Page 8 of The Marquess of Secrets

He peeled off the silk gloves and tossed them on the desk. He’d fashioned them himself, a pair of ladies cut down from elbow length to a few inches above the wrist. They were damned awkward but protected his hands from various diseases and astringents. Since they were a lady’s size, the tight fit allowed some measure of dexterity.

Sister Monica departed to fetch the stew, and he overheard her ask one of the men to stand watch outside the flimsy door to ensure his privacy.

Harrison had been Doctor Damian for five years.

When he was in a low mood, he would admonish himself for being such a coward, but hiding his identity was the only way Harrison could practice the type of medicine he’d always wanted without any outside comment or interference.

A marquess and heir to a duke wouldn’t even be accepted by society as a gentleman’s physician. But that didn’t impede him from studying medicine at Cambridge.

At university, his fellow students thought him mad. Eccentric.

That word again.

Perhaps his entire family was mad. Regardless, he lived this secret life for more years than he cared to count.

It all started eleven years past when he took a trip to the Scottish Highlands not for a restful holiday but to live in a small village and act as their surgeon for two months. The experience had been so rewarding he made other such extended journeys to the far-flung corners of Great Britain.

To his family and the outside world, he was a rake and a selfish, entitled peer who traveled aimlessly, indulging in the worst of vices along the way. He cultivated the fabrication, and besides the two nuns, only his close friend from Cambridge, Samuel Kenward—who believed in providing medical treatment for the poor the same as him—knew his secret.

Keeping it had become wearisome and more difficult as the years passed. Harrison's aristocratic background had caught up with him. Since he was a man of duty to his very core, he could no longer neglect the responsibilities that come with being an heir to a duke.

Hell, not even his brothers knew, and they were his close friends besides his siblings. Harrison had no doubt they would support him in his clandestine endeavors. Yet, he decided long ago in order to protect his family from further gossip, it was better that he not divulge anything.

In moments of reflection, he often wondered if he’d made the right decision keeping this secret.

Yes, he most definitely was a coward.

But Harrison also wanted to live his life on his terms. At least, until his duty as an heir could no longer be denied.

Sister Monica burst through the door carrying a tray. “I made you a cup of tea and slipped in a nip of Irish whiskey.”

Harrison rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “You are a true saint, Sister.”

She laid the tray in front of him and reached for a mug of tea. Knowing the nun, she doubtless added whiskey to her own cup as well. Taking a sip as she pulled the stool closer to his plank desk, Harrison tucked into the meal, hungrier than he first thought.

“Right you are; you eat and listen while I talk, my lord. The clinic is full to capacity. Word is spreading farther out onto the streets, and we will have to start turning people away or shorten the time that they stay at the terminus.”

She took another sip. “But word is not only getting out to those in need. A baron's son popped in and asked if he may volunteer a few nights a week. Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I said yes, how could I turn away help?”

“What name did he give?” Harrison asked between spoonfuls of soup.

“Cyril Bottomly. Son of Baron Jacob Bottomly.”

“I’ve heard of the baron, and he does have a son. What chores did you assign to him?”

“He ladled out the soup, helped move some pallets, took the dirty laundry over to the church, and brought clean blankets in return.”

Interesting.

“Give him more to do, and if anyone else asks to volunteer, use your judgment. You’re a fine arbitrator of character. Use your discretion.”

The nun sighed. “How much longer can we get away with this, my lord? Why haven’t we been shut down?”

“Because we serve a purpose, and it’s not costing the government anything, so they allow us to exist as long as we remain somewhat secret.”

“Ah. Cost. Now we come to the heart of it. My lord, I know this is none of my business, but you cannot continue to fund this place with your own money. It isn’t proper.”

“You’re correct, Sister. It is none of your business. How I choose to spend my inheritance is my own concern.” Harrison’s words were clipped, his tone harsh.