“Thomas, please gather the parcels,” she said to the footman; “We will be retreating before I become even more of an object of interest.” Ian readily accepted the brunt of her slight weight and helped her balance as the footman stooped to gather what parcels he could.
“Would mind retrieving mine as well?” Ian asked, tipping his chin in the direction of his discarded box, half surprised that someone hadn’t already snagged it and run off. The footman obliged and, together, all three of them set off for Ian’s offices.
∞∞∞
Juliette leaned on the wrought iron railing of the neat Townhouse set just off of the busy street of shops on which she’d nearly lost her life. She watched her savior’s broad shoulders clad in a simple black overcoat now scuffed and dusty from landing on the walkway and absorbing the full brunt of their fall.
“Should we be doing this, my lady?” Thomas hissed, eyes wide like those of a cornered mouse—an oddly juxtaposing expression on a young man who stood at more than six feet in height. “Surely His Lordship would prefer I escort you home and send for his physician.” She could hear the young man’s nerves in his uneven tone.
“Don’t worry so; the man is obviously a physician,” Juliette attempted to reassure him as she gestured to the carved and painted sign above the door announcing to all the profession of the man who dwelled inside. Despite this, the poor footman continued to fret, glancing around as if he were afraid of being caught committing some heinous crime. To be fair, Juliette couldn’t blame him over much. Thomas had only recently been promoted to the role of footman and he was probably terrified of losing his position for inadvertently allowing his mistress into a dangerous situation. Not to mention, Juliette knew her brother’s temper could make even grown men quake in their boots and scramble for cover.
“But, my lady…” the footman whimpered.
“It’ll be alright,” Juliette sighed and patted his shoulder. She turned her attention away from her anxious servant and back to the large form of the man before them. He wore well-made, if simple, clothing. The coat hugged his broad shoulders with a finesse which spoke of a fine tailor. The blue twine encasing the paper-wrapped package he once more held beneath his arm was the trademark of a well-known bookstore and lending library in the West End. This was a man who was well-off enough to dress in tailored clothing of good quality, but not so rich as to retain staff to carry and deliver his packages for him; or open the door to his residence when he was not in attendance.
He wore his longish hair in a neat queue at the nape of his neck. Now that she was able to get a good look at him without his ill-fated beaver hat, she noticed his hair was not brown, but a rich auburn chestnut which shone with threads of dark gold in the afternoon sunlight. How interesting. The man replaced his key in his pocket as the door swung open. He turned to the side to allow Juliette to enter first.
“After you, My Lady,” he said. And not for the first time did she enjoy the rich, velvety burr to his speech. His diction was impeccable, but no amount of practice could ever completely erase the lolling Scottish tint to his tone—not to her practiced ears. She returned his small smile with gratitude and placed her hand in his so he might help her over the threshold. They were admitted to a pleasantly appointed foyer with an ivory-tiled floor and walls papered in a simple green stripe. It was clean and the scent of citrus lingered in the air, along with a hint of something Juliette could not name. Something herbal and warm and pleasant.
Their host set his parcel on a spindle-legged oaken side table. “My offices are belowstairs,” he explained. “I felt, in your condition, that the extra distance through the alleyway to that entrance might be a burden. Come.” He gestured for Thomas to help her down the hallway to a door and set of stairs. With his assistance, Juliette was able to maneuver down the steps and into what she could only assume had once been the kitchens and other servants’ quarters for the Townhouse. Her experience with the lower level of dwellings was extremely limited, but she doubted highly that the rooms of this home were typical.
Similar to what little she’d seen of the main floor, these basement rooms were immaculately clean and well-appointed in a simple, welcoming manner. The muted yellow-papered walls and black-and-white checkered tiles decorated what she assumed must have been a sitting room of sorts, lined as it was with a trio of simple wooden chairs. Off to one side was an open doorway leading to what remained of the kitchens, as well as another door butting up to the back alley. This must have been the aforementioned entrance through which the physician’s patients usually came. The secondary basement foyer created a hallway that led to yet another door; this one was polished mahogany. It was to this door that the physician escorted Juliette and her footman. He closed the distance in only two long strides and held the door open to admit them.
