The devil doctor *Completed*

In risk of trouble

*Bill*

Arriving a little before half past seven, I circle the grounds to ensure that no one is lurking about. The threat of rain is in the air. I suspect it will arrive before we finish dinner.

After a footman opens the door for me, I wait in the foyer while the butler informs the Luna of my presence. When I see Wicky descending the stairs in a lilac gown that reveals bared shoulders, I know coming this evening was a mistake. I should have simply sat on the steps and kept an eye out, because all I want now is to carry her back up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Knowing the truth of her situation, I can’t in all good conscience offer her marriage, knowing it would make her a bigamist. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting her. Her hair is plaited and twisted in some elaborate design, but my fingers are nimble enough that I could have the pins scattered on the floor and her hair tumbling around her in two seconds. The fastenings on the back of her gown might take four, her corset six. I force such tempting calculations from my mind as they serve no purpose other than to add to my frustration.

She is under my care, and I have a strict moral code when it comes to my professional pursuits, but my desire sees the ruse for what it is and refuses to cooperate. She isn’t a patient, she isn’t ill. She is someone who intrigues me.

As she nears, her jasmine scent fills my nostrils and I want to seek out all the little spots where she applied the fragrance.

“Would you care for a bit of brandy before dinner?” she asks.

What I want is an entire bottle of whiskey, or perhaps a dose of laudanum, to drown out my errant thoughts. With a practiced smile that I know appears harmless, I shake my head. “You’re intoxicating enough.”

She laughs joyfully and sweetly. “Rubbish! My word, but I had no idea you were such a flirt.”

I can’t stop myself from smiling without pretense. I enjoy her company; I have from the moment she’d begun to regain her strength and charmed me with stories of her youth. A pampered daughter of a high pack who had married a man who delivered harsh lessons that destroyed her naivety but not her spirit. “Only when it comes to you.”

“I find that difficult to believe. I suspect all of Queen’s ladies-in-waiting are stumbling over themselves to get your attention.”

“Your suspicions are without foundation. I fear my flirtation skills are a trifle rusty. I’ve not had much time for the she-wolves since I began serving the queen.” The she-wolves for whom I’ve had time were the sort who required nothing beyond coins.

She wraps her hand around the crook of my elbow. “Shall we go into dinner then?”

“I’m famished.” I stop short of saying I am famished for her. My true seduction will come after dinner because I want to ensure that I stay in the residence throughout the night as close to her as possible. While I feel a niggling of guilt at the role I am about to play, I assuage it by reminding myself that I am doing it to protect her.

Jack has sent a couple of his minions over to watch the residence, and Swindler has made arrangements for a few extra agents to patrol the streets, but I feel a need to take my own precautions to ensure that if her blasted husband is around, I will be near enough to deal with him… preferably with her being none the wiser.

I have Claybourne’s grandfather to thank for the manners I bring to the table with me. When the old gent discovered his grandson was a child of the rookeries, he’d not only taken him in but taken in his friends as well. It was then that I learned the comforts of a clean bed, a bath, clothes that fit properly. I never take any of my comforts for granted.

I settle Wicky into her chair and then sit in the one opposite her. I am grateful we are being served in the smaller dining room and that the table is a modest one that will sit only six. The family dining room.

White wine is poured and the first course is served: a soup that is more broth than substance, but I can’t fault its flavor.

“I feared you might not survive your encounter with Evangeline,” I say, striving to keep my voice level so it doesn’t reveal my curiosity regarding what might have been said after I left. Evangeline might have cautioned her not to become involved with me, which would mean I’d have to work all the harder at seduction.

“She warned me away from you.”

“I’m not surprised. You see me as a man of goodness, but I assure you I am more scoundrel than saint. I became a physician because I had much to atone for.”

She looks at me curiously, “Such as?”

“Nothing a she-wolf needs to hear about, especially over dinner.”

Watching as she lifts the spoon to her lips, I find myself envious of a damned eating utensil. When she returns it to the bowl, she lifts her gaze to mine, studies me for a moment. I wonder if she is able to see beneath the surface, to the part of me that I share with no one.

