Page 39

“Dr. Walker,” Julius read aloud.

“It must be a surgery,” Audrey observed, shifting her shoulders against the scratch of the wool coat.

“Then I shall act as lookout and allow you to lead,” Julius replied, stepping aside with a flourish.

Audrey experienced a rush of pleasure that warmed her from within. Julius had deferred to her, as a healer. Once more, he had affirmed that he did not see her as a girl playing at medicine but as a practitioner in her own right. It was a balm to her uncertainty. It was a tiny, precious spark of hope that she might find acceptance in Stirling after all.

Would the villagers recall how often she had assisted her father in tending to their coughs and broken bones? Would they trust her without the solid weight of his presence by her side? She did not know. And if whispers of scandal ever reached their quiet parish …

She shook off the chill that came not from the weather but from apprehension.

They hurried to the end of the block, rounding the corner with practiced caution to seek out the alley that ran behind the surgery. It stank faintly of wet ash and horse dung, but it was blessedly empty. With a final glance to confirm they were unobserved, Audrey led the way in. Her boots rang softly on the slick cobbles, and she counted the buildings with her gloved fingers until she found the one.

Julius kept watch, leaning with studied ease against the wall as though they were simply waiting for someone.

Audrey spotted a high-set window, paned and shadowed. Below it, a battered barrel sat askew beside a stack of coal. She beckoned him over and pointed.

“I need that there, under the window.”

Without protest, he lifted the barrel into place and then, with surprising gentleness, took hold of her waist to boost her up. His hands were warm even through her coat. She wobbled slightly and gripped the ledge, but he held her firmly, the scent of rain-damp wool and warm skin rising between them.

She bit her lip. Had he nearly kissed her last night?

Was she sorry he had not?

Was a kiss an inevitable waystation on this strange, breathless journey they had embarked upon together?

Audrey forced herself to inhale and focus.

Inside, the surgery was dim. She blinked through the grime-smudged glass. A man, Montague, she presumed, lay on a treatment table, stripped to his small clothes. The pale flesh of his thighs looked cold, mottled slightly, and his rounded belly was proof of good food and richer drink.

Across the room, a narrow-shouldered man in a stained waistcoat worked over a table, grinding something to powder in a mortar with short, efficient strokes. He scraped the resulting paste onto strips of linen, his motions brisk and unfeeling. Then, tray in hand, he returned to the patient and began to layer the bandages over Montague’s knees and ankles.

Audrey’s stomach knotted.

“Butchers,” she muttered under her breath, remaining long enough to confirm what she already feared.

Montague’s face twisted as the compound began to leech into his flesh. The skin on his calves reddened almost instantly. That would burn. The imbecile probably believed it a cleansing treatment. Mercury or turpentine would be next, she thought bitterly.

She lowered herself down from the barrel and brushed her hands against her coat. Julius still leaned against the wall in perfect imitation of idleness, but she saw his eyes flick to her the moment she turned.

“We can return home,” she murmured.

He quirked one dark brow, but said nothing, waiting until they had reached the mouth of the alley. There, beneath a canopy of iron balconies and dripping ivy, he turned to her.

“What is it?”

“They will be some hours, so it is pointless hanging about.”

Julius tilted his head, one brow arched in silent query. The steady patter of drizzle on the brim of his beaver hat lent the moment a strange hush.

Audrey exhaled, still knotted with frustration. “That fool is being blistered for what appears to be gout.”

Julius’s face twitched in confusion, and Audrey had a sudden realization. He had never been exposed to such travesties of treatment. His father may have been Lord Snarling, but the earl had always summoned Audrey’s father in times of illness. A learned man. A physician who read medical texts and used logic over leeches.

“Blistering,” she began, barely able to contain her disdain, “is when the physician produces welts across the patient’s skin by applying irritating compounds, usually mustard paste or cantharides, in an effort to draw out fever or ‘humors.’”

Julius paled visibly. The rain glistened on his lashes. “Good God.”