Half defiant, half apologetic, Eliza retorted, “Mr. Gibson used to eat it every Sunday. Now ’e’s never allowed a single bite. What pleasures ’as he got left? No wife, no sweets, can’t ’ardly walk, eyes too poor for readin’ . . . just sits in his room and counts the days until ’is next game of draw poker. I say let ’im have a midge o’ joy now and then.”

An impatient reply hovered on Garrett’s lips, but she bit it back as she considered Eliza’s words.

The cookmaid had a point. Stanley Gibson, once a vigorous and active man—a constable with a London beat—now spent most of his days in a quiet room. A cheerful, comfortable room, but even so, there must be times when it felt like a prison. What harm would it do to allow him a little indulgence now and then? In Garrett’s concern over doing everything she could to preserve what remained of his physical health, she mustn’t deny him the small enjoyments that made life tolerable.

“You’re right,” she said reluctantly.

Eliza’s mouth sagged open. “I am?”

“I agree that everyone deserves a midge of joy now and then.”

“It’s right fair-minded of ye to say so, Doctor.”

“However, if this particular ‘midge’ keeps him up half the night with a bellyache, you’re going to help me with him.”

The cookmaid’s lax mouth stretched into a satisfied grin. “Yes, Doctor.”

After going upstairs to visit her father, who had looked vastly pleased with himself and stoutly insisted the mincemeat pie would cause him no troubles whatsoever, Garrett went down to the front receiving room. She sat at the escritoire desk and sorted through correspondence, and picked at the slice of mincemeat pie Eliza had brought her. She could only manage a bite or two. She’d never been fond of sweet-and-savory dishes, and she’d certainly never shared her father’s fondness for this one. In her opinion, mincemeat pie was a jumble of ingredients that had never been meant to unite in one crust. It was a heavy, overpowering dish, entirely resistant to digestive enzymes.

Even before the pie, her stomach had felt unsettled. She had worried all day, knowing that by now Ethan had taken the incriminating information to Scotland Yard. The machinery of justice had been set in motion, and both Lord Tatham and Sir Jasper would surely be on the defensive, trying to save their own necks. She reassured herself with the thought that Ethan was familiar with every inch of London, and he was as sharp and surefooted as any man alive. He could take care of himself.

In a few days, when the conspirators were safely behind bars, Ethan would call on her. It cheered Garrett to think about him at her doorstep, big and handsome, perhaps a bit nervous as she invited him inside. They would discuss the future . . . their future . . . and she would convince him that despite his concerns, they would be happier together than apart. And if Ethan couldn’t bring himself to propose to her, Garrett would simply have to do it herself.

How did one go about proposing marriage?

In the novels, a couple emerged after a moonlight stroll with the engagement as a fait accompli, leaving the reader to imagine the scene. Garrett had heard that the suitor went down on one knee, which she certainly wasn’t going to do for anyone unless she were helping to load him onto an ambulance stretcher.

Since lilting romantic phrases were hardly Garrett’s forte, it really would be better if Ethan were the one to propose. He would say something lovely and poetic in that beguiling Irish accent. Yes, she would find a way to make him do it.

Was she really considering marriage to a man she knew so little? Had another woman been in this situation, Garrett would have advised her to wait and find out more about the prospective husband. There were more ways for it to all go wrong than there were ways for it to go right.

But I’ve had to wait for so many things in my life, she thought. She’d spent years studying and working while other young women were being courted. Becoming a doctor had been her dream and her calling. She had never trusted that in the future she would find a stable and loving partner who would take care of her. She hadn’t wanted to depend on someone out of necessity.

Garrett had no regrets: This was the life she had wanted. At the same time . . . she was tired of being cautious and responsible. She yearned to fling herself headlong into the experience of being loved, desired, possessing, and possessed. And Ethan Ransom was the only man who’d ever made her want to take the risk of true intimacy, not only physically, but also emotionally. It would be safe to allow him inside her most private thoughts and feelings—he would never mock or hurt her, or take more than he gave. At the same time, he would be a demanding lover who wouldn’t let her hide or withhold anything, and that was as frightening as it was exciting.

A sharp rapping of the lion’s-head knocker jarred Garrett from her reflections. It was well past calling or delivery hours. Before five seconds had passed, another burst of percussion resounded through the air.

Eliza sped to the entranceway, exclaiming beneath her breath about people knocking fit to wake the dead. “Evenin’,” Garrett heard the cookmaid say. “What business are you about?”

A muffled conversation ensued.

Unable to make out what was being said, Garrett frowned and half turned in her chair to look at the sitting-room doorway.

Eliza came into view, holding a folded card. She frowned and chewed at her lips before saying, “It’s one of Lord Trenear’s footmen, Doctor. He bid me to give you this while he waits.”

Garrett extended her hand for the note. Breaking the wax seal, she saw a few lines written in a hasty forward slant, the t’s crossed to the right of the stems, the dot of one of the i’s missing. It was from Kathleen, Lady Trenear, the earl’s wife.