“I know you grew up on the streets,” she says. “What was it like?”

While she’d been recovering, she hasn’t asked about my youth. I rather wish she hadn’t asked now. “Dirty. Harsh. But within Feagan’s den there was a sense of camaraderie.”

“Who is Feagan?”

“The pupsman who corralled us, taught us to steal and pilfer without getting caught.”

“What of your parents?”

I take a sip of my wine. “My mother washed clothes. What I remember most about her was how rough and raw her hands always looked.” How rough they felt when they grazed against my skin when she was in a rage and I served as the object upon which she could vent her anger. It was like being slapped with sandpaper. “My father earned his living digging graves in various cemeteries and pauper’s fields. And at night, he’d return to rob the graves. When I was big enough to hold a trowel, he took me with him.”

The bowl is removed and a plate of mutton is set before us, but she hardly seems to notice. “Weren’t you frightened, going into the graveyards at night?”

“What was there to dread?”

“The spirits of the dead. Don’t you believe they linger?”

As she has mentioned being haunted before, I don’t laugh. “To haunt us?”

“Yes, quite.”

Pondering my answer, I take a bite of the tasty mutton. She is so earnest. Who am I to dissuade her from her beliefs? “I will admit that I have encountered phenomena that are difficult to explain: A glow in the fog, a howling when there is no wind. And on occasion, the hairs on the back of my neck would rise. Sometimes I felt that I was being watched, but I assume it was other grave robbers who were disappointed we beat them to the treasures.”

She glances around and I know she wants to say more, perhaps even mention the strange occurrences she’s experienced of late, but she is hesitant to appear foolish in front of the servants, even if they aren’t supposed to be listening.

“So you’ve never actually seen a spirit wandering around the graveyard?” Before I can answer, her eyes widen. “Is that why your surname is Grimley?”

I can’t help but smile. She looks as though she’s solved a difficult problem. “When Feagan took in a child, he always made him or her change their name. For most of us, there is no record of our birth, no record of our existence. Unlike with the high packs where births and deaths are recorded steadfastly, in the rookeries names are changed on a whim or when someone is caught committing a crime.”

“It never occurred to me that one could go about changing his name so easily.”

“I suspect even some of your servants aren’t presently living under the name with which they were born.” I don’t fail to notice how one of the footmen shifts his stance. I’ll have to check the man out. Probably wouldn’t hurt to have Swindler investigate them all. I’d much rather discover it was one of them instead of Riverdale sneaking about.

“So why Grimley?” she asks as another dish is set before us.

“An homage to my father, to his work. He was a large man, silent as the grave, which seemed appropriate considering his occupation. Never complained, never had an unkind word. ‘Lot of unpleasant tasks need doing, loads of grim things,’ he always told me. ‘So it’s best to just do them so you can move on to the pleasant ones.’”

“How did he die?”

“Don’t know that he did. He simply disappeared one night. After he sold my mother’s remains to a teaching hospital.” As a look of horror crosses her face, I down my wine, signal for more. This time I am brought red.

“That’s awful,” she says, brushing away the next plate before it can be placed before her.

“I’ve ruined your appetite. Perhaps we should discuss the weather. It’s going to rain tonight, I predict.”

“I don’t want to discuss the rain. Were you there? Did you see what he did with your mother?”

I take a healthy swallow of the wine, wishing for something a bit stronger. I’d not thought of my youth in years. “I was with him. I found no fault with his decision. We were in need of coins, but more than that, Wicky, those training to become doctors needed to be able to study more than books. My mum was quite unpleasant in life, but in death, I believe, she became an instrument of education that allowed others to save lives.”

“I suppose that’s one way to think of it.”

“It’s the only way to think of it.”

“We are so morbidly fascinated with death. You’ve dealt with it all your life in one manner or another. You don’t fear it?”

I slowly shake my head. “No.”

“Do you fear anything?”

‘You discovering the truth.’ Not that I could admit to that.

“That it’ll rain before I can take you on a turn about the garden.”

She laughs the sweet tinkling sound that reminds me of tiny crystal bells ringing on Christmas morning. “I’m serious.”

