London, July 1822

Dr. Graham Alcott sat with a brandy in one hand, a medical essay in the other, his feet propped upon a cushioned footstool. He wore his grey satin dressing gown and the pair of slippers his sister had given him for his birthday. His belly was well satisfied, after a meal of soup and bread, and he savored the silence of his rented rooms in Marylebone.

This was no different from any other night of his existence since he’d moved to London six years ago. Occasionally, the monotony was broken up with dinners at his sister’s home or a drink with his brother-in-law at the club, when they were in Town. But Graham wasn’t much for social gatherings. He preferred to keep to himself, in the company of his books. Always medical books, for he had quite an obsession with healing the sick.

No. Not just healing them. Finding new and better ways to heal them. Ways beyond the ken of his superiors. Not that he didn’t respect the surgeons and physicians who had come before him. Surely, they were doing their best. Yet watching them bleed patients nearly to death with the use of medieval contraptions or, God forbid, leeches, had sent Graham looking for alternatives.

Of course, he’d watched his father do the same, and he’d resorted to such measures on occasion when he doctored in his hometown of Ravenglass. But he’d always hated it. Always wondered if there was another way. Even now, his eyes scanned over an essay by a leading doctor from Edinburgh who offered many alternatives to bloodletting.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Alcott.”

Graham turned to find his valet standing in the doorway of the small parlor. “What is it, Dorian?”

“You have a visitor.”

“At this hour?”

“Dr. Pritchard would like to have a moment.”

Of course. Dr. Pritchard. His mentor, his sponsor. The man who had seen to his advancement from Country Doctor to a genuine doctor, worthy of his title. “Do let him in.”

Dorian disappeared and returned a moment later, Dr. Pritchard on his heels. Graham rose from his comfortable chair to greet the older man, more than a bit curious to know what this late-night meeting was all about.

“Dr. Alcott, I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I see you were preparing for bed.”

“Not at all,” Graham said, guiding the other doctor to a nearby chair. “Brandy?”

Dr. Pritchard shook his head and held up a hand. “No, no. I’ve only come to ask you a favor.”

“A favor?”

“I’ve been summoned to care for the Countess of Kilworth through the remainder of her pregnancy. She’s had a rough go of it, and the earl doesn’t want to take any chances.”

“Understandably.”

“This means, though, that I must refer all my patients to someone I trust.”

Graham couldn’t stop the smile that came to his lips. “I’m honored.”

“Only…I can’t trust them all to you.”

The smile fell quickly from Graham’s lips. “I beg your pardon?” Why was the old man here then?

“Dr. Alcott, I need you to care for one patient in particular, actually.”

Well, that was a surprise. “Just one?”

“She’s a widow who has suffered a great deal, though all you need to know is that she’s been shot in the leg. I’ve cared for her to the best of my abilities, but I think she would quite benefit from your…” He glanced at the essay that lay on the side table and took a steadying breath. “Unorthodox ways.”

A small grin broke out on Graham’s lips. “Just because they are new does not mean they are unorthodox.”

“So you say.” He leaned back in his chair. “They will pay you handsomely to see to her every need.”

“I am not interested in money.”

Dr. Pritchard shook his head. “You young revolutionaries.”

“My beliefs are quite Quakerish, actually.”

“Yes, but one who is out to change the world.”

Graham shrugged. It wasn’t untrue. “Who will see to your other patients?”

“I’ve a few colleagues who are willing, but those who are most important, well…the two of us shall see to them.”

“Is all human life not important?”

Dr. Pritchard shook his head. “Not to the ton.”

Graham couldn’t argue that point. He himself might be considered the dung on their shoe if they weren’t in need of medical attention. “When do I meet my new patient?”

“Tomorrow. First thing.”

It wasn’t exactly what Graham wished to be doing with his life, though he had to admit, if he had only one patient to care for, and a great sum of money filling his pockets, he might very well be able to devote the rest of his time to more research. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered why he was hesitating.

“I’ll admit, I’m not entirely certain of this path, but…I quite owe you my life, and if you need me, Dr. Pritchard, then who am I to refuse you?”

* * *

A knock came at Hannah’s door just as she took the last bite of her breakfast. “Enter,” she called with a full mouth of egg, and then promptly swallowed before her friendly old doctor poked his head in. Hannah smiled sweetly at him.

“Dr. Pritchard!” she greeted him. “Do come in.”

“Good morning, my lady,” he said, and then turned to look at something in the hall. “I’ve actually brought someone with me, if you’d be willing to permit him entry as well.”

“Of course.” Hannah set her tray aside and sat up a little straighter as Dr. Pritchard stepped into the room and held the door open for whoever it was he’d brought along.

In the next moment, a tall, slender man stepped over the threshold, nearly sucking all the air from the room at the same time. Or perhaps just sucking the air from Hannah’s lungs, since Dr. Pritchard seemed quite unaffected. Blazes. This stranger was quite handsome, and Hannah wished more than anything that she hadn’t been confined to a bed for the last six weeks with only sponge baths to clean herself. Her hair must look a fright, and her pallor ghostly.

She fidgeted nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear, and then untucking it again, wondering which way might cast her in the best light.

“Lady Beeston, may I present Dr. Alcott.”