Dr. Gibson,

If you are able, I beg you to come to Ravenel House with all possible haste. There has been an accident involving a guest. As the matter is sensitive, I ask your discretion in keeping this matter entirely private. Thank you, my friend.

—K

Garrett stood up so abruptly that her chair nearly toppled backward. “Someone’s been injured,” she said. “I’m off to Ravenel House. Make certain the surgical kit is in my bag, and fetch my coat and hat.”

Eliza, bless her, wasted no time with questions, and scampered off. She had helped Garrett on many occasions when speed was of the essence in seeing to a patient.

Although Garrett was Lady Helen’s doctor as well as Pandora’s, the rest of the Ravenels usually relied on the services of a trusted family physician. Why hadn’t they sent for him? Was he unavailable, or had they decided Garrett was better equipped to deal with the situation?

The footman, a tall, fair-haired fellow, obeyed instantly as she gestured for him to follow her to the surgery.

“Who’s been injured?” Garrett asked briskly.

“Afraid I don’t know, miss . . . er, ma’am. Doctor. A stranger.”

“Male or female?”

“Male.”

“What happened to him?” At his hesitation, Garrett said impatiently, “I must know the nature of the injury so I can bring the right supplies.”

“It was an accident with a firearm.”

“Right,” she said briskly, snatching up a wire basket filled with odds and ends, and dumped it out on the floor. Hurrying to a supply shelf, she began selecting bottles and putting them in the basket. Chloroform, ether, carbolic acid, iodoform, collodion, bismuth solution, cotton lint, gauze, rolled bandages, glycerin, catgut ligatures, isopropyl alcohol, metallic salts . . . “Carry this,” she said, shoving the basket at the footman. “And this.” She hefted a large jug of sterilized water and gave it to him. He curved his free arm around it, staggering slightly. “Come,” she said, striding to the entranceway, where Eliza was waiting with her hat and walking coat.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be away,” Garrett said to the cookmaid, tugging on the coat. “If my father complains about his stomach, give him a dose of the digestive tonic in his bedroom cabinet.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Eliza handed her the heavy leather doctor’s bag and cane.

The footman hurried to the front door and struggled to open it with both arms full, until Eliza darted forward to do it for him.

Garrett stopped at the threshold as she saw the plain black carriage with no identifiable insignias or designs. Glancing at the footman suspiciously, she asked, “Why is it unmarked? The Ravenel carriage has the family crest lacquered on the side.”

“It was Lord Trenear’s decision. It’s a private matter, he told me.”

Garrett didn’t move. “What are the names of the family dogs?”

The footman looked slightly affronted. “Napoleon and Josephine. Little black spaniels.”

“Tell me one of Lady Pandora’s words.”

Pandora, one of the twins, often used made-up words such as frustraging or flopulous, when the ordinary ones didn’t suit her. Despite her attempts to curb the habit, they still slipped out from time to time.

The footman thought for a moment. “Lambnesia?” he ventured, as if hoping that would satisfy her. “She said it when Lady Trenear misplaced her basket of wool knitting yarn.”

That sounded like Pandora. Garrett gave him a decisive nod. “Let’s proceed.”

The drive from King’s Cross to Ravenel House, on South Audley, was approximately three and a half miles, but it felt like three hundred. Garrett simmered with impatience as she held her doctor’s bag on her lap and kept a hand on the basket of rattling, sloshing bottles beside her. She was eager to do whatever she could for the Ravenels, who had always been gracious and kind, and had never put on airs despite their elevated social status.

The current earl, Devon, Lord Trenear, was a distant Ravenel cousin who had inherited the title unexpectedly after the last two earls had died in quick succession. Although Devon was a young man with no experience at running a large estate and managing its attendant financial obligations, he had shouldered the burden admirably. He had also taken responsibility for the three Ravenel sisters, Helen, Pandora, and Cassandra, all unmarried at the time, when he could have easily thrown them to the wolves.

At last the stately Jacobean house came into view, its squared-off shape ornamented with lavish scrolls, pilasters, arches, and parapets. For all its great size, the residence was welcoming and warm, comfortably mellowed with age. As soon as the carriage stopped, one footman was there to open the door while another reached in to assist Garrett.

“Take this,” Garrett said without preamble, handing the basket of supplies to him. “Be careful—most of these chemicals are caustic and highly flammable.”

The footman shot her a glance of suppressed alarm and gripped the basket carefully.

Garrett alighted from the carriage by herself and strode across the flagstone tiles to the front steps of the house, almost running in her haste.

Two women waited for her at the threshold: the plump silver-haired housekeeper, Mrs. Abbot, and Lady Cassandra, a fair-haired young woman with blue eyes and the kind of face that belonged on a cameo. Behind them, the grand entrance hall bustled with a sense of controlled panic, housemaids and footmen running back and forth with cans of water, and what appeared to be dirty toweling and linens.