Page 2 of A Lesson in Scandal (Tales from The Burnished Jade #1)

Chapter Two

Gentry’s Private Practice

Leadenhall Street, London

“You have a three o’clock appointment in Highgate with Mr Dennison,” Turner said, scanning the diary. “The gout in his foot shows no improvement and he suggests leeches to balance the humours.”

“Leeches won’t reduce the swelling.” Reid Gentry relaxed in the leather chair behind his desk and considered his colleague. “If Dennison stopped drinking port for a month, he’d be pain-free in no time.”

Every man had a vice—some turned to drink, some to women; Reid chased danger. That said, he had little choice but to spend his nights in a tavern teeming with footpads and thieves.

“On a diet of wine and laudanum, is it any wonder the man struggles to haul himself out of bed?” Turner’s sigh echoed Reid’s frustration. “Let me visit Dennison and remind him of his failings. When it comes to awkward patients, my father always said persistence pays.”

Reid heard the thread of grief in the younger man’s voice. Losing one’s parent and mentor struck a double blow. “Your father would be proud of the work you do here. Another year, and you can afford to open your own practice.”

Turner’s smile barely reached his eyes. “I’m in no hurry to leave. My father worked himself to the bone, and I have no intention of doing the same.”

“Your father was a brilliant surgeon and physician. We all feel his loss deeply. You’ll have a position here until you’re ready to pursue your own venture.” Which might be anytime within the next hour when Turner met the new female employee.

Reid glanced at the mantel clock as it chimed a quarter to the hour.

Miss Moorland would arrive soon. She was bound to cause a stir, precisely for the reasons one would expect. Few people would trust a woman’s diagnosis, hence Reid had no choice but to hire her as a herbalist. A fact he failed to make clear during their heated discussion yesterday.

Who are you running from, Miss Moorland?

The brief flash of terror in her eyes and her refusal to answer a simple question intrigued him. It’s why he made a concession and offered her a room upstairs. The gesture went against his better judgement. There was a killer on the loose, one targeting his patients. Indeed, how could he leave Miss Moorland alone in the building and still sleep soundly?

A knock on the study door brought Reid’s secretary, John Hickman. Despite being thirty-three and completing his medical training at St Bartholomew’s, Hickman suffered from a nervous disposition and lacked the stomach to carry out painful procedures. His vibrant mop of red hair did nothing to brighten his tight expression.

“There’s a lady here to see you, sir.” The slight tremble in Hickman’s voice mimicked the tremor in his hands. “A Miss Moorland. She claims she has an appointment, but there’s no record in the diary.”

For no sensible reason, Reid smiled.

He couldn’t help but admire the lady’s determination despite the obstacles thrown in her path. He’d met women desperate to lure him into bed, never one desperate to make use of his credentials.

Reid stood and rounded the desk, quick to banish the thrum of excitement. He had placed bets with his friends last night, wagering ten pounds Miss Moorland would find subtle ways to challenge his strict instructions.

“Show the lady in.” Reid straightened his coat sleeves and combed his fingers through his hair. “You’ll both remain here while I introduce her.”

Confusion lined Turner’s brow. “I assume Miss Moorland is a new patient and not a society lady your grandfather is forcing you to marry.”

The innocent remark struck a nerve.

“My grandfather would never trade my happiness for wealth and status.” Not after the unforgivable mistake the viscount had made thirty years ago. “Miss Moorland is …”

He couldn’t quite find the right word to describe her. Those sumptuous pink lips prevented him from naming her a bluestocking. Her waves of lustrous dark hair meant he couldn’t call her a wallflower, either. The term spinster might suffice, but her passionate nature could grant her a place in many a man’s bed.

“A relative?” Hickman offered.

“No, she’s our new herbalist.”

“Our herbalist?” both men said in unison, their chins hitting their chests.

“I would prefer to know what’s in the tinctures we prescribe.” Reid spoke as if hiring Miss Moorland was part of a clever business strategy, not a reckless decision based on her tears and the detailed notes in her journal.

A muscle ticked in Hickman’s cheek. “She looks quite young.”

“She’s three and twenty.”

Being three years older, Turner appeared intrigued. “And she’s not married?”