"As am I." I shove back my chair, stand, walk over to her, and pull out her chair. Leaning low, I say in a quiet, seductive voice, “Come on, Wicky. It’s dark out. Lovely things happen in the dark.”

With a twinkle in her eyes, she peers up at me and whispers, “But we’ve yet to have dessert.”

“I have my heart set on tasting something sweeter than anything that can be prepared in the kitchen.”

Rising, she places her hand on my forearm. “A walk about the garden sounds just the thing.”

Unfortunately, as we step out onto the covered terrace, we discover a soft rain falling, so quietly as to create little more than a constant drone rather than a harsh pattering of drops.

“We’re too late,” she says.

“We’re never too late.” I walk to the edge of the terrace, just short of being touched by the falling droplets. “I find the rain soothing.”

I feel her shiver. Stepping behind her, I wrap my arms around her and draw her in close.

“I feared it when I was a child,” she says quietly. “When the lightning rent the sky in two and thunder boomed so loud that it shook the ground, the servants would rush through the house turning all the mirrors around. It was my mother’s edict. She said when she was a child a bolt of lightning zigzagged through her parents’ house, using the mirrors to propel itself along. Do you think that’s possible?”

“I think anything’s possible.” Lowering my head, I kiss the nape of her neck, where jasmine behind her ear overpowered the scent of rain. I wonder where else she may have applied the fragrance. I kiss the other side. “Are your parents alive now?”

“No, it’s only Ethan and I. He thought it was such an adventure when we spent time in your residence.”

“He’s a good lad. We should take him to the park one afternoon.” I trail my mouth from one shoulder to the other, relishing her sigh.

“He went to the zoological gardens today. He’s drawing me pictures of the animals he saw.” Her voice sounds faint, faraway as though she were floating into oblivion.

“I should like to see them.”

“I’ll show you when he’s finished.”

I nip at her ear before slowly turning her around. Lifting her hand, she rubs the bridge of her nose. I wrap my hand around her wrist. “Don’t,” I say gently. “Don’t cover your nose.”

“It’s unsightly.”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing about you is unsightly.”

She releases a self-conscious laugh. “Sometimes I forget that you’ve seen all of me.”

“I looked upon you as a physician… which is a cold and impersonal observation. When I look upon you as a man, it will be very much like seeing you for the first time.”

She gives the tiniest mewl as though it had not occurred to her before that what I’d implied would most certainly happen. Sometimes I forget that she is a Luna first, a she-wolf second. That she isn’t accustomed to traveling the path I want to travel.

Still, I bring her in close and take her mouth, while the rain cools and scents the air. Her tongue parries with mine, her hands comb through my hair, her sighs mingle with my moans. Sweet, so gloriously sweet. I could have…

“Excuse me, My Luna.”

She jerks back as though the butler had taken a lash to her. “Yes, Thatcher, what is it?”

“A missive from the queen for Dr. Grimley.”

I hold out my hand, and Thatcher extends the silver salver. I take the letter bearing the royal crest, open it, and walk over to the doorway where enough light spills out so I can read the words.

“What is it?” Wicky asks, coming to stand beside me.

“I’m being summoned.” With an apologetic sigh, I say, “I must go.”

“Of course you must.”

I cradle her face. “Thank you for dinner. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a night more.”

“If it’s not too late when you’re finished, perhaps you could come back to enjoy your after-dinner port. I’ll feel like a horrible hostess otherwise.”

I grin. “We can’t have that. But I have no idea how long it’ll take.”

She glances back over her shoulder. “Thatcher, give the doctor a key to the residence before he leaves.”

“Wicky…” I begin. We would be opening a door we would be unlikely to close.

She nods, somewhat jerkily. “I want you to have a key. If I’m asleep, you can awaken me and I’ll get the port for you.”

If I were to awaken her, it wouldn’t be for bloody port, not that I am going to confess to that with the butler standing there. Leaning in, I kiss her gently. “I’ll return when I can. I should warn you that it could be days.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Don’t be, I almost tell her. No good would come of it.