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“There is nothing to tell,” she said, embarrassed. “Good day, my lord.”

She turned to go, but this time his hand whipped out lightning fast and landed on her arm. “Don’t,” he said. “Tell me about yourself. Please.”

“Why?” Violet asked. “I’m sorry to say that I cannot see the point of our conversations. They are too much of this and too little of that.”

“You are angry with me, and I don’t know why.”

His fingers were warm on her arm, even through his gloves and the thick layers of her modest dress. They caused a flush to creep into her cheeks.

“I’m not,” she said and made to leave again, but his hand still clutched her.

“You do not have to like me, Miss Goodwin.” His eyes focused their intensity on hers. “But I’d very much like it if you would.”

Violet stared at him, once again unmoored by the sudden vulnerability and sincerity in his eyes and words. “I—” She stopped, unsure what to say next.

“You…” he prompted and smiled at her, “…were saying something about your home, I believe?”

Violet gathered herself and tried again. “My family lives in a townhome in New York. Not unlike Chester House, I suppose.”

“And do you have more family? Siblings?”

She paused. She rarely spoke of James to anyone but her parents, but she felt compelled to be truthful with him.

Perhaps because he’d told her of his dislike for the diamond and the East India Company.

“I had a brother,” she said. “My twin brother, James. He passed away from a fever after I returned from England.”

Understanding lit Alistair’s face. “He is why you study medicine.”

“He is.” Her eyes drifted upward as she remembered his death.

“I sat with him day and night, while he became sicker and sicker. It was horrible, the shivers and the confusion he suffered. And especially the sheen of sweat that came to blanket his skin at all times. I promised us both that I would never sit by helplessly again and watch someone pass in front of my eyes. Not if there was a way I could help them.”

“And so, you became a nurse,” Alistair said. “It is a hard and bloody profession.”

“It need not be as bloody as the surgeons make it. But I’m prepared to do what needs to be done.

There are too many ill and dying, especially in Lower Manhattan, where the poor are clustered together.

It’s like your Covent Garden, I understand.

Your rookeries. The last cholera epidemic… ” she shook her head. “Thousands died.”

Alistair nodded. “The same was true here. The Irish Plague, they called it.”

“They called it the same in New York. Always blaming the poorest for what befalls them. It’s those among us who have the least who suffer the most.”

“And you believe that being a nurse will be helpful?”

“I know it will. The age of medicine is dawning, and I will be part of it. I’ve read the recent research and theories, and I’ve trained with the nursing brigades.

There is much thought given now to drainage and plumbing.

Both appear to help tremendously. As does at least one solid meal a day and a serving of meat.

And some of the new theories on the spread of contagion are quite convincing. ”

She glanced up at him, expecting to see either the same glazed look her family members wore when she discussed nursing with them or the look of revulsion she often found on the faces of others when they learned of her medical practice.

She found neither. Lord Alistair Crawford was staring at her with a look that, if she didn’t know better, she might describe as genuine interest.

“And why not practice medicine as a physician? I understand they are more lenient of such occupations for women in America.”

Violet practically snorted at him. “In the first place, they certainly are not. And in the second, what do you imagine the difference is between a doctor and nurse? Other than anatomy?”

Alistair’s eyebrow shot to his hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

“The difference,” she went on, “other than the ability to saw bones quickly, is that men are physicians and women are nurses. Anatomy and nothing more than that. If men were nurses, it would be that profession you value more highly.”

Alistair’s eyes glinted with mischief. “You, Miss Goodwin, are a radical in hiding.”

A shiver bolted up her spine in spite of herself.

She liked the way he was smiling at her, cocky and sweet, like the man she recalled from the balcony three years ago.

And what’s more, the respect in his eyes when he called her a radical pleased her.

She liked the idea of it, even though she wasn’t entirely certain of its truth.

Violet Goodwin, radical, at your service.

She grinned back at him.

“Alistair!” the Marchioness called as she made her way into the medical exhibits.

Alistair stepped away from Violet at the sound of his mother’s voice. He’d been standing too close to her.

Again .

There was something about her, the way she smelled sweet and fresh in a room full of fusty medical exhibits.

And the way her blue eyes had grown wide while she discussed her commitment to medicine and the poor was inspiring.

Inspiration was a feeling that had been in short supply in his life of late.

And when she had brushed his arm with her hand, instinctively providing him what little comfort she could, his heart had squeezed painfully in his chest. His world had been devoid of comfort for as long as it had been devoid of inspiration.

And more than that, the woman was a firebrand, shaking him like a tempest would shake a boat at sea. If it hadn’t been for his mother’s sudden entrance into the room with Catherine West, Lord knows what he would have done. Grabbed her hand, perhaps, and run.

It was ridiculous, the urge he’d felt to grasp her callused palm and escape London together.

For that fleeting moment after he’d called her a radical and she shot him that delighted smile, all he’d wanted was Violet by his side.

The two of them together, escaping the heavy weight of expectation they each separately faced.

And then his mother had entered the room, and he’d remembered himself and his agreement with McGann.

Violet Goodwin had no place by his side, not now.

Not ever .

“Hello, Mother,” he said and turned to the Marchioness. “Did you enjoy the diamonds?’

His mother slipped her arm into his and patted his hand. “I did. And you need not sound so put out, dearest. There is nothing wrong with a little glitter and glamour. Is there, Lady Catherine?”

Catherine smiled. “Certainly not to my way of thinking. I’ve heard that Empress Eugenie glittered her hair for the theater. Can you imagine anything more wonderful?” She turned to Alistair and curtsied. “Lord Alistair, good to see you again.”

Alistair gave her a slight bow and smiled at his mother. “It was not my intention to sound put out. I’m glad you enjoyed the exhibition. Shall we move on?”

“Yes, let’s,” his mother said. “Since you’ve indulged me with this day out, I request we head to Gunther’s for an ice. Perhaps the ladies would care to join us?” His mother ducked her head, but he saw the devilish smile she was trying to suppress, nonetheless.

Alistair swallowed his groan. He had more patience for his mother than his father, certainly, but he had as much intention of participating in her matchmaking as he’d had in Mrs. Somerville’s.

“What a kind invitation, Mother,” he said before either lady could answer. “But Miss Goodwin was just telling me that she and Lady Catherine are otherwise occupied for the afternoon.”

“Are we?” Catherine asked, turning to her cousin with gleefully wide eyes. “Violet, is there an appointment you failed to mention?”

Violet looked at him, her expression unreadable. He kept his eyes cold and hard, despite the queasiness in his stomach. He couldn’t spend the afternoon with her cozying up at Gunther’s with ices. It would give his mother ideas. It would be in opposition to his plan with McGann. It would be too–

Idyllic.

“I’m afraid so,” Violet said, and though he’d driven her to the words, he wished she hadn’t said them. “Don’t you recall, Catherine? We’re to meet mother and Aunt Lydia at the modiste.”