There's Something About Lady Mary (21 page)

“I’m a very competent surgeon,” she argued. She could feel the anger building inside her. How could she have been so foolish as to think he could ever understand?

“I’m not disputing that, Mary, but you must consider the fact that if Lady Stephanie was able to discover that you’d operated on Lady Warwick, then it’s only a matter of time before word of your illicit behavior begins to spread. Once it does, you won’t be able to help anyone.”

“You have a valid point, I’ll give you that. I shall simply have to take greater precaution next time.” She knew that she was being stubborn, but she couldn’t help it; it vexed her that he was being so unsupportive of her.

“Is there no reasoning with you?” Ryan said, highly agitated.

Mary stared back at him. It didn’t seem to matter how much they liked one another or enjoyed each other’s company. Her need to continue with her work, regardless of the risk involved, and his opposition to it would always stand between them. She let out a slow breath in an attempt to calm herself. “Perhaps one day, when you receive your license to practice, and a desperate man or woman turns to you for help, you will understand that turning your back on them is not an option, no matter what others might think. And I will say this much: as far as morality goes, I know that I am doing the right thing. Indeed, I have no choice.”

A long silence followed. She couldn’t tell if her words had affected him in any way, but she hoped they had. If he was going to be the successful physician that she hoped he’d one day become, then he was going to have to start caring a little more about doing what was right for the patient and a little less about public scrutiny.

“On a different note,” Ryan suddenly said, bringing her back to the present. He was eager to change the subject, but then again, so was she. “May I ask if you have had the opportunity to uncover any information in your father’s journals that might be of use to us, something that might shed some light on the threats that you have been getting?”

Mary slumped her shoulders and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I keep searching for some sort of surgical or medical breakthrough—something incredible that might justify why these people, whoever they may be, might want to get their hands on it. But I keep reading, and nothing seems to stand out.”

“Would you mind if I took a look?” Ryan asked carefully.

“No; maybe you will see something that I have missed,” Mary told him with a crooked smile. “In any case, I am absolutely freezing, so if we could please go back inside, I would be most grateful.”

“Yes, of course, right away,” he said as he stepped forward to open the door for her.

“Would you like me to bring the journals downstairs?” Mary asked. “We could take a look at them in the library.”

“The men will be in there enjoying their after-dinner drinks,” Ryan told her, “and the parlor will be occupied by the ladies.”

“Then where do you suggest we go?”

“I think we ought to finish the evening with our host and hostess in an appropriate fashion; we have already stayed away for much too long.”

Mary nodded. “Yes, you are probably right about that.”

She began to walk toward the parlor, but Ryan caught her by the arm and held her back a moment longer. “I will come to your room once everyone else has gone to bed,” he told her softly.

A pulse of nervous energy whipped through Mary at the thought of her and Ryan being alone together in her bedroom. Her stomach clenched as a wave of heat snaked its way along her spine. “That is not only a terrible idea, but a very improper one as well,” she told him uncertainly. Her earlier annoyance had worn off a little at his willingness to help her, but she still felt that they had a great deal of issues to resolve. Being alone together in her bedroom would not be the best way to go about doing that.

“Mary, if anyone happens to discover us, then there really won’t be much for them to say, short of shaking their heads disapprovingly. We are already engaged, remember? Besides, the sole purpose of my visit will be to look at your father’s journals. I promise you that I will be on my best behavior.”

“Have you not told me so before?” she asked, recalling a similar statement made at Glendale House only minutes before he’d kissed her.

He appeared to consider that for a moment. “I suppose I have.” He grinned. “But this time, I really mean it.” He waggled his eyebrows teasingly.

Mary couldn’t help but laugh. “All right,” she conceded. “But if you try to kiss me or touch me in any inappropriate fashion whatsoever, I will most assuredly scream. Do not make the error of presuming that I will not.”

“Very well then,” he chuckled. “We have an agreement.”