The handsome doctor dipped his head, causing a lock of his dark hair to fall over his forehead. When he lifted his head again, he wore a wide smile on his lips. One that made Hannah’s heart skip more than one beat.

“A pleasure, Dr. Alcott,” she said, trying to keep her wits about her. “What a lucky girl I must be to have not one but two doctors attend to me.”

Dr. Pritchard cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I’m afraid you shall still only have one doctor attending you, my lady. Dr. Alcott will see to your recovery from now on.”

In spite of her initial attraction to the young physician, this news came as quite a shock and a great disappointment. Hannah couldn’t seem to form a terribly polite question in her mind, so she blurted out, “But where are you going?” in what was most certainly a panicked, childish tone.

Dr. Pritchard gave a little laugh. “I’m afraid the Earl of Kilworth has paid for my exclusive services. His wife is having a rather difficult time with her pregnancy, so I will attend her at their country estate until the baby is born.”

“Oh.” Hannah couldn’t ignore the wash of uneasiness that came over her at the mention of a pregnant woman. Or was it jealousy? Ten years married to Beeston had not yielded a single pregnancy, and now she was thirty, and widowed, and unable to even walk, let alone attend a ball where she might meet a man willing to take a chance on a woman well past her prime who walked with a limp. “Well, I shall certainly miss your smiling face, Dr. Pritchard. You’ve been quite a comfort to me these past six weeks.”

A sadness washed over the man’s wrinkled face, and he came to sit on the edge of her bed. He took Hannah’s hand in his — a gesture that brought tears to her eyes immediately. “You are a strong and brave woman, my lady. You shall be just fine. And I promise Dr. Alcott is every bit as qualified to care for you as I, perhaps even more so.” He patted the back of her hand and then stood again. “I have told him all he needs to know about your situation.” He gave her a knowing look. “Whether or not you share the rest is entirely up to you.”

Hannah nodded and swiped an errant tear from her cheek. So, he’d told him about the shooting, but not about Beeston’s decision to take his own life. She actually wished he had told him. It wasn’t a memory she liked to relive, not since the catalyst for his actions had been her asking for a divorce.

“Thank you, Dr. Pritchard,” she said.

Dr. Pritchard smiled. “Goodbye, Lady Beeston.”

* * *

Graham had not been expecting this. And by this he meant a lovely, kind-hearted patient, still fairly young in years, with eyes the color of cinnamon. When Dr. Pritchard had spoken of a widow with a difficult past, he’d imagined an old woman, sad and hardened by life. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Graham alone with his new patient. She fidgeted with her mahogany hair, trying to keep the pieces in place to no avail. They were shiny and matted — clearly she’d not enjoyed a proper bath in quite a while.

“Ahem.” She cleared her throat, and then finally met his eyes. “Do you…do you need to…examine me?”

Graham only barely held back the chuckle that rose to his throat. But it wouldn’t be in good taste to laugh at her uneasiness. His goal with her, as with all his patients, was to put her at ease.

“Eventually,” he said, striding nearer the bed and placing his black leather bag beside the chair. “May I sit?” Lady Beeston nodded; he sat. “I know this is rather abrupt, this change. I’m happy to simply get to know you for today, and tomorrow we will start the treatment.”

“Treatment?” The widow’s eyes grew round, and her lips pinched together like a tiny, pink rosebud.

Graham cocked his head. “Might I ask what kind of regimen Dr. Pritchard had you on?”

She blinked several times. “I don’t know if one could call it a regimen,” she said with a little shrug. “My sister-in-law has been ordered to change my bandages every few days now. Laudanum for the pain, of course. Bed rest, which is perhaps the worst of all.”

It wasn’t surprising the old doctor had her on a traditional path of recovery, but new things were being discovered in medicine every day, and Lady Beeston would be his first test subject.

“Why no bath?” he asked, causing her cheeks to turn a wild shade of red.

She shrugged again — clearly a nervous tick of hers. “Dr. Pritchard worried it would cause infection in the wound,” she explained and then cleared her throat. “I asked more than once.”

A smile spread Graham’s lips wide. “You needn’t be embarrassed. I’ve smelled far worse than you.”

The baroness stared at him aghast, her jaw unhinged, but clearly at a loss for words. He’d just called her smelly, after all, but only in jest. Did she have a sense of humor?

Another moment passed before the barest of smiles twitched the corners of her mouth upward. “Well, I suppose that ought to make me feel better.” A little snort escaped her nose, and then they both started to laugh. Not an uproarious kind of laugh, but the kind that sliced through the palpable tension in the room, like a knife through butter.

“Well, you shall have something to look forward to now,” he said. “Tomorrow, you shall take a bath.”

“Forgive me if I can’t stop smiling, Doctor. This is most welcome news.”

He wanted to tell her that he never wanted her to stop smiling, for it was a smile that lit up the room. But that would be rather unprofessional of him, so he simply said, “I’m glad of that, my lady. Now, if you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to examine your wound.”

She clamped her pink lips together, eclipsing her smile, and nodded. Her eyelids fluttered, as if nerves might be getting the better of her.

“If it’s too soon—”

“It’s not!” she shouted. “Truly. Please, proceed.”