Reid was quick to squash any romantic notions his colleague might have. “No, Miss Moorland is dedicated to her work.” Keen to settle their fears, he added, “She’s here on a trial basis. As always, our patients’ needs are a priority, and I expect you to support her appointment.”

Both men nodded.

Before Hickman went to fetch Miss Moorland, Reid thought to make an important point clear. “You’re to treat her with the respect one affords a lady, but you will not undermine her opinion. Discuss theories, by all means, question her knowledge, call her out for her mistakes, but do not treat her like an imbecile because of her sex.”

He thought about adding another caveat.

Don’t ask her to remove her spectacles and take down her hair . Not unless you want those intelligent green eyes haunting your dreams. Not if you want to lie in bed without imagining her hair splayed over your pillow.

Damn the woman.

She had no idea she was even remotely attractive, which only added to her allure. The air of mystery surrounding her had awakened something strange inside him. It was easily explained. Men liked solving puzzles, and Miss Moorland was a fascinating enigma.

Don’t ask to read her notes on hysteria , he added silently. Because he’d spent restless hours wondering what secrets she kept hidden within the pages of her sacred journal. The fact he thought he knew only added to the torment.

Hickman withdrew and returned with Miss Moorland.

She entered the room in her usual unassuming manner. “Good afternoon, Mr Gentry.” She curtsied and then offered Mr Turner a warm smile.

“Good morning , Miss Moorland. You’re ten minutes early, though I’m glad to see you followed my instructions.”

There wasn’t a stray hair visible beneath her dark blue bonnet. Her spectacles remained firmly in place. But by God, if her lips weren’t the most desirable pink he’d ever seen. He couldn’t see much of her dress hidden beneath the black silk pelisse. The coat was outdated, but it cinched at her waist, forcing his attention to the soft curve of her breasts.

“One must satisfy one’s employer,” she said.

Hell! Now his thoughts were running amok.

“Allow me to introduce Mr Turner.” Reid gestured to the handsome physician who struggled to keep his mouth closed. “His father, Ambrose Turner, was my mentor and taught me everything I know about amputation.”

Miss Moorland did not wrinkle her nose at the mention of lost limbs. “I read your father’s papers on the subject, Mr Turner,” she said, her countenance brightening. “The success of an amputation hinges on swift precision.”

Turner gawped at her like she belonged to the world of the fae. “Y-yes, although the proper use of ligatures is vital.”

“Indeed. I imagine a quart of brandy helps, too.” She shifted her attention back to Reid. “I’m told you conduct some surgeries on the premises.”

If she expected to stand at his shoulder while he operated, she was sorely mistaken. “Yes, and also at Guy’s Hospital. My expertise covers a wide range of fields.”

He had the steady hands of a surgeon and the sharp instincts of a physician. Whether diagnosing ailments or making precise cuts with his scalpel, he had mastered both skills. What a shame he wasn’t as proficient in solving crimes.

Hickman cleared his throat and introduced himself. “I will be responsible for ordering your supplies, Miss Moorland.”

“My supplies?”

“Your herbs and tinctures. The apothecary requires a week’s notice for the less common ingredients. He stocks a wide range from exotic sources. I can accompany you there later today if you’d like to place an order.”

“Miss Moorland starts work tomorrow,” Reid said, though he feared his men would be as useful as rotten turnips when she was on the premises. “She will need a few days to become familiar with the practice.”

“A day should suffice,” she said confidently.

Reid inclined his head. “Allow me to show you the treatment rooms and answer any questions you may have. Hickman will take your outdoor apparel.”

While Turner hurried away to tidy his cluttered consulting room, Hickman jumped at the chance to play footman.

Reid perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded, and watched his secretary help Miss Moorland undress. She untied the ribbons on her bonnet and quickly flattened the stray curl of dark hair behind her ear.

Wary eyes met his, but she said nothing.

Her gloves followed, each innocent tug on the fingers holding Reid’s attention. Her hands were soft and small and slender. Too delicate to dig deep into a leg wound and remove wooden splinters and fragments of lead. Too pure to be stained crimson with blood.

