Page 5

“Over there, m’lord,” the man said, pointing to the small group of people.

In the shadow of the nearest wheel, he could just make out the shape of a broken barrow. An elderly woman bent down and plucked a crushed posy from the splintered remains and pressed her other hand against her mouth to stifle a sob.

The flower seller. Dear heavens, the hackney had hit the young woman—the one who brightened the corner of St. James Street with her friendly smile and her brightly colored wares.

Moving away from the carriage door, Alexander approached the small crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the driver attempting to calm the terrified horses. He ignored him, focusing instead on the people before him. They parted as he drew near, and within moments, he could see the woman’s form lying against the hard-packed dirt. He glanced at the man crouched beside her. Dressed in the clothing of a gentleman, the man met his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head. Alexander swallowed hard and knelt down across from him.

The flower seller was young. Younger than she’d seemed when peddling her posies. Her brown woolen dress was torn at the knee, and someone had placed her gray shawl beneath her head. Blood was running from her ear, dripping onto the cloth beneath, and even in the fading light, he could see that her complexion was more gray than fair. Her labored breathing spoke of the pain she was experiencing, and the rasping sound cut through the air between them.

“Her name,” Alexander said, raising his head. “Does anyone know her name?”

“Mary.” A plump, white-haired lady wearing an apron over her serviceable dress spoke up. She shifted her gaze from the woman on the ground to Alexander. “’Er name’s Mary. Miss Mary Brown. She come into my bakery to buy an ’apenny bun every Friday.” She wrung her hands together. “Regular as clockwork.”

Alexander nodded his thanks and turned back to the injured woman. “Miss Brown,” he said. Urgency laced his voice, but she made no response. “Miss Brown,” he tried again a little louder. “Can you hear me?”

This time, her eyelids fluttered.

“She’s wakin’ up,” someone said, and behind him, a murmur of hope rippled through the watching crowd.

The man across from him leaned a little closer, watching the movement of her chest. “The horse kicked her in the head and the ribs, my lord. She’s been having difficulty breathing, which would suggest that she may have injured her lungs. If so, conversing is likely beyond her.”

“You are a medic?”

He gave a curt nod. “Dr. Jacob Thorndike at your service.”

Alexander swung to face him. “The author of the recent Treatise on the Operation of Surgery?” Dr. Thorndike had been the topic of more than one conversation at White’s over the last few months. What the man had accomplished in the medical field bordered on magic.

“Indeed.” A frown crossed the doctor’s brow. “Not that my study of sutures and tendons will help this poor woman.”

Alexander’s breath suddenly seemed as shallow as the woman’s. “Is there nothing you can do for her?”

“Very little, I fear.”

“Please.” The woman’s voice was so faint Alexander barely heard it.

“Miss Brown?” he said.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Please, sir,” she whispered.

Alexander lowered his head until he was mere inches from hers. “What can I do?” he said. “How may I help you?”

“My son.” She raised one arm to grasp a string tied about her neck. “Take this.” Panic filled her eyes as she desperately gasped for air, and with her free hand, she caught hold of his sleeve. “I beg you. Take this. Go to him . . .”

“I shall,” Alexander said. “You have my word.”

“Tell him . . .” she wheezed. “Tell him I would have come . . .” She closed her eyes and took another shuddering breath.

“Miss Brown,” he urged. “Your son. Where might I find him?”

Her fingers loosened, releasing his coat. But it was not until a few moments later that Alexander realized her labored breathing had ceased. One glance at Dr. Thorndike’s expression told Alexander all he needed to know.

The man who smelled of fish pushed a gawking youth aside. “The magistrate’s come,” he called.

Instantly, the crowd’s attention shifted to the male voices near the horses, and as the people drifted that way, Dr. Thorndike gently raised the woman’s head and withdrew her shawl. Carefully drawing the string off from around her neck, he handed it to Alexander before lowering Miss Brown’s head to the ground again and spreading the shawl over her face.

“I will ensure that she receives a decent burial, my lord,” Dr. Thorndike said. “Though I hate to admit it, my choice of profession has given me ample experience with such things.” He gestured to the humble necklace. “You have a much more difficult duty to perform.”

Alexander stared at the item in his hand. It was a simple piece of string—the kind that Miss Brown had likely tied around her posies each day—and attached to the string was a small piece of pale-blue muslin. He turned the fabric over. The hint of a faded white floral pattern was the only additional mark. Nowhere did it tell him the name of Miss Brown’s son or where he could locate him. There was nothing about the object in his hand that suggested it was of any worth whatsoever—either monetarily or in finding her family members.