A Flaw in the Blood by Stephanie Barron Read Free Book Online Page A

pallor was, how the exhaustion of last night, and her own accident, had never left her. She still wore a bandage about her head, disguising the ugly bruise at her temple.
    “Did you sleep at all?” he demanded.
    “Perhaps an hour.”
    “You shouldn't be here. You should be tucked up on a sopha with a novel and a pot of tea.”
    “I have a patient within.”
    “A patient!”
    “The poor have as much need of doctors as the rich, Patrick,” she flashed.
    “I'm the last man to argue that, Georgie—but need the doctor be
you
?”
    “I'm fortunate to win the custom! The rich prefer their doctors male—these women have no choice but to accept my services. In return they give me experience—and so we each barter what we can.”
    He glanced around the slovenly room. “Snow would hate to see you here, lass.”
    “It was Uncle John who introduced me to the neighbourhood,” she retorted. “Do you think his cholera researches were conducted in Mayfair? He was often in far worse places than this—Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Although these women die of syphilis far more than cholera, of course.”
    Syphilis.
Her casual use of the word rocked him. To another man—a true English gentleman, reared with all the prejudices and ignorance of his willful class—Georgiana's worldliness must ruin her. Fitzgerald suspected she betrayed it less to the circles she usually frequented; but to him she always spoke her mind. They argued constantly and Fitzgerald invariably lost.
    “Why have you come, Patrick?”
    “I want you to leave London. Immediately.”
    “Whatever for?”
    “You're in danger.”
    “Nonsense!”
    “Georgie, my chambers have been ransacked, my partner nearly killed, and my carriage overturned—for what do you wait, a pistol to the head?”
    “I have
nothing
to do with your affairs!” she cried. “Even if we accept that these events are linked—and that they are animated by some power at Windsor—no one there could possibly know that I rode in your carriage last night!”
    “Your friend von Stühlen does.”
    “Von Stühlen is
not
my friend, Patrick,” she said sharply.
    “I found his card on the mantel at Russell Square. Did he call this morning to inquire after your health?” He grasped her wrist, his persistent jealousy flaring. “
Tell me
how you come to be acquainted with that man—and why he hated to see you at Torning's inn.”
    She stared at him as though he'd run mad. “I don't have time for this! There is a girl on the brink of
death
in that room, and it is my duty—my
calling,
Patrick—to do what I can to save her.” She shook off his hold.
    “What's wrong with her, then?”
    “Ignorance and desperation.” Georgie threw the words over her shoulder, already leaving him. “Lizzie is but fourteen—on the Game, like her mother—found herself in the family way, and consulted an abortionist. Whatever the butcher did has infected her blood. Her mother, half wild with fear, sent round a note to Russell Square at midnight. I blame myself that I did not find it until this morning.”
    At midnight, Georgie was rolling toward Hampstead Heath in the hands of the Queen's coachman. Fitzgerald's fault, again.
    “What will you do?”
    “I shall have to remove the uterus.”
    “Surgery! In this place?”
    She stopped short in the doorway. “I can hardly transport her to the College. As you're here, you might boil water on that hob and scrub the table. We shall have to operate by the fire—and send the little ones out into the hall while we do it.”
    He wanted to tell her that no common prostitute, however young and desperate, was worth the sacrifice of her safety. He wanted to tell her that the girl would die, no matter what she did.
    “Georgie—”
    “Not another word, until I am at leisure to hear you. Mr. Fitzgerald requires some water, Davey,” she ordered the boy. “Be so good as to fetch it for him.”

CHAPTER NINE
    W HATEVER BRUTAL WORDS HE MIGHT have thrown at Georgie were