Her fumble with the buttons on her pelisse betrayed her calm facade. “It’s a little cold out. My fingers are still numb.”

Liar! I make you nervous , he wanted to say. It was a mild March day, filled with the promise of spring.

“You walked here?”

“Yes, from Dean Street near Soho Square.”

Reid stood abruptly. “Through Seven Dials and Holborn?”

“Yes.”

“Carrying luggage?”

Miss Moorland removed her pelisse and gave it to Hickman. The dress she wore sagged around the waist and hips, the deep shade of midnight blue draping her figure like night itself, concealing the secrets hidden beneath.

“I have no luggage today,” she said, thanking Hickman. “I will explain why during the tour.”

As a man constantly searching for the truth, Reid dismissed Hickman and closed the door. “Sit down, Miss Moorland, while we discuss the details of your employment. Do your step-parents know you’re here?”

The lady sat and clasped her hands in her lap. “Mr and Mrs Merrick are in Scotland visiting family.” The sudden strain in her voice was unmistakable. “They left a month ago and plan to return home soon, though didn’t state when.”

He perched on the desk, hoping the close proximity unnerved her because she needed to get used to being surrounded by men. “Am I right in saying you don’t want the Merricks to return?”

“Yes.”

“Because …” He waved his hand, prompting her to continue.

“They will force me to marry.”

She averted her gaze for a few seconds, a clear sign she was hiding a crucial part of the story. While Reid had his own secrets, he couldn’t offer a woman sanctuary without knowing her history.

“Force you?” He didn’t like the image those words conveyed. “You mean coerce? You’re of an age to make your own decisions.”

The light in her eyes died. “It doesn’t matter.”

He required more information but would not distress her today.

“If you want to work here, honesty is a requirement.” He raised a silencing hand before she interrupted. “I will employ you as a herbalist, pay for all supplies, provide lodgings and a salary of eighty pounds per annum. It’s far more than you would earn elsewhere.”

A frown marred her brow. “A herbalist?”

“Allow me to explain.” He inhaled deeply and wished he hadn’t. The unique aroma of … what? … he had no clue … stirred something primal in him. “What is that perfume?” It was unlike anything he had smelled before.

“Just something I made in the stillroom at home.” She stretched out her arm, baring her wrist. Her pale, porcelain skin reminded him she was delicate, feminine, and nowhere near as strong as she professed. “The apothecary in Covent Garden supplies me with various ingredients—vetiver, patchouli, orris root—in exchange for herbal remedies.”

While every instinct warned him not to touch her, he captured her dainty wrist. Amongst the sweet note of iris, lay the darkly exotic scent of musk. The fragrance was complex yet simple. It embodied the essence of the woman, a contradiction he found intriguing.

Reid would be wise to maintain some distance.

If he was to catch a killer, he could not afford distractions.

“If I employ you as a herbalist,” he said, returning to the matter at hand, “you will be met with less prejudice. You can make notes and observe medical procedures. In time, you may accompany Mr Turner on his visits, but it’s important to gain the men’s trust first.”

Disappointment radiated from every fibre of her being. “Can I not accompany you? People may take me seriously if I am your student.”

No one would.

Surely she knew she’d be dragged through the mire and hung out to dry. Some patients would consider an unmarried working woman to be one step up from a bawd.

“I work alone,” he said, referring to his clandestine investigations, too. “If the terms are not to your liking?—”

Her brows shot up. “No, I’m sure Mr Turner is a gentleman, and I’m hardly marriageable material. I thought it would be easier if we worked together since there’d be no risk of a romantic entanglement.”

The comment pricked his masculine pride.

“And how did you draw that conclusion?”

Her gaze trailed over him like she knew they were incompatible, like his secret was a badge of dishonour emblazoned on his lapel. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

She looked at him like he was a simpleton. “You’ll marry a lady of your grandfather’s choosing. The daughter of some lord or other.”

“Do I look like a man who enjoys recitals and reels?”

She scanned the breadth of his chest. “No, sir. You look like a man who enjoys vigorous activities.” A pink blush touched her cheeks, and she mumbled as she fought her embarrassment. “I speak of riding and the boxing bouts you attend in the basement of Fortune’s Den.”

