Girl-Georgie’s face and saw that she was literally falling asleep.

“Darling,” he whispered.

She jerked and opened her eyes.

“You should go up to bed.”

“No,” she said blearily, shaking her hand. “I’m helping you.”

“And you’ve been indispensable,” he assured her. “But I’m almost done. And you’re dead on your feet.”

She blinked and looked down. At her feet, he could only presume.

He smiled. He couldn’t help it.

“Don’t you need the candlelight?” she asked.

“There are still people about,” he said. “Someone else can hold it. Go on. I will be fine, I promise.” And then, when she did not look convinced, he said, “I would not let you leave if I were not sure I could manage without you.”

This seemed to mollify her, and she yawned. “You’re certain?”

He nodded. “Go. You’ll want some time to yourself before bed, I’m sure.”

“I’ll wait up,” she promised.

But she didn’t. Wait up, that was. Nicholas had no doubt she’d tried, but he’d been stuck in the dining room much longer than he’d expected. As he was finishing with the boy’s wound, Martha came forward shyly and asked about a lump on her elbow. Then Mr. Kipperstrung confessed to a terrible earache, and Mrs. Kipperstrung—Nicholas still could not quite believe there was a Mrs. Kipperstrung—pulled him aside and asked if he might take a look at her bunions.

Bunions. Ah, the romance of medicine.

By the time he entered his room, he was bone tired. He moved quietly; he suspected Georgie would not be awake when he opened the door, and indeed, she was lying on her side, one hand near her face, her chest rising and falling softly with each breath.

“It seems that we’re to be denied our wedding night once again,” he murmured. He barely made a sound; it was really no more than a movement of his mouth. But he wanted to say it, to feel the words on his lips. He wanted to stroke her hair, too, to brush aside the wisps that tickled her face. But he did not want to wake her. He needed her, but she needed sleep more, and he suspected that he did, as well.