Page 24 of Prescription for Sin

“Did I…” He swallowed hard. “Did I do anything inappropriate? During the fever?”

Emma went very still. “You were delirious,” she said carefully. “Nothing that happened could be considered…inappropriate.”

So, he had kissed her. The confirmation sent heat through him.

Emma gently extracted her wrist from his grip. “Earlier, during your fever,” she began carefully, watching his expression, “you called out for someone. Mary-Anne. You seemed quite distressed.” She saw the change instantly—how his shoulders tensed, how shadows gathered in his dark eyes.

“My sister,” he said quietly. His voice carried the weight of old grief and made Emma’s heart clench, followed by relief he wasn’t calling out for his lover.

“How old were you when she died?”

“I was twelve. She died of dysentery.”

The clinical part of Emma’s mind immediately conjured images of the disease’s progression, but she pushed them aside, focusing instead on the raw pain in his voice. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, warming his features. “She was four years older, but she never treated me as a nuisance. Always included me in her games, read to me, protected me from Father’s moods after Mother died when I was six.” His voice grew coarse with memory. “My sister was the one who first showed me how to do handstands in the garden. Started my love of gymnastics.”

Emma found herself leaning forward, drawn by this glimpse of the boy he had been. “That explains your fever dreams,” she said gently. “You begged her not to leave you. The pain in your voice…” she trailed off, remembering how his anguish had torn at her heart.

“Did I?” He looked down at his glass, his fingers white-knuckled around it. “The fever must have brought back memories of watching her suffer. I was too young to understand why I couldn’t see her, why the doctors wouldn’t let me say goodbye.”

The sister in Emma railed against such cruelty, a child barred from his dying sister’s bedside. But the physician in her understood the need to prevent the disease’s spread. Still, looking at Everett now, she saw how that moment had shaped him.

“Rest, Mr Hughes. I shall bring you some sustenance.”

Everett felt a profound disappointment and longing wash over him as she quit the room.

Alone, he stared at the ceiling, cataloguing his body’s weakness with a physician’s detachment. Three days of fever should have burned away this inconvenient attraction. Instead, he felt more drawn to her than ever.

The memory of her singing tugged at him. Not the practiced scales of a lady’s education, but something rougher, more honest. Like everything about Emma Brown, it defied his expectations and made him question his purpose here.

He was supposed to be gathering evidence against her. Instead, he found himself gathering precious fragments of the woman beneath her stern façade, her gentle hands, her hidden smile, the way she gave herself completely to caring for others.

Sleep pulled at him again, but he fought it, trying to sort fever dreams from reality. Had she really pressed his hand to her cheek in the darkest hours? Had she whispered, “Come back to me,” when his fever peaked?

Most importantly, why did those memories matter more than his mission?

Chapter nine

Dr Michael Kincaid

13 December 1840

Dearest Helen,

These past days of nursing Mr Hughes through fever have left me utterly confused. I found myself singing to him, holding his hand through the worst of his delirium, my heart tightening each time he called out for someone named Mary-Anne. What started as a clinical arrangement has become something far more perilous to my peace of mind.

But I write primarily about a more urgent matter. I’ve discovered a disturbing pattern in London’s East End. I cannot shake the feeling that the two are connected. Have you heard anything about the mortality rates in that district? Any information about recent infrastructure changes would be invaluable.

I know I should focus solely on my medical practice, yet I find my thoughts constantly straying to him. I am lost, Helen. For the first time in my life, science offers no clear answer.

Your devoted friend,

Emma

P.S. He kissed me during his delirium. I pretend not to remember, but the memory haunts me.

Emma had just finished changing Everett’s bandages, her breath catching slightly whenever they brushed his warm skin. Three days of fever had left him weakened but alive, and she found herself unreasonably pleased by each small sign of his recovery, the clarity returning to his eyes, the way his hand had steadied enough to hold a teacup.