Too late.
The net flew. So did the woman. Backwards. Downwards. Landing hard on the ground. Before he could reach her, Miss Safie was dragged off towards the forbidding hulk of St. Peter’s, fighting like a bagged cat, leaving behind red streaks in the gravel, and there wasn’t a thing Graham could do about it. Not one. His fingers curled into fists.
Then curled all the tighter when Mr. Waldman clapped him on the back. “Well done, Mr. Lambert. Keeping her talking until the men could bag her. Capital plan! Should you ever find yourself in need of a position, I would be happy to take you on here at St. Peter’s, though I daresay Mr. Peckwood will keep you busy enough with the new venture.”
Graham stepped away from the man, but not too far. As much as he wished to flee, the warden just might have valuable information. “New venture?”
“Oh? He’s not told you?” Waldman’s thick lips pursed as if he chewed on a crab apple. “Well,” he said at length, “being you are his partner, I suppose the good doctor will inform you soon enough, especially after receiving his needed funding last night.”
Graham frowned. “It was my understanding, sir, that the money raised was to be put towards his medical research, not some other enterprise.”
“Yes, but oh so much more than that.” The warden swung out his arm, indicating the hulking asylum. “Why, he’s to take on the whole of the west wing. Just imagine it, Doctor! The ultimate asylum where minds are mended, and it all begins here, under my watch.”
A hard pit balled in Graham’s gut, growing all the stonier with each of Miss Safie’s cries as the men hauled her through the front doors. Mr. Waldman might be thrilled with Peckwood’s plan, but there was a slight problem with it. If one could mend the mind, one could bend the mind… and once Peckwood discovered that piece of information, who knew what he’d do with it to garner wealth and fame?
Or power.
The pit sank deeper. Heavier. For an arrogant surgeon who would answer to none, what sort of havoc might Peckwood carelessly wreak while playing God?
Buttered cod, boiled carrots, and Yorkshire pudding. Simple enough fare, yet Colin savored every mouthful as if it were his last, for who knew? It might be. Then again, this could very well be the final time he dined as a misshapen beast. Either way, he’d be transformed, and he swallowed that thought as heartily as the salted fish. He was more than ready for a change.
Across the table, Amelia herded a chunk of carrot around on her plate, shoving it one way and another. He frowned at the pathetic front she put up. Did she really think she was fooling him?
Retrieving his glass, he eyed her over the rim. “I’m not dead yet, you know.”
“Colin!” Her fork clattered onto the dish, a wave of horror washing over her face.
He chuckled. She was more than easy to tease, and was that not his obligation—nay, his right—as a younger brother? “Come now, Amelia. It’s only a surgical procedure, not a trip to the gallows.”
Her brow creased as she reset her fork and laid her knife alongside it, ending any further pretense of eating. “Is it so very terrible of me to worry about you, my only brother?”
“Would it not be better to stop worrying about what might go wrong and instead be eager about what could go right?”
A huge sigh deflated her. “Yes. Of course. You are correct, as always.” She lifted her chin and her glass. “To better days, then.”
He raised his glass as well. “May they be many.”
The wine went down rich and sweet, a fitting finale to a delicious meal.
“Speaking of better days.” He set the empty glass back on the table and met her gaze. “We have been so focused on tomorrow’s procedure we have neglected to discuss what comes afterwards.”
“You mean legal robes and being called to the bar?” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. A waste of time, for she’d not eaten anything to sully her lips; neither did the action do anything to wipe the smile from her face.
“Those are my intentions, but what of you? What is to become of the intrepid Amelia Balfour?”
Her smile faded, and she paid particular attention to folding her napkin. “Since you ask, I do have a prospect I haven’t mentioned because I knew you’d postpone your surgery for my gain and your detriment. But being it’s now too late to call off tomorrow’s operation, I suppose it is time to confide in you.”
Pushing back his seat, he stretched out his legs, cramped from the confinement of the table. He studied his sister while she folded and creased, folded and creased. A strange mix of anxiety and zeal pursed her lips. Whatever she had to tell him affected her in ways he couldn’t begin to understand. Then again, what man ever understood the workings of a woman’s mind?
At length, Amelia set the tightly pleated cloth atop the table and faced him. “I have been offered a trip to Cairo, fully funded by my publisher. For three months, I will live amongst the Egyptians, sampling their culture, absorbing their history. It is a travel writer’s dream, one I have worked hard to achieve.”
“Brilliant!” He grinned. “And a well-deserved boon it is.”
But his grin didn’t last long, especially as he noted the fine lines at the sides of her eyes, and the ever-present shadows beneath them. Truly, his sister had worked hard for her achievements, giving up much for her career. Sometimes too much, in his opinion. Tromping about foreign lands with her maid, casting aside the usual pursuits of women. An unorthodox life for a rather unconventional female, and while he couldn’t be more proud of her, he also couldn’t help but wonder if she were happy. Was—perhaps—travel writing merely a convenient means to escape from her demons, namely, their father? For surely that’s what had driven her to such a vocation in the first place. But now that he was gone, could she not stop running?
Colin leaned forward in his chair. “And what then, Sister?”
“What do you mean? Is that not fantastic enough?” She shook her head. “This could be the pinnacle of my career.”
