Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels 2)

“I won’t hesitate to recommend your services,” Rhys continued.

“That is very kind, Mr. Winterborne. However, I’m afraid my practice will close by the end of the month.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes became shadowed.

“May I ask why?”

“Patients are few and far between. People fear that a woman has neither the physical stamina nor mental acuity to practice medicine.” A mirthless smile curled her lips. “I have even been told that women are unable to hold their tongues, and therefore a lady doctor would constantly violate her patients’ privacy.”

“I understand all about prejudice,” Rhys said quietly. “The only way to fight it is to prove them wrong.”

“Yes.” But her gaze became absent, and she went to busy herself with rearranging a tray of supplies.

“How good are you?” Rhys asked.

She stiffened and glanced at him over her shoulder. “Pardon?”

“Recommend yourself to me,” he said simply.

Gibson turned to face him with a thoughtful frown. “While I worked as a surgery nurse at St. Thomas’s, I undertook private tuition to obtain certificates in anatomy, physiology, and chemistry. At the Sorbonne, I took honors in anatomy for two years, and the top prize in midwifery for three. I also studied for a brief time with Sir Joseph Lister, who instructed me in his techniques of antiseptic surgery. In short, I’m very good. And I could have helped a great many people, given the . . .” Her voice faded as she saw Rhys withdraw a card from his wallet.

He extended it to her. “Bring this to Winterborne’s on Monday morning at nine o’clock sharp. Ask for Mrs. Fernsby.”

“May I ask for what purpose?” The doctor’s eyes had widened.

“I keep a staff physician on retainer to look after the health of a thousand employees. He’s an old codger, but a good man. He’ll have to agree to hiring you, but I don’t expect he’ll object. Among other things, he needs someone to help with midwifery—it takes hours at a time, and he said the process is hard on his rheumatism. If you’re willing—”

“Yes. I would be. Thank you. Yes.” Dr. Gibson held the card with whitening fingertips. “I’ll be there Monday morning.” A wondering grin crossed her face. “Although it hasn’t turned out to be a fortunate day for you, Mr. Winterborne, it seems to have turned out well for me.”

Chapter 9

“MR. WINTERBORNE,” FERNSBY EXCLAIMED IN horror as she entered the office and saw that Rhys was filthy, battered, and bare-chested save for his coat. “Dear heaven, what happened? Were you set upon by thugs? Thieves?”

“By a building, actually.”

“What—”

“I’ll explain later, Fernsby. At the moment, I need a shirt.” Uncomfortably he fished the prescription from his coat pocket and gave it to her. “Give this to the apothecary and have him mix a tonic—my shoulder was dislocated, and it aches like the devil. Also, tell my solicitor to be in my office within the half hour.”

“Shirt, medicine, solicitor,” she said, committing them to memory. “Are you going to sue the owners of the building?”

Wincing in discomfort, Rhys lowered into the chair at his desk. “No,” he murmured. “But I need to revise my will immediately.”

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to go to your house to wash first?” she asked. “You’re rather . . . begrimed.”

“No, this can’t wait. Tell Quincy to bring hot water and a towel. I’ll scrub off what I can here. And bring some tea—no, coffee.”

“Shall I send for Dr. Havelock, sir?”

“No, I’ve already been treated by Dr. Gibson. She’s coming for an interview on Monday at nine, by the way. I’m going to hire her to assist Havelock.”

Mrs. Fernsby’s brows arched high over the rims of her spectacles. “She? Her?”

“Haven’t you heard of female doctors?” Rhys asked dryly.

“I suppose so, but I’ve never seen one.”

“You will Monday.”

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Fernsby muttered, and rushed from the office.

With effort, Rhys reached for the jar of peppermint creams, took one and popped it into his mouth, and resettled his coat around his shoulders.

As the peppermint disintegrated on his tongue, he forced himself to confront the thought that had horrified him during the ride back to Winterborne’s.

What would have become of Helen if he had died?

He had always lived fearlessly, taking calculated risks, doing whatever he pleased. Long ago he had accepted that his business would someday go on without him: He had planned to leave the company to his board of directors, the group of trusted advisors and friends whom he’d collected over the years. His mother would be handsomely taken care of, but she neither wanted nor merited any controlling interest in the company. There were also generous bequests to certain employees, such as Mrs. Fernsby, and sums to be distributed to distant relatives.

But so far Helen hadn’t been mentioned in his will. As things stood, if the building accident had been fatal, she would have been left with nothing—after he had taken her virginity and possibly left her with his child.

It terrified him to realize how vulnerable Helen’s position was. Because of him.

His head throbbed viciously. Bracing his good arm on the desk, he lowered his forehead to the crook of his elbow, and trammeled his frantic thoughts into coherence.

He would have to move quickly to safeguard Helen’s future. The question of how to protect her in the long term, however, was a more complicated question.