Once she entered, a wave of that warm herbal scent washed over her. Glancing around in interest, she realized from where it had originated. A wall of small pigeonhole cubbies stretched up from a long desk to reach the height of the low ceiling. Each had its own small label with markings she could not quite make out from that distance, and they were filled with organized rows of packets and pouches. Some were paper, others looked to be a waxy material to keep their contents drier. Other cubbies held neat rows of glass bottles in varying sizes and colors; a white marble mortar and pestle lay neatly in the center of the desk beside other instruments and measuring implements Juliette could not have named had she been asked.
The physician gestured to a piece of furniture resembling a low cushioned chaise without any sides or backrest. It was draped in crisp, clean white linen sheets.
“Please, be seated,” he spoke softly, reassuringly.
Thomas helped her to the table and lowered her to sit. Juliette sighed in relief after the exertion of trying to maneuver in her skirts and impractical shoes; her ankle throbbed with a fierce, burning pain. She’d fallen hard when the selfless physician wrenched her back from certain catastrophe in the street, but she couldn’t fault his efforts even if it had ended in injury. She flinched when she tried to move her foot experimentally. She prayed it wasn’t broken.
Don’t be ridiculous, she silently scolded herself for feeling the least bit ungrateful that her life had been spared.Anything is better than being trampled.
Juliette returned her attention to their surroundings. A small street-level window behind her emitted some warm afternoon light from the street. The occasional shadow of passing legs crossed the cloudy glass. To her left was another doorway, its door slightly ajar. The room within was dim, but she could make out a desk and some stacks of books—his study, perhaps?
Several frames hung in an orderly row on the wall beside the doorframe. The elegant script announced their owner’s completion of several degrees of study, accolades and awards. The name emblazoned below was that of Dr. Ian McCullom.
A bell of recognition sounded within Juliette’s skull.Of course!How could she not have made the connection?
Dr. McCullom was the latest rage amongst the health-conscious—and often deluded—ton. Scottish-born and, reputedly, quite good-looking, he was lately the preferred physician to the upper-class London elite. He catered to wealthy clientele, but, if the stories were to be believed, his treatments and practices were not the smoke and mirrors or antiquated practices of her grandparents’ era. Word was, he was extremely well-educated and had purportedly studied beneath some of the greatest minds both in Britain and abroad on the Continent.
Every woman wanted to be able to say she was in his (handsome) capable hands, and every household wanted to have his interesting mind in attendance. He’d amassed an unbelievable amount of renown and a sterling reputation over the past several years—particularly for a Scotsman in London. McCullom had made his name introducing medical advancements into his treatments and had become known for his quick mind and sometimes unorthodox treatment methods which proved to have some astounding results never before witnessed. There were even some rumors that he’d been involved in the care and recovery of Viscount Sommerfeld after his mysterious, debilitating leg injury.
McCullom turned back to face Juliette and she was forced to admit to herself that the rumors of his attractiveness were far from truth. She was used to physicians being elderly gentlemen; quiet and unintimidating. What the women of thetonhad been tittering about more and more frequently at the parties she’d attended didnotdo this man justice.
He was dangerous.
Part of what had caused her such distraction earlier in the street had been the shocking contrast of his well-groomed appearance to the rugged edge in his glittering blue eyes, the unnatural breadth of his shoulders and the height of his build. Dr. McCullom appeared to be more suited to wielding a claymore than an instrument of medicine. He had a broad jaw sharp as an axeblade, a strong nose, and bold brows a shade darker than his overlong chestnut hair.
Juliette swallowed convulsively.
No wonder women clamored to be in his care.
“You’re Dr. Ian McCullom,” Juliette finally croaked. His strong features softened some when he smiled. It was remarkably pleasant.
“Aye. I supposed we’ve foregone all polite niceties, haven’t we? That does happen when one’s life is threatened.”
Juliette could have kicked herself for the silly, breathless laugh that escaped her lips. She prayed it came out more charming than she thought it had.
