CHAPTER ONE
“I loved working at the inn. Convivial company, hearty food and talkative travellers. Of course, you had to put up with groping men, demanding chits and tedious twaddle, but every job has its bad days.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
Year 1813, October. London.
“I won’t do it.”
“Come now, old friend, you don’t know what I’m going to ask yet.”
“I don’t care as I won’t do it. Got me here under false pretences, damn you, with all that ‘let’s meet for a drink’ waffle. You even offered to buy. Well, get me the drink and I’ll be on my way. I’ve patients to attend to.”
The chair creaked ominously as Lucas Mainwaring sat back grumbling. Fibres of wool stuck to the grimy surface as he lifted his sleeve from the table and he creased his face in disgust, signalling to the barmaid himself.
This crumbling ale house was by the docks and although its décor left a lot to be desired, it did serve the finest of ales: perfectly bitter, not too sweet, yet aromatic with hops and, most importantly, not watered down.
He knew he was being an old curmudgeon, but he didn’t give a damn. His childhood friend just stared back at him, unmoved by the grouchy outburst. Indeed, he looked most at home in this unsavoury place.
“You know I like to see you, Lucas. It just so happens that I also need help, and you, I believe, are just the person.”
Lucas muttered under his breath and looked up as the barmaid bumped the table. Her eyes skittered over his face, taking in the red scars branding the left side of his face and neck.
The girl didn’t look repulsed – in this kind of ale house, his disfigurement was far from the worst – but neither did she look enraptured, until she turned to his companion, Jasper Carnforth, Viscount Danbury. Her gaze positively devoured his handsome, dark looks, and her posture and face became loose and inviting.
“What can I getyou, lovey?”
“We’ll have two tankards of your best ale and a plate of pie.”
“Mutton or rabbit?” she purred as seductively as possible.
“Whichever is closest to its description and furthest from dog.” His friend flipped her a coin, and she flounced off.
That didn’t bode well at all. If Lucas was a betting man, he’d wager they’d be eating bow-wow pie.
“I need your help.” Jasper fixed him with solemn eyes. “I was asked to investigate a rather serious matter, but it seems to me that you’d be far more suited to this type of work. Your name was mentioned when I talked to a fellow in the War Office – chap called Asher Rainham?”
Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, Lucas could hear a first nail being hammered lightly into a coffin to seal his unknown fate. Asher Rainham – his old friend, comrade, mentor…the bloody list went on. It was Asher who’d hauled his burned arse back from France, saving his life. He owed him and his shoulders slumped, sensing he was doomed.
“And?” His tone was flat.
“Well, you never really said what your role was on the Continent, although I could hazard a guess that you weren’t there for the scenery. Those talents may be needed for this job and your skill as a doctor would also help.”
“Strictly speaking I’m a surgeon, not a doctor,” he groused. “You know very well that I never finished studying medicine. All I remember from Oxford is some outdated notions from ancient Latin textbooks and us discovering the best way to get bosky without vomiting. Doctors don’t do anything, just prod you with their fingers, ask you inane questions and then pronounce you’ll die in two months. Surgeons do the useful work–”
“Cutting off limbs?” Jasper raised a brow.
“Trying tosavelimbs, except in war, and then there’s not much choice.” Lucas glared back. “Setting bones, digging out bullets, tending wounds – it needs strength, dexterity and sometimes brute force.”
“The ton call you doctor though.”
“More fool them. Just because I’m a gentleman.”
“An earl.”
A rude gesture was his only reply, before they were interrupted by the arrival of ale jugs and a rather luscious, gamey-smelling pie.
“I suppose I am somewhere between the two. A gentleman doctor if you will, but I like to get my hands dirty. Don’t tell the College of Physicians; those quill-drivers would have my hide.”