How much did this woman know about him?

As The Burnished Jade was across the street from the gaming hell, he supposed his attendance was common knowledge.

“I’m paid to tend to the injured—broken noses and sprained limbs—and gain no satisfaction from watching men pummel each other senseless.”

Miss Moorland decided to trawl her mind and find another reason why the thought of them kissing proved abhorrent. “You’re confident; I’m reserved. Opposites rarely attract.”

“Reserved?” He scoffed. She aired her opinions without needing a prompt. “You’re one of the most forthright women I know.”

“It’s taken a lot of training to ask for what I want without reservation,” she admitted proudly. “I used to chatter nervously until Lord and Lady Berridge offered their counsel.”

Reid recalled a time three months ago when Miss Moorland asked if she could examine his implements. He’d almost choked on his brandy. Yet the memory had lived with him ever since.

“A lady must be seen as strong,” she continued, “if she’s to make her way in a man’s world. Do you not agree, Mr Gentry?”

Reid pictured the body he had identified in the mortuary a month ago, his patient Mrs Aspall. The coroner recorded her death as an accidental overdose of opium, ignoring the bruise on the widow’s wrist. No matter how strong a woman might be, she could not overpower a male attacker.

“One must never lose sight of their limitations,” he warned, dread a tight knot in his chest. What chance would she stand against a man twice her size?

A mocking snort escaped her. “My stepmother often reminds me what it means to be weak. Many times lately, I have felt utterly helpless.”

Reid did not wish to dwell on her personal problems. “I know the position here is not what you hoped, but I’m sure you’ll prove your worth in no time.” He stood and gestured to the door. “Let me show you where you’ll be working.”

She smiled, though remained silent as he escorted her across the hall to Hickman’s office. Reid’s secretary was a stickler for tidiness, with everything stored neatly in its place. He stood in the middle of the sparse room, wringing his hands so they wouldn’t shake.

“Liaise with Mr Hickman if you have any questions or need supplies. He will tell you what herbal remedies are most popular.”

“Am I permitted to make my own formulas?” she asked.

Reid nodded. “I’ll want a written card detailing the contents of each bottle.” He turned to Hickman. “Have all medicines moved to the stillroom. Miss Moorland will run the dispensary.”

Hickman’s mouth parted, wordless and wide.

Before his secretary objected, Reid said, “With Miss Moorland’s appointment, you will have a few hours free to tackle those patients with minor ailments. Nothing too taxing. You can deal with Mr Dennison’s gout.”

He didn’t give Hickman a chance to protest and led Miss Moorland down the corridor to Turner’s office. Reid knocked and entered without waiting, only to find the physician shoving a messy stack of papers into the desk drawer.

Miss Moorland scanned the piles of books and the shelves sagging under the weight of the heavy tomes, her eyes sparkling like polished emeralds. Had Turner been wearing a jester’s hat, she would not have noticed.

“What an impressive selection of books, Mr Turner.”

“They belonged to my father,” he said, quickly hiding the jar of alcohol with the severed finger preserved inside. “There are some rare volumes amongst the collection. You’re welcome to borrow them as long as they remain on the premises.”

The way she gasped and clutched her chest, one would think the King had proposed marriage.

“That’s extremely kind of you, Mr Turner.”

Turner’s cheeks burned like coals in the grate. “If you tell me what topics interest you, I can recommend something suitable.” He glanced at Reid like one would an older brother, seeking his permission.

“Once Miss Moorland has organised the stillroom and prepared enough tinctures, she may spend an hour a day reading.”

Miss Moorland glanced at Reid, her smile brimming with gratitude. That’s when he realised her mouth had the power to disarm a man. It didn’t matter if she wore a grain sack, mob cap and thick spectacles. The sensual curve of her lips blinded him to her lacklustre attire.

“Then I must begin work at once,” she said with an eagerness rarely seen in the practice these days. “May I see the stillroom?”

As Reid escorted her to the rear of the house, he asked the question that bothered him most—not why the hell he felt a pang of jealousy at the thought of her spending time with Joseph Turner.

“Am I to assume you no longer need lodgings? You said you would explain the lack of luggage.”

