“Yes, I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, scrambling for an explanation that wouldn’t malign Peckwood’s presentation. “I had promised to see Miss Balfour home at a decent hour.”
Bypassing the clerk’s desk, he retrieved his timepiece, just as the swift clack of shoes barreled into the room.
Mrs. Bap’s granddaughter, Emma, wide-eyed and skirts a’swirl, slapped a hand to her heaving chest, her words coming out in a burst. “Come quick! One’s loose!”
Mr. Waldman shook his head, a rumble in his throat. “Don’t tear in here like a wild hellcat, girl, or I shall have you assigned to one of the wards. You know the procedure. Tell a guard!”
Fear flashed in her eyes, but she didn’t back down. She was a fighter, this one—a credit to her grandmother.
“Can’t, sir.” She lifted her chin, still panting for air. “Guard’s down.”
Graham pocketed his watch. Whatever troubled the girl clearly required help, and quickly. “What do you mean, down?”
“He’s right bad, Mr. Lambert. The ward doctor is seeing to him now.” A fierce scowl drew her brows into a thick line as she faced Mr. Waldman. “But yer about to lose an inmate, sir, if ye don’t act fast. She scrabbled out a window a’fore anyone could snatch her.”
“What?” Waldman boomed. “Then lead on, girl! Mr. DeLacey”—he nodded at the clerk—“round up some men.”
Emma fled the room, followed by Graham and Mr. Waldman—who snatched a rifle from a rack on his way out. What the devil? Was this not an institution of healing?
No time to ask about it. Emma’s feet flew like a nor’easter out the front door and down the stairs, compelling him and the warden to sprint at top speed—which for Mr. Waldman was more like a trot, so large was his belly.
Emma stopped halfway across the front drive and pointed to the ten-foot rock wall ahead. Glass shards were embedded in the top. Anyone fool enough to climb it would shred the flesh from their bones.
And that’s exactly what a white-gowned woman was trying to do. A mane of dark hair tumbled down her back as she purchased a foothold in a crevice of the mortar. One more great heave and she’d reach the peak, where razor-sharp edges glinted in the morning sunlight.
Graham opened his mouth to call out, when the cock of a rifle hammer cracked on the air. He snapped his gaze over his shoulder. Mr. Waldman hefted the weapon, muzzle trained on the escaping woman.
“No!” Graham wheeled about, catching the barrel with his elbow and sending the shot wild.
Waldman glowered. “Now look what you’ve done.”
The woman climbed all the faster, grasping for a hold on the top of the wall and skewering her hand on the glass.
Graham bolted and, stopping just below her, lifted his arms. “Lady, please. Come down. I’m a doctor. I can help you.”
She jerked her gaze downward, and when her dark eyes met his, he gasped.
“Miss Safie?”
Lucidity flashed on her face, but only for the space of a breath before a mad demon glared out from her eyes.
“I’m coming!” She hoisted herself higher and grabbed onto the glass with her other hand. “I’m coming, Mr. Peckwood.”
She would impale her own hands for the sake of that man? What sort of hold had the doctor created in her mind? For she was mad, driving the glass in deeper with each pull of her body, blood flowing freely. Whatever modicum of sanity she’d gained by Peckwood’s procedure was now thoroughly destroyed.
Jumping, Graham made a swipe for the woman’s legs and missed by a hand’s breadth. Dash it! But if he did manage to pull her down, what then? Would she leave part of her fingers atop the bloody wall?
Shouts bellowed from the asylum doors, where three burly men dashed out, hefting a net between them. If he didn’t get Miss Safie down now, she’d be bagged and yanked backwards, adding a concussion to her growing list of injuries.
“I am Mr. Peckwood’s associate, Miss Safie. Did you hear me? Mr.Peckwood’s!” He added a hearty emphasis to the man’s name.
The woman gazed down at him, this time with hope flickering in her eyes. “He is here? Where?”
Graham edged as close as he could. “Come down and let us talk.”
She loosened one hand and dangled by the other. Blood dripped from the appendage. “My medicine? You have it? Ineedit. No, I need Mr. Peckwood! He is life.”
“Miss Safie, please—”
