“Excuse us for a moment, gentlemen.” Peckwood grabbed Graham’s arm, escorting him to the farthest corner of the room. “Those men are journalists,” he hissed. “So I will thank you to behave in a professional manner.”
“You invited the press, yet you did not think it a courtesy to first get Mr. Balfour’s permission?” Disgust blazed a hot trail up his gullet. “Or mine?”
Peckwood tucked his chin like a bull about to charge. “I do not answer to you, Lambert, rather the other way around.”
Graham gritted his teeth, well on the way to a headache of his own. Dash it, but he was weary to death of Peckwood’s power play. “Even you cannot discount the fact that the Balfours areyouremployer. You should have secured their consent.”
“Fine! Have it your way.” A murderous shade of crimson crept up Peckwood’s neck as he leaned aside. “Mr. Balfour, have you any objections to the documentation of your miraculous transformation today?”
Colin’s big head lolled to one side, his glassy eyes trained on Peckwood. “Do ashhh…you will.”
His words slurred. His massive chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Of course he’d agree now, with so much medication in his system.
“There, happy?” Peckwood’s pointy nose lifted a full inch in challenge.
“Hardly.” Graham huffed. There’d be no arguing the matter any further now that Colin had consented, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Nor did he like the addition of the equipment Peckwood had rolled in. He hitched a thumb over his shoulder at the cart. “And what, pray God, is in those bags?”
“Nitrous oxide.” Peckwood snagged his apron off the hook, as if he’d not just uttered the most preposterous thing Graham had ever heard.
“Nitrous oxide!” he blurted. “Are you mad?”
Behind him, feet shuffled. Curious eyes burned into the back of his neck—but not any hotter than the fiery stare Mr. Peckwood shot his way.
“Keep your voice down,” the doctor growled. “It will not do to appear we are at odds.”
“But we are at odds!” Graham shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from grabbing hold of the man and shaking him. “What you’re doing here is nothing short of a party trick, just like your use of mesmerism the other night. That gas is used for entertainment at high society parties, not for medicinal purposes, and particularly not for use on a patient.”
Peckwood tied his apron, all the while glaring at Graham. “You know as well as I it is imperative we keep Mr. Balfour as subdued as possible while I drill into his cranium. Not to mention the need to keep him immobile when I remove the portion of his brain causing abnormal growth. It has been proven that laughing gas relaxes the nerves and even masks pain, an effect Sir Humphry Davy and I researched years ago at the Pneumatic Institute. I see no harm in employing the method here.”
Graham blew out a low breath. Was he being overcautious? Might the gas be as helpful as Peckwood intimated?
He glanced at the green bags. As much as he’d also love to see Colin cured, something in the back of his mind screamed that this wasn’t right. Colin deserved more than experimentation. Graham shook his head, unable to dislodge the thought, and turned back to Peckwood.
“I know you’ve written of such possibilities, sir, but it’s never been tried. You don’t know for certain if it will harm Mr. Balfour.”
“How do you think discoveries are made, Doctor? By playing it safe? By remaining in the same rut worn by time eternal?” Peckwood chuckled, the condescending grate of it noxious to the ears. “I promised the late Mr. Balfour I would see his son cured of his ailment, and I mean to do it, using every possible tool at my disposal.”
“Promise or not”—he inhaled deeply—“I must object. Strapped to a table and with his head cut open, Mr. Balfour will have no way of indicating if the gas is too much for him.”
“Ish there a problem, Doctors?” Colin’s voice, while weak, yet droned as deep-toned as the thunderstorm outside.
Mind made up, Graham wheeled about. “Yes, there is.”
The three journalists whipped out their notepads, ready to document the whole sensational scene.
Mr. Peckwood sidestepped him, crooning all the while. “I am afraid my colleague is correct. It appears an important piece of gear was neglected to be delivered with this equipment.” He stopped at the cart, flourishing his hand over the green bags. “I see now that a regulator is missing, one which controls a steady flow of vaporous nitrous oxide.”
The short journalist’s jaw dropped. “Are we to understand you will use the Gas of Paradise on your patient, Mr. Peckwood?”
“Yes!” He rubbed his hands together. “For the first time ever in history.”
Pencils flew, capturing the doctor’s words while he strolled back to Graham.
“Very clever, Mr. Lambert. I thank you for bringing your concern to my attention, for you are correct. Without that regulator, we could not discern if the amount of gas we administer is too much. And so you must run down to the dockyards and find it. The piece should be in a small box about yea big.” His hands spread to six inches wide then half as tall. “Likely it was forgotten in the hold of theMary Campbellor deposited in the Farley warehouse, and so I bid you make haste, sir.”
Bidhim?Graham blinked, stunned. “Send an errand boy. There is still much to be done to prepare Mr. Balfour for his surgery. I cannot leave.”
“Neither can I entrust that piece of equipment to some random boy hailed off the street. It’s too expensive, too delicate, and far too important to the success of this operation.” He stepped so close the peppery smell of the man’s shaving tonic crept up Graham’s nostrils. “Do not tell me you would endanger Mr. Balfour’s life for the sake of an inconvenience.”