I
t was just past midnight by the time Mary returned to her room. No sooner had she closed the door, than she heard a soft rapping against the wall. That’s odd, she thought, as she followed the sound toward the far right corner of the room. She stopped and listened. As far as she could tell, it sounded as if someone was knocking.

Picking up an oil lamp, she moved closer until she was able to discern the faint outline of a door carved directly into the wall. She stared at it blankly for a moment until she heard her name spoken from the other side of it.

“Mary? Are you there?”

“Yes,” she said, recognizing Ryan’s voice. “Yes, I am here.”

“Pull the latch.”

Once again Mary studied the door, this time a little more closely. She finally spotted the tiny latch, partially hidden by the wood molding. She pulled it, and the door swung open. Ryan stepped through. He’d discarded his jacket and waistcoat and removed his cravat. He undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt and began rolling up the sleeves as he walked over to one of the armchairs. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

Mary frowned at him in an attempt to conceal the way in which his scruffy appearance made her heart go pitter-patter. “Is your room just through there?” she asked instead, ignoring his question while she pointed at the open doorway.

“Well, yes; it would be rather odd for me to come that way if it were not.”

“And did you know about our rooms being next to one another all along?” Her eyes narrowed even further as she searched his face for the answer.

“Of course. After all, I specifically asked Alex to arrange it that way. After everything that has happened and considering that Sir. Percy did ask me to protect you, I thought it best if I were close enough to come running should something happen.”

“I see,” Mary replied somewhat tightly. “Alexandra conveniently omitted that little detail when she showed me the room earlier in the day.”

“She probably forgot,” Ryan suggested.

“I somehow doubt that. In fact, I rather suspect that your sister is up to no good.”

Ryan chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he told her brightly. “But to reassure you, there is, as you have just seen, a lock on the door. I cannot come in unless you invite me. The same goes for you.”

“I see,” Mary remarked, still wary of the idea of Ryan’s having access to her room at any given hour of the day without the knowledge of anyone else in the house.

Part of the problem was that, even now, sitting there so casually with his hair and clothes in disarray, he made her stomach flip uncontrollably, her heart race like a rabbit chased by a hound, and her knees turn to mush. In short, she could barely function when he was in such close proximity to her. And the last thing she wanted, the thing that just about horrified her the most, was the prospect of him finding out, because once he did, there’d be no stopping him; of that she was quite certain.

Turning stiffly about, Mary walked over to the trunk she’d brought with her. She opened it and lifted out the box that held her father’s journals. Carrying it carefully across the room to where Ryan was sitting, watching her with intense interest and a crooked smile that forced her to catch her breath, she placed the box carefully on the table where the vase of hydrangeas stood. “Here they are,” she said, pushing the box gently toward him.

Ryan sat perfectly still for a moment, just staring at the contents of the box. He almost appeared to be too afraid to touch them.

“Go ahead,” Mary urged him. “Take a look. I am practically dying to know what you make of them.”

“I don’t even know which one to start with,” he said. “Should I start at the beginning or at the end? What do you suggest?”

Mary shrugged. “I am not entirely sure. I have gotten as far as Volume 7 myself without finding anything. Perhaps you ought to work your way backward.”

“What if we start on Volume 8 together?” he suggested instead.

Mary agreed, even though that would mean pulling her chair around so she could sit right next to him in order to see the book at the same time. With a small sigh, she prayed she wouldn’t make a complete fool of herself before the night was out. Instead, she sat down, leaned a bit closer, and tried desperately to ignore his scent, a rich perfume of sandalwood.

For the next couple of hours they poured over John Croyden’s notes. They varied from describing surgical procedures he’d performed to documenting all the information that he’d gathered on his travels and which he’d considered to be, in some way or another, medical breakthroughs.

“Did you happen to read this?” Ryan asked suddenly, pointing to the paragraph he’d just been reading. “He mentions something called ethereal spirits. Did your father ever talk to you about that?”

“The liquid Paracelsus wrote about?” she asked with a pensive frown.

