Page 10 of The Marquess of Secrets

Shaking the thoughts away, he turned his mind to the upcoming ball. Now that he was looking for an appropriate bride, perhaps he should retire “Doctor Damian” for good, come out of the shadows, and pour his energy into a more permanent and viable clinic for the underprivileged.

And forget the pretty young woman with the tragic appearance.

Chapter 4

A baby’s piercing cry woke Lydia with a start. It took several minutes to get her bearings, and she gasped when she found the older nun standing over her.

“You’re awake at last. It is half-past eleven in the morning. You’ve slept around the clock. Much needed, I daresay. Before I bring you a meal, we should get you washed up. I recall you saying you’ve only been on the streets a few days, not long enough to collect any crawlers—lice, fleas, and the like. We’ll check you anyhow. Stand up, miss—what’s your name?”

Oh. Lydia couldn’t give her own; she didn’t dare.

“Lucinda Best.”

“Miss Best, please follow me. You may bring your bundle.”

Lydia accompanied the nun, and behind the screen was a basin filled with water, small towels, and a bar of soap.

“All you can manage is a sponge bath, but I would encourage you to wash all the bits you can. No one will disturb you. Then we shall check you for any unwanted visitors. Are you able to stand?” Sister Monica asked.

Though her legs were shaky, she nodded.

“It’s carbolic soap, a little rough, but it will get you clean enough. I’ll leave you to it.”

The nun bustled away, and Lydia slowly peeled off her tattered coat, small jacket, and blouse. Dipping her hands in the basin, she gasped at the pleasant sensation of warm water. How long had it been since Lydia had a proper wash?

Once she lowered the straps on her bodice, she quickly soaped up the small flannel and commenced washing the grime of the streets away. Too bad she could not scrub the horrid memories of the past few months.

Caught up in her chore, Lydia didn’t hear the nun enter the cramped area. She cried out when Sister Monica grabbed her arm, turning it upright. Lydia slapped her hand over the needle marks at the bend of her elbow.

“How recent are those?” The nun asked, her tone brisk.

Lydia yanked her arm out of Sister Monica’s grip. “Not recent.”

The nun arched an eyebrow but did not comment.

“When you’re finished, return to your pallet. We will be discussing your situation. Hurry along.”

Her face flushing, Lydia admonished herself for coming here. If she’d known she’d be given an interrogation rivaling a hardened Scotland Yard detective, she would have taken her chances and stayed in the alley.

A wave of dizziness overcame her, and she clasped the ends of the table to steady her trembling body. No, Lydia was quite ill. If she stayed out of doors, she’d have succumbed.

After swiping the soapy cloth under her arm, her mind tried to formulate a story that would satisfy the meddlesome nun.

Instead, her thoughts were full of the angel of medical mercy with the mesmerizing silver-gray eyes.

Lord, his touch.

Even through the gloves and her garments, Lydia had experienced a surge of sensual awareness never experienced in her brief time with John Huntsford.

At least not right away.

Lydia had been completely caught in Surgeon Huntsford's spell. Because of it, she had done anything that he asked. Everything that he had demanded.

Apparently, she possessed a weakness for men of medicine. More than likely, the liability was far graver than handsome doctors. Not an easy admission as Lydia prided herself on her independence, but underneath the truth laid the fact that she was lonely.

When John Huntsford paid her the slightest bit of attention, she imagined she was in love. More fool her.

No, she would not think of it, nor would she reveal any of it to a strange nun. Stick to the truth as much as possible, but leave out Mr. Huntsford and her tenure as a nurse.