It was in that moment Stephen’s concern for Abigail had begun to turn to anger. Anger that had slowly simmered into a boiling hot fury as he’d spent countless weeks and a small fortune traveling up and down the East Coast, searching in vain for a doctor named Dr. Pratt or Miss Highborn or Lady Lancaster or whatever the hell moniker she was going by in an effort to shield herself from him. Because that was what she had done. That was what she was doing.
Hiding.
She had gone back on their seven-year bargain and she was hiding. Tucked away somewhere beyond his reach, no doubt laughing at his gullibility.
So he’d left.
After packing up what meager possessions he had brought with him, he’d traveled to the closest open port and paid a small fortune to ensure safe travel through treacherous waters. Now he was home, in the middle of winter, with nothing to show for his exhaustive efforts but a streak of gray hair at his temple that hadn’t been there twelve months ago and a kindled ire that flared whenever he thought of his wayward bride.
“You could have her declared dead and remarry,” Sterner suggested, leaning his forearms on the bar as he took a sip of brandy. His gaze flicked to the far corner where his other three customers were slumped over their table before returningto Stephen. “You’re the Earl of Lancaster. Ladies would be throwing themselves at you left and right.”
“I don’t think a second wife would absolve me of the problems caused by the first,” he said darkly. “One is enough, thank you very much.”
“Do you know why she ran?”
“No.” An ominous storm cloud unraveled across Stephen’s countenance as he leaned back on his heels. “No, I don’t. But if I ever have the distinctdispleasure of seeing her again, that’s the first goddamned question I’ll ask.”
*
“I have topack my cats.”
For most people, the utterance of such a sentence would be cause for concern. Or perhaps the beginning of a jest. But for Abigail, it was a declaration of utmost importance.
To her relief, the Duke of Southwick had agreed to his wife’s request to travel to their country estate so long as Dr. Chadwick accompanied them. This had sent their London household into a frenzy of packing as a move that generally was allotted a timeframe of three weeks was tasked to take place in three days. While Mara oversaw the industrious effort from the confines of an armchair (per her husband’s request), Abigail slipped away to her own home, a significantly smaller townhouse on the outskirts of the West End where the streets were far more crowded and the population was somewhat... questionable.
While she ran a greater chance of having her pockets picked here than in Mayfair, the location afforded her peace of mind. First, because the odds of accidentally bumping into Stephen were minimal. And second, because it was also where her services were most needed, as the majority of her patients were employed by the massive factories clinging to the shore of theThames like barnacles on the hull of a ship as they churned out coal smoke and deplorable working conditions.
Just last week, she’d treated a ten-year-old child for a broken leg after he was nearly crushed to death while retrieving fallen cotton underneath a textile machine. The day after, a young mother with a crying baby on her hip and a terrible burn on her face from a steam boiler had come knocking in the middle of the night seeking a salve she could put on her damaged skin before she had to return to work the very next morning.
Since coming to London and setting up her small doctor’s office under the pseudonym of Dr. Chadwick, Abigail had stitched wounds, treated infections, debrided cuts, and had even performed an amputation on a horribly mangled arm that had gotten trapped in a flywheel. It was grueling, often gruesome work, but it gave her a grim sense of satisfaction to know she was helping those who would have otherwise gone unaided and likely died from their workplace injuries. It was also by no means a way to make money, as the vast majority of her clients didn’t have two farthings to rub together.
In lieu of traditional payment, she had accepted fresh loaves of bread, gently worn articles of clothing, a delicious onion stew, a pair of boots that were a size too small, sticks of candy, and—most notably—a small snake that she had promptly set loose in the nearest park.
When word got around in the tenements and the rookeries that there was a doctor who would treat whatever patient came through her door, regardless of their financial standing, no one cared that she was a woman. Or if they did, they kept it to themselves. A welcome change from the prejudice she’d often found herself faced with then she had tried to open a similar office in Connecticut where doctors were more plentiful and the working class had made it clear that, free or not, they preferred to be seen by a man.
Unfortunately, she quickly found that she could not sustain herself on bread and stew. Which was why, even though she’d sworn that she wouldn’t as it risked putting her in the same social circles as her husband, she’d agreed to take on the Duke and Duchess of Southwick as clients. First Ambrose, with his leg, and then Mara, with her pregnancy. An unusual union that had come about after one of their servants, whose friend Abigail had treated, recommended her to Mara following the duke’s mauling.
Ironically, it was Mara who had first urged Abigail to go with her to Southwick Castle to attend her wounded husband in person. She had come all the way to London to collect her, and had a carriage ready to go. But Abigail, not wanting to abandon her patients on the whim of a woman she’d just met, had given the duchess a powerful tincture to fight the duke’s brewing infection and sent her on her way.
Nowshewas the one who wanted to flee to the countryside. But only for as long as it took her to devise a plan on how to evade Stephen indefinitely. Because she would rather leave her patients for two weeks than be whisked away for an eternity.
Turning her head away from the cold winter wind blowing in from the west, she jammed her key into the rusty old lock and twisted it sharply to the left while simultaneously kicking the bottom of the door with her right foot. Admittedly, she may not have known very much about being a countess, but shedidknow enough to understand that instead of treating burns, she would be expected to host balls. Instead of tending to dislocated wrists, she would be tasked with learning how to waltz. And instead of receiving the working class in her cozy, cramped office, she would be entertaining the social elite in a cold, sterile drawing room.
That was not the life she wanted.
But itwasthe bargain she’d struck.
Seven years to pursue her own goals before submitting to the will of her husband.
A devil’s deal, the more she’s thought about it. One that had been struck under surprise and duress. So whyshouldshe honor it? Whyshouldshe commit herself to a stranger? Whyshouldshe remain in London like a sitting duck, waiting for Stephen with his wolfish cunning to hunt her down? Because she’d promised that she would after he’d kissed the sense right out of her? Because... because maybe it had seemed like a tempting offer, back when he was standing in front of her with his roguish charm and mesmerizing amber eyes?
But he didn’tjustwant her as his wife and countess.
He wanted a child.
He wanted an heir.
He wanted what all men of power desired. What both of their fathers had desired.