Ryan nodded as he looked at Mary in wonder. “Apparently, he conducted some experiments and determined it to have a sleep-inducing effect on chickens.”

Mary smiled slightly. She knew precisely where this was going and only waited for Ryan to continue.

“But here is the crux of the matter: Paracelsus discovered this more than 250years ago. Since then, there have been no further developments. I mean—and your father makes the same point as I am about to—this might be the very key to providing painless surgery for patients. Mary, this could be huge!”

“I know,” Mary told him quietly. “And there are so many other examples just like this. Unfortunately, you practically have to scream to get anyone to pay attention. It is exhausting to say the least, and quite disheartening when the majority of the people you talk to dismiss what you say as nonsense.”

“Do you think this might be the reason why these people are so eager to get their hands on the journals?” Ryan asked as he turned the next page. “They could probably make a fortune with all the information your father has gathered in here.”

“I suppose it is possible,” Mary told him. “I just—”

“Well, this is odd,” Ryan remarked, interrupting Mary. He leafed through the rest of the pages in the journal as if searching for something.

“What is it?”

“I am not entirely sure. Let me see the last two volumes, please.”

Mary handed them to him and watched silently as Ryan leafed through those as well. When he was done, he looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. “From this point on,” he told her pensively, as he pointed to a segment in Volume 8, “there is nothing but detailed accounts of surgeries.”

Mary laughed lightly. “What is so strange about that? So he stopped writing about his discoveries and decided to focus on his own work instead. He was probably so frustrated by his peers’ unwillingness to listen to him that he simply gave up on trying to make them.”

“You don’t understand,” Ryan told her hesitantly. “Your father, from what I have heard, was one of the best surgeons of our time, but all of the patients listed here. . .they all died.”

Mary sat for a moment in baffled silence. She leaned forward to peer down at her father’s neat handwriting. “That is not possible,” she finally said. “My father held the lowest fatality rate of any surgeon I have ever known. None of his patients died—at least not very often.”

“Well, I don’t understand it either, but it is all documented in here, written in his own hand. One hundred and thirty-four deaths, to be exact,” Ryan muttered as he turned to the last account in Volume 10. “He numbered them.”

“Good Lord,” Mary gasped, sinking back against her chair. “That is completely impossible, Ryan. There. . .there has to be an explanation for this, it. . .No, I do not believe it.”

Ryan turned a sympathetic gaze on her. “Perhaps we ought to take a break for the night,” he suggested. “It is almost two in the morning and, well, I think it might be wise for us to get some rest.”

“Rest? Do you honestly think that I will be able to sleep now after you just dropped this in my lap?”

“Well, I—”

“Absolutely not,” Mary told him. “I intend to read about each of those cases until I make some sense of it all.”

“You will do no such thing,” Ryan clipped. “You will go to bed and sleep; you look exhausted.” He began piling the journals back into their box. “And just to make sure that you do not hop out of bed and stay up all night, I am taking these with me.”

“You cannot do that!” Mary exclaimed. “You have no right!”

“Sleep well, Lady Steepleton,” Ryan told her jovially as he made his escape, closing and locking the door behind him before she could have another say in the matter.

Mary stood for a long time staring after him. She wanted to pummel the insufferable man until he was black and blue all over. The audacity of him to think that he could tell her what to do was enough to make her blood boil.

With a disgruntled moan, she eventually decided that there was nothing to do but change into her nightgown and climb into bed. Besides, she was likely to catch a chill if she continued standing there. Her feet were already freezing through the thin soles of her slippers. When had the month of July ever been so cold? By the time she’d finished combing out her hair, she had to admit that she was feeling a tad bit tired. Five minutes later, having snuggled down beneath the wonderfully fluffy down comforter, her head nestled in the soft folds of her pillow, Mary fell fast asleep.

E
arlier that evening, in a private room of one of the most opulent homes in Mayfair, the Raven swiveled his brandy as he glared across at his companion. “You had no right to defy me,” he muttered grimly. “You have forced my hand by doing what you did.”