Miss Moorland entered the stillroom, her breath a faint mist against the cold, stale air. Ignoring his question, she ran her fingers over the dusty shelves and mentioned the absence of herbs and distilling apparatus.

“Now I see why you had no objection to me reading,” she said, opening the drawers in the apothecary cabinet. “It will take weeks to get this room in order.”

“Surely that’s a pleasing prospect for someone who’s desperate for work.”

She rubbed her hands together to chase away the chill. “I’ll need coal for the stove. I can’t begin until I’ve cleaned every surface. I must purchase muslin to make poultices, new bottles and equipment.”

“I’ll have Hickman fill the scuttle. Charge whatever provisions you need to my account. I’ll give you a note for the apothecary … once you’ve answered my question about lodgings.”

The tension in her posture returned, and taut lines appeared on her brow. “I still need a room, but not until the Merricks return from Edinburgh. Until then, I must give the illusion all is well and would be grateful if we kept our arrangement between ourselves.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

He’d get the truth out of her soon enough, though was somewhat relieved he didn’t have to think about her sleeping alone in the dark.

“Before I start work, may I see the room?” She shifted her feet. “I would like to bring a few items from home and must do so without alerting the servants, though Mrs Pugh spends most of the time in a drunken stupor.”

An image of her dragging a valise across town filled his head, her barely making it through Seven Dials before a thug wrestled it from her grasp.

“You’ll take a hackney cab to and from work,” he insisted. “It’s not open to negotiation. I’ll cover the cost until you’re able to rent the room upstairs. Hickman will hail one for you when you’re ready to leave today.”

Her eyes softened, a glimmer of curiosity mingling with quiet surprise. “You needn’t feel responsible for me, Mr Gentry. This must seem strange, but I expect you to treat me as you do Mr Turner. Otherwise, I shall be more of a hindrance than a help.”

He sometimes got drunk with Turner and visited bathhouses for the elite.

“You cannot erase years of patriarchal breeding in the space of a day,” he said, amused. “I cannot treat you like Turner. Not unless you want to accompany me to Porretta’s Bathhouse in St James’ tonight and lounge naked in a mineral pool. Now, permit me to pay for a hackney.”

Miss Moorland gulped and fussed with her dress. After a brief tussle with her nerves, she said, “Only a certain type of lady may attend men in bathhouses.”

“Some men take their wives and hire a private room.”

“I doubt any take female colleagues.”

Why the devil had she said that?

Now he imagined her standing at the edge of the pool, slipping off that hideous dress to reveal soft curves and luscious breasts. Amid the intimate candlelit setting and the smell of exotic oils, she would enter the water, moving gracefully towards him, the fire of desire in her eyes.

“I thought you were a modern woman, Miss Moorland.”

She snorted. “We both know I walk a dangerous line.”

He thought of Mrs Aspall cold on the slab and the three women who had lost their lives in similar suspicious circumstances.

“Which is why you will take a hackney to and from work. I’ll ensure it’s the same jarvey. We’ll keep your appointment here quiet for the time being. Just as a precaution.”

There was no reason to suspect the villain would target her. Miss Moorland was not his patient. She was young and healthy, not an ailing widow in her fifties. He had not prescribed her opium for pain. She bore no comparison to the deceased women.

Miss Moorland nodded. “I don’t want to cause problems, and will take a hackney if it eases your conscience.”

Reid might have breathed easily again, but as he led Miss Moorland upstairs to view her room, she paused at the locked door on the landing.

“Are all the chambers empty?” She tried the door, much to his horror.

“That room is out of bounds.” He ushered her away before she sensed his rising panic. “I keep important documents there: deceased patients’ records and coroners’ reports.” That was true. “I’m the only person with a key.”

“I see.” Her voice carried a strange cadence that spoke of a thousand unasked questions.

Anyone who peeked inside would think he was mad, a loon fit for Bedlam. They’d believe the pressure of work had taken its toll. That he was suffering from the lack of mental clarity he cautioned others about.

But Reid was gathering evidence of a crime. Sooner or later, he would find the clue to catching the villain. Time was a tightening noose, every wasted day drawing the knot closer to his throat. If he didn’t find answers soon, he might be the